✮ Her head wished she had went on thinking he was an infuriating, overly-confident, horribly handsome asshole, that hated her people and always put himself first. Her heart knew he wasn't any of those things. He was a celestial; a man plucked from t...
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"What are men to rocks and mountains?"
—Jane Austen
When Astoria tried to peel her eyes open, it felt as though they were being weighed down by boulders. The need for sleep was overwhelming, and her head felt foggier than it had been the day Murphy brought the grounder sickness back to the hundreds camp. Her stomach was empty and gnawing through her skin in search for food—where was she?
It took another few minutes before she was able to attempt to open her eyes once more, and when she did she was met with an unfamiliar cement ceiling. Her body jolted, but she was bounded tightly to the moving table. Rectangle lights passed over her head, and she felt dizzy as they pushed her along. She looked down to her body with a defeated breath of air, but she grew sick when she saw the layers of white bandage that wrapped over chest and waist. The rest of her skin was exposed to the air, and the cold metal below made her shiver. She was quick to fall into panic.
"Weron laik ai?" Astoria barely managed to speak, and she found her voice to be raw and shaky. Flashes of pink smoke engulfing her ran over her mind, and she pulled against her restraints. How long had it been? Where were the others? "Where am I?" she tried once more in English, but she received no response.
Anger washed over her; anger that she had no time to grieve her fallen friends; anger that the hundred may have been in the same position as she was; anger that after years of running, she had finally been trapped. She yanked at the metal once more, "Let me go!" No one answered, and soon they turned down a hall and pushed her into a new room.
It was darker than the hallway, with grey walls and a large fan built into the east wall. It felt suffocating, and when they left her alone she felt she was going to go mad in seconds. Her eyes flew around the area, and they landed on the small table at her right. It held tools similar to the ones Clarke used when she saved Finn from Lincoln's knife—what were their plans for her?
Time had rushed away. It felt like she had been with the hundred for months—like she had known Bellamy, Finn, Raven and Clarke for months—but it was only four short weeks, and now she felt sick at the thought of any of them being hurt... of Bellamy and Finn being dead.
The door opened with a harsh creek as it scraped against the floor, and Astoria tilted her head up weakly. She watched a woman enter, with a much older man following behind. She wore a white coat with her hair pinned back out of her face, and when she looked down to the board in her hands she pushed her glasses up her nose. The man wore proper looking clothes, that were much more extravagant than anything the hundred had. His suit was decorated with flowers and his tie matched, but his hair was the same white as his shirt. He watched Astoria in awe from the doorway before moving closer, and she squirmed slightly.
"This is her?" he asked, and Astoria didn't move her gaze from him.
"Yes, sir," the other woman spoke, and the man let out a breath of disbelief.
