"I think we deserve a drink."
At any other time Clarke might have marveled at this quality of Bellamy's — at his ability to reduce any situation to a simple survival scenario. She might've wondered whether he was really as flippant as he seemed, so easily able to minimize such a traumatic experience to nothing more than a bad dream. But in this moment, on this day, she didn't wonder.
She didn't wonder whether her mother would heal quickly, or whether Jasper's anger would fade slowly. She didn't wonder whether the victims of Mount Weather had felt any pain, or whether Lexa had felt any guilt. She didn't wonder whether her people were grateful for her actions…or horrified. She didn't wonder anything, didn't feel anything, didn't see anything. She didn't hear anything until the sound of her own voice brought her back to this moment. "Have one for me."
They didn't look at each other. Maybe because they couldn't look at each other. Two hands had pulled that lever down, bringing death to innocent lives, and now four eyes stared evenly out over the lives they had saved, like shepherds wearily watching their flock after a bad storm. "Hey, we'll get through this."
A sense of relief washed over her as she realized what would happen next, as she realized that there was an alternative to walking through that gate, to going home. Another choice. A better choice. A safer one. "I'm not going in."
"Look - if you need forgiveness I'll give that to you." Forgiveness. The word rang so hollow in Clarke's ears she almost laughed. "You're forgiven. Please come inside."
His dark eyes scanned hers, looking for something to connect to, looking for a way to pull her back to shore. Eventually she looked away, unable to stand his pleading expression any longer. The forgiveness that he was offering… Well it wasn't his to give away, and even if it were - every part of her being rejected it.
"Take care of them for me."
Her mind was made up, and the resolution in her voice at that moment scared him. "Clarke -"
"Seeing their faces every day," her voice cracked at just the mere thought of it. "It's just going to remind me of what I did to get them here."
He didn't miss a beat. For as quick as she was to shoulder this responsibility, he was equally as quick to try to take his share of the weight. "What we did. You don't have to do this alone."
Light eyes looked away, back at her people. They were torn and tattered, beaten and bruised, but the pain that Clarke felt rising inside of her was a different kind of pain. It could not be sterilized and sewn shut. It could not be silenced by Bellamy's sweet, ignorant pleadings. For now it rose as a dull ache, but she felt it growing with more defiance than anything she had ever experienced before. It screamed for her to flee, to run away with the weight of what they had become, to protect everyone from it. She turned back to face him. "I bear it so they don't have to."
So you don't have to. It went unsaid, but she thought it. Bellamy was a soldier in every sense of the word. Where he was made up of loyalty and bravery, Clarke was made of thoughtfulness and deliberacy. It was why they worked so well together. Her consciousness coupled with his drive — it made for an unstoppable force. But some forces should be stopped.
"Where are you gonna go?" He shook his head, realization washing over him that this was happening.
It doesn't matter. Anywhere but here. "I don't know."
And then there was silence for just one beat. Resignation creeped into his dark eyes. She leaned in to gently kiss his cheek, and he grabbed her tightly.
Anyone else Bellamy might've tossed over his shoulder and carried inside, but not Clarke. He respected her too much to deprive her of this choice, even if it was a mistake. Before he could object further, her heavy words fell upon his ears, thick with grief and the threat of tears. "May we meet again."
With that, a slight nod, and nothing more - she turned and walked away. He did not watch her go. Maybe because he couldn't. Maybe because almost every fiber of his being wanted to yell no, wanted to drag her back to camp kicking and screaming. Maybe because a few small fibers of his being wanted to go with her, and if he turned to watch her walk away…maybe his feet might follow. So he looked back at camp instead.
"May we meet again."
For the first time since they had landed on the ground, Clarke wandered into the woods without worry and without fear. She had no purpose, no mission, no agenda, no responsibilities, and no priorities. Out here, the rules were simple.
In fact, there was just one: survive. Or don't. And while she hadn't resigned herself to the latter quite yet, figuring out how she was going to accomplish the former seemed like a herculean task when simply drawing breath took so much effort.
She thought about heading to the Drop Ship, or to the bunker. But the sudden flood of memories from both places were suddenly too much to bear.
She glanced over her shoulder upon reaching the treeline, making sure that she was out of sight. While the Arc rose large and visible, the people beneath it scurried around. They looked no bigger than ants. Even with this little distance between them, she felt relief. She craved more of it. But as she walked, the past fell into step alongside her.
Finding Wells' cold dead body on the outskirts of camp, black blood dried on his neck…
The second it took to steady her breath before sliding the knife silently into Finn's heart, hearing Raven scream in the distance…
The look of steady resignation on Lexa's face before she retreated into the night, taking all semblance of hope along with her…
Clarke squeezed her eyes shut, a futile attempt to shut out the memories of those she had lost.
May we meet again. May we meet again. May we meet again.
It was the middle of the night when they returned to Polis. The ride had taken two days. There were no cheers, no gracious homecoming. They were no longer an army. The majority of those saved from the Reaping had broken off along the way to return to their villages. The clan soldiers had gone with them.
Lexa returned to her pseudo-capital with only her guards and a few victims of the Reaping who had no home to return to. She had no words of encouragement or solace for these people, no desire to hold their hands and help them find their way. Someone else could bear that burden.
The leader in her felt content — successful, even. But the unknown fate of Clarke and Skaikru gnawed at her from the inside. She pushed it down somewhere deep away, and found Titus pacing in the hallway when she arrived at her chambers.
"Leave me," she mumbled, pushing open the door to her bedroom and letting it fall closed between them. But Titus could not be deterred from his duty so easily. He followed her, resuming his pacing within her room. She sat upon the edge of her bed, head falling into her dirty aching hands. "Please, Titus, not tonight."
"Is it done?" His words were rushed, hurried.
"Our people are safe," she answered firmly, lifting her gaze her meet his. Her light eyes dared him to challenge her. "The Reaping has ended."
He knew better than to accept her ambiguity. "The Mountain Men?"
She heaved a sigh. "I'm tired. We've been riding for days. The philosophical differences that exist between us will still be ripe for debate tomorrow."
"Unacceptable, Lexa!" His deep voice bellowed throughout the large space, pale face turning red with anger. "JUS DREIN JUS DAUN!"
Lexa raised a brow at his tone. When she spoke, it was soft. "You should proceed carefully, old man."
He sighed in exasperation. "I told you before you left. Leaving this act unpunished is against the will of the Commanders! You cannot —"
"I can!" She bit back through clenched teeth, standing to face him. "And I did. It made no sense to risk the lives of our people for nothing more than vengeance once their safety was secured."
Silence settled in between between them for a moment, and Lexa took this opportunity to clean up. She strode over to her vanity and poured some water from a pitcher into a bowl, scooping some into her open palms, and leaning down to splash it on her face. The blackness spread slowly across her skin, streaming down to her jawline as she reached for a nearby cloth.
"And Skaikru?"
The quiet question made her stomach drop. She wiped the cloth across her face before dipping it back into the water and wiping away the black again. It faded. The memory of Clarke's face, crushed at her betrayal did not. "Dead, probably."
"Good," Titus mumbled beneath his breath.
She spun around on her heels, incredulous at his response. "Good? Have some respect."
"Lexa, why can't you see? Ever since that girl showed up claiming she could turn Reapers into men —"
"Stop!" Anger bubbled within her, but she swallowed it down, drying her hands before folding the dirtied rag and casting it aside. "It's finished. I'm tired. Leave."
He dropped his head in deference, satisfied at the possibility that the Sky People and the Mountain Men had potentially battled each other into oblivion. "Yes, Lexa."
She kept her back to him as he walked out, and it wasn't until she heard the door swing shut that she sent the ceramic pitcher flying into a wall. It broke with a large crash, sending tiny shards scattered across the open floor.
Clarke had been walking for days when she finally found it. It was a small structure, relatively modest and standing alone. Her growing thirst and hunger screamed at her to enter, to beg whoever occupied that hut for food and water.
But she knew better.
So she waited. She stayed hidden, tucked under the brush and out of sight. She watched people come and go. The visitors appeared to be of all different clans. They were warriors and beggars, teens and elders — but they all had one thing in common. They'd arrive with one thing, and leave with another.
A day went by, and then two. She slept a little, always snapping awake at the slightest sound. From what she could tell there were two permanent residents of this place: an older man and a younger woman. She hadn't been able to discern their relationship yet.
On the morning of the second day Clarke watched the young woman exit the hut and give a loaf of bread to a small, dirty little girl. The child gave her nothing in return, but ate the bread hungrily. The man came out, realized what had happened, and smacked the young woman across the face for it. The little girl ran off. Clarke flinched.
"That is not how we live."
His voice was gruff, stern. The two stared evenly at each other for a moment before he turned and went striding off into the forest. The young woman raised a hand to her face and touched the cut beneath her eye.
Clarke didn't think. She stood, and walked out into the clearing.
"Can I look at that for you?"
The young woman raised a brow curiously — both at the use of English and at the odd appearance of this stranger. She shrugged, smirking gently.
"Look all you want. Unless you have magic eyes it will not disappear."
Clarke's lips turned up into a soft smile at the joke. When she got a closer look at the cut her smile disappeared, replaced by a frown. "That needs a stitch or two. When is your husband coming back?"
The woman laughed. "He's my father, and not until tomorrow."
Clarke nodded. She took a step back and crossed her arms over her chest before clearing her throat uncomfortably. "I, um, I need some food, but I don't have anything to trade for it."
"Sure you do," the trader's daughter replied. She walked towards the door of the hut and motioned for Clarke to follow. "You said something about a stitch?"
"Lexa. Come back to bed."
The feminine voice was thick with sleep as it floated across the large room. Weeks ago Lexa might have smiled at the sound of it. But things were different now. She was hearing rumors. Rumors that the Mountain had fallen, rumors that hundreds of Sky People had returned to the Arc, rumors that the infamous fair haired peacekeeper had not been among them.
"Are they talking to you?"
Lexa turned away from the window to face her bed, and to face the dark haired woman lying there on her stomach. The blankets had fallen down to the small of her back, and the faint moonlight moved on her tan shoulders when she propped herself up onto her elbows.
Lexa shook her head. "No, Si. They don't come to me when you're here."
A quiet laugh. "Aw. Don't they like me, the former Commanders?"
Lexa smirked, walking over to the bed and sitting on the edge of it. She walked her fingers slowly up the other girl's forearm. "What's not to like?"
The brunette sat up in the bed and shrugged one shoulder, pulling her arm away from playful touches in the process. "I've been waiting for you to tell me that for years."
Lexa sighed. "Sienna I've told you, it's not safe —"
"Please," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "At least respect me enough not to lie to me."
Lexa shook her head and stood back up, striding back over to the window and looking out over to Polis. "What do you want me to say, Si? It's lonely."
A silent beat. The sound of rustling blankets and then bare feet shuffling across the cold hard floor.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
Sienna stood next to Lexa at the window, both of them gazing out of it.
"I am. I know how hard you've fought. But you did it, Lexa. Our people have never known peace like this."
"It came with a price," Lexa mumbled. Her head dropped slightly at the thought of Clarke's face, pleading with her to stay and to fight at the Mountain.
"Costia knew the risk."
Lexa's brow furrowed momentarily at the name, snapping her back into the moment. Guilt came rushing through her veins. She squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to shut out the ghost of her lost love. But it was too late. She could feel Costia's presence descending upon the room.
"Hey," Sienna crooned, turning to examine Lexa's face. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Lexa snapped. "You should go. It will be light soon."
Sienna stood silently, turning her choices over in her mind. She had known Lexa for a long time. Long before she became Commander, and even before she had been identified as a Nightblood. There had never been any coming between Lexa and Costia, and it seemed that that was still true — even in the face of death.
So she resigned. She walked back over to the bed, slipped into her clothes, and headed for the door. When she got there, she stopped and glanced over her shoulder at the girl standing at the window.
"Lexa," her voice was quiet, reverent even. "She forgives you."
The door closed, and Lexa fell softly to her knees. For a second she swore she could hear Costia's steady breath behind her. She closed her eyes in an attempt to escape from it. But all she could see was Clarke's face again. The blonde's girls expression went from confusion to desperation to fear.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled, head shaking as the tears rolled down her face.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."