7 I’m Not Dying In The Fucking Mud

[Alright, sorry for the long break. To make up for it, I put my blood sweat and tears into this chapter.]

______________

Disoriented and weak from blood loss, Sen drifted in and out of consciousness.

The rhythmic throbbing in his chest served as a constant reminder of the multiple stab wounds in his back as he tried to recall what happened and where he was.

Sen blinked his eyes open, greeted by flickering flames of a fire illuminating a simple wooden hut. The air hung heavy with the smell of woodsmoke and something faintly herbal.

The first thing he noticed was that he was lying down on his stomach, with his head tilted to the side, giving him a view of the room.

Figures moved in his peripheral vision, their hushed voices a murmur in the small space.

A young and muscular grounder with eyes like polished obsidian approached, his skin looking as if he bathed in mud every day, caked in dirt.

As his weathered and callous covered hands examined Sen's wounds, he spoke in a language Sen didn't understand, a low guttural exchange with a shadowy figure in the corner of the room who remained silent.

"He will heal you," the shadowy figure spoke, this time in English, his voice rough but strangely calming; he had a voice that reminded Sen of his father. "Rest as he does."

The herbs the healer applied sent jolts of pain through him, but Sen gritted his teeth, determined to stay awake. He needed to know what was happening, and he didn't plan on lowering his guard again like when he was unconscious. He didn't know their intentions.

"(He's been stabbed over 20 times; it's a miracle he's even alive, and an even larger one that none of the wounds hit his spine)," the young Grounder stated, his voice gruff but not unkind.

Sen could only scan their tones of voice for hostility.

There was a sharp wooden spear leaning against the bed; if either of them attacked him, he believed he was fast enough to pick it up and attack before they could do anything.

The figure in the shadows tilted his head, a silent query hanging in the air. It was as if he could tell exactly what Sen was thinking as a wild grin slowly formed on his face,

"(Hiziri)," the Grounder in the shadows spoke, using words Sen didn't understand. "(He's raw, but has the makings and potential of a warrior.)"

A flicker of interest sparked in the eyes of the figure.

Sen steeled himself.

Weakness wouldn't serve him here.

The shadowy figure then finally stepped forward, revealing an older man with eyes like polished obsidian almost identical to the younger grounder's eyes, and a comically large build.

His weathered hands, strong and—unlike the younger grounder's hands—scarred, moved with practiced efficiency as he examined Sen's wounds, muttering under his breath in their language. Although his touch was surprisingly gentle, the herbs he applied sent jolts of fire through him.

For a moment, because of the pain, Sen thought he might've been getting tortured. He forced a cough, spitting a picture of mucus and blood onto the rough wooden floor.

"Leave him," the man finally spoke, his voice raspy but firm. "He has the will to survive. He will live, with proper care."

Sen closed his eyes, the pain finally dragging him under despite his efforts to stay awake.

***

Days bled into one another. The young grounder, whose name he learned was Hiziri, tended to his wounds with a silent stoicism. The older Grounder, Salack, brought him meager meals and watched him with an almost predatory curiosity.

Sen learned their language in broken phrases, slowly piecing together a fractured understanding.

He woke with a gasp, sweat clinging to his skin, the room echoing with his ragged breaths.

Salack was gone, replaced with the Hiziri who had treated his wounds, his face etched with stoicism. He offered Sen a bowl of watery broth, and only then did he realize how hungry he was.

He could almost feel his stomach eating itself.

So he didn't deny, the warmth of the broth spreading a comforting sensation through his chilled body.

After digesting some of the broth, Sen set the wooden bowl on his lap, now finally able to lie on his back after multiple days, and looked towards the younger grounder.

"(Good you.)"

"Kekg" The younger grounder choked back a laugh at Sen's pathetic attempt at thanking him and turned around, crushing herbs.

Sen decided not to speak their language again until he had a far more firm grasp.

***

A few more days had passed, and Sen now believed he had much more knowledge than before, finally being able to lower his guard at times.

Salack, as it turned out, was not just the leader of this little town he found himself in, but their most promising fighter, trained from a young age by his father, a legendary Grounder warrior himself, who had long since passed.

He had also figured out for sure that Hiziri was Salack's son, though he had apparently decided to become a healer instead of taking on his heritage as a warrior like his father and grandfather.

One rainy day, as the sun went down, Salack walked into the hut with a one-headed deer slung over his shoulder, almost making Sen widen his eyes in shock at how anybody could carry an animal so large, not to mention the fact that it was raining, and his drenched clothes were weighing him down.

But before he could say anything about it, Salack spoke first with a dark undertone in his voice. "You've healed enough. Meet me outside."

Sen knew it was useless to argue after knowing Salack for over a week now, so he instead asked, "Where are my shoes?"

"You won't need those."

***

The rain continued its relentless assault, drumming a steady rhythm on the hut's roof. With each raindrop came a fresh pang of anxiety in Sen's chest. Salack's cryptic words, "Meet me outside," hung heavy in the air.

Was this a test?

A twisted Grounder ceremony before his execution?

He stole a glance at the crude sword lying beside the hut's entrance. It was a far cry from an ideal sword, but it would do. Survival, he reminded himself, was the only thing that mattered.

As the afternoon light surrendered to the encroaching darkness, Salack emerged from the downpour. Rain slicked his weathered face, turning the grime there into streaks of mud.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sen couldn't help but notice a flicker of sick amusement dancing in Salack's eyes.

"Finally decided to grace me with your presence, Sky Person?" Salack rumbled, his voice barely audible over the din of the rain.

Sen rose, ignoring the throbbing pain in his back. "I was looking for my shoes. Where are they? Fighting barefoot is hardly fair, old man."

Salack's amusement intensified. "You won't need those." He gestured towards the muddy clearing outside, devoid of any trees.

Sen's heart hammered against his ribs. Was this it? Was this how his journey on this strange Earth ended? A muddy death at the hands of a Grounder warrior?

"This is pointless," Sen gritted out, a surge of defiance battling the fear.

Is it?" Salack countered, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

"I'm not dying in the fucking mud like a pig, Salack," Sen spoke through his gritted teeth.

"Pick up the sword."

Sen hesitated, then complied. The rough hilt felt awkward in his hands. He gripped the blade tighter, a desperate attempt to control the rising tide of emotions within him.

"All this time," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper over the rain, "and you're just going to kill me?!"

Salack's grin widened, revealing a row of chipped teeth. "Kill you? Now, where did you get that idea, Sky Boy?" He swept his gaze over Sen, taking in his imperfect stance, and his stoic face clearly trying to hide his fear. "No, this is something far more… interesting."

Sen squinted his eyes through the rain, searching for any sign of mercy or trickery in Salack's eyes.

All he saw was a glint of something akin to longing, a spark that had been absent before. It was a confusing mixture that left him wary.

"Interesting?" he echoed, his voice hoarse.

"Indeed," Salack boomed, his voice cutting through the rain. "You see, Sky Person, you possess something we Grounders desperately need."

Sen's face stiffened, "And what's that, Dirt Person?"

"Potential," Salack declared, his voice dropping to a low growl as he spread his arms out, his sword in one hand. "You have a ferocity I haven't seen in a Sky- no, anybody before."

Sen knew he was one of the stronger ones on the Ark, but even including grounders? He didn't believe that.

"That's just what you think, Salack. I can't see myself fighting someone with your fighting skills on equal footing," he said, thinking back to the time he'd seen Salack training outside with a sword.

"Perhaps not," Salack conceded, "but simple potential is enough for now. You see, Sky Person, we are not like most Grounders. We are not loyal to any Commander, nor do we serve the Mountain."

'The mountain? Commander?' Sen thought for a brief moment but quickly understood that they were two groups or leaders, maybe both.

Salack's words sparked a flicker of understanding in Sen's mind. "You're rebels?"

"Not rebels," Salack corrected, his voice firm. "She'd kill all of us if we were. We just don't blindly follow that child like most do."

He gestured towards the muddy clearing. "So, Sky Person, are you willing? To learn our ways? To become one of us?"

Sen stared at the rain-soaked clearing, his mind racing. He thought back to the brutal attack, the searing pain, the weeks of recovery under Salack and his son, Hiziri. He pictured Clarke and Octavia. Was this some kind of twisted loyalty test?

Looking back at Salack, he saw a warrior, yes, but also a father, a leader burdened by the weight of survival.

With a deep breath, Sen spoke, his voice hoarse but firm. "I need to know more. About you. Who's the enemy?"

A flicker of approval lit up Salack's eyes. "Good. Curiosity is a valuable trait. The enemy, boy, is everyone. The Mountain Men, the other Grounder clans vying for resources, and even your own people, who will see us as nothing more than savages."