A/N: This is my humble attempt at a fix-it fic following 3x07, based on a whole lot of wishful thinking, sci-fi shenanigans, and Youth Lagoon's Highway Patrol Stun Gun. I figure if The 100 can borrow so many elements from Battlestar Galactica, what's one more, right? Anyhow, writing this story helped me find some peace after the last episode, and I hope it'll do the same for some of you out there. Ste yuj, friends!
Ai gonplei ste odon. The anguish on the blonde's face splits fissures along the chambers of Lexa's slowing heart, and it hurts Lexa more than the lead that seared through her body and robbed her of time. She wants nothing more than to wrap the other woman in her arms. To smooth the wrinkled skin between her eyebrows and the creases along her forehead. To wipe away the tears glistening on her cheeks. The blonde's lips tremble as she kisses Lexa. And Lexa would give anything to kiss her back. To remind her again that death is not the end. But it's too late. Too late. She's already gone. And maybe someday turns into never at all.
...
It feels like she's drowning.
Drowning.
Drowning.
Drowning in a warm embrace that invades her nostrils and fills her mouth until she's choking and gagging for nonexistent air. Lexa tries to thrash, but she's too weak, her arms and legs too weary to seek purchase and break the surface. Something grips her shoulders, digging painfully into muscle and bone, and she's lifted into cold air that stings her skin.
She wants to cry out. But only a strangled gasp emerges before her body spasms with cough after cough after cough, trying to expel fluid from her lungs. Her eyes snap open and she blinks as rapidly as her racing heart, lashes heavy and saturated, only to discover that she can make out only blurred shapes and hazy movements around her. A sudden light nearly blinds her and she winces away, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain piercing through her skull.
Lexa hears voices, or what she thinks are voices. The sounds are too cottony, too muddled. She can't understand. The hands on her shoulders continue to hold her up, keep her steady, until she feels a sharp prick in her arm and darkness slowly, slowly begins to fuzz the edges of her mind and lead her to oblivion.
...
The blonde only needs to lean further in, a mere smidgen of pressure would do, and the knife's edge would pierce Lexa's skin. I'm sorry, she thinks as she gazes into blue eyes storming with vengeance and torment. I'm sorry, she whispers into the space between them before she's shoved away. Lexa knows she's responsible for this. That she destroyed the could have beens, would have beens, and should have beens for them. And did so willingly. For her people. Always for her people. But this? She never meant to break her.
...
The furs need tending is Lexa's first thought as she drifts in the limbo between dreams and consciousness. They're too stiff, too harsh. They scratch against her skin and make her groan. She cracks open her eyes, awareness seeping through the fog of her slumber.
"Hey," she hears someone say. "Hey, she's waking up."
Lexa looks down and finds herself on a narrow bed, starched white sheets pulled up underneath her arms. She tries to push herself up to her elbows, but a pair of gentle hands guides her back down onto a thin pillow.
"Easy, Lexa," a new voice says. It's vaguely familiar, but she can't place it. "It's okay. You're safe."
Lexa blinks as two strangers enter her still limited field of vision. One is a young woman, brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Lips parted, she stares at Lexa, dark eyes wide with astonishment.
"Float me, she's really real," she says.
The other woman, older and with kind brown eyes, shushes her companion and looks down at Lexa. She doesn't recognize her face either quite, but there's something so familiar about her that it makes Lexa's stomach twist.
"How do you feel?" The older woman asks. Several strands of dark blonde hair fall toward Lexa as she leans closer.
Lexa opens her mouth to speak, but her tongue feels so dry it sticks to the ridges on the roof of her mouth. Noticing her struggle, the woman fades out of focus briefly before returning with a cup that she lifts to Lexa's lips. The water cools and soothes and after a few shallow sips, Lexa manages to rasp out,
"Like I died."
The younger woman lets out a sharp bark of a laugh. "That's 'cause you did," she says bluntly.
Frowning, Lexa moves her hand subconsciously to her stomach, just below her ribcage, fingers tracing a phantom pain that lingers around the edges of her elusive memories.
"Raven," the older woman warns.
"What?" The one called Raven shrugs, quirking up one corner of her lips into a wry half-smile. "She did."
"I don't…" Lexa shakes her head. "What happening? Who are you?"
The women share a worried glance.
"You don't remember?" The older woman asks gently.
"No." Lexa feels like she should, the knowledge there but just barely out of her mind's reach, like the tendrils of a fading dream slipping like water through her fingers.
"I'm Raven," the younger woman repeats, flicking a thumb toward her chest. "You tied me to a tree once. Sliced my arm. Good times."
A sensory memory hits Lexa and she can suddenly feel the smooth grip of her favorite dagger; the way the curved bone of its handle fit perfectly in the palm of her hand, cool and deadly. She can hear the echo of a cry of pain as steel finds blood in one smooth stroke.
"I…" Lexa chokes out, overwhelmed.
"Raven, why don't you check in with Becca and the others," the older woman suggests, but it sounds more like an order.
"Fine." Raven rolls her eyes then glances back down at Lexa. "Welcome back to the shithole we call life."
She limps away and out-of-focus and the other woman gives Lexa's arm a reassuring squeeze.
"I know you must have a lot of questions, but you should rest for now," she says. "We'll explain more once you get your strength back."
Lexa nods, slowly, fatigue already settling deep into her bones. "And you? What should I call you?"
"Abby. Abby Griffin."
...
Even at a distance, Lexa can feel the distrust in Abby's gaze as she talks to her daughter, trying to convince her to return to Arkadia. But Lexa stands her ground, lifts her chin ever so slightly in challenge, ready to again explain the necessity of Wanheda's presence in Polis as Skaikru ambassador. But there's no need. The blonde makes and defends her own choice, separates duty from feelings, and a mixture of relief and pride course through Lexa when she turns toward her and inclines her head slightly, deep blue eyes firm with conviction beneath the shadowy mask of her makeup.
...
Over the next 24 hours, Lexa's memories return, sometimes in a confusing trickle of flashing images and snippets of conversation. They flicker through her mind like a transient cloud of fireflies, hazy and opaque. Other times, they overwhelm her in a deluge of impressions that leave her dizzy and disoriented. But the longer Lexa stays within the confines of the foreign space, with its faded metal and panels of blinking lights, the more she's able to slowly piece together the scattered puzzle of her past.
She is Lexa kom Trikru.
Commander of the 12 Clans.
Or was.
And she's not alone.
About half a dozen other warriors inhabit the facility. And just like Lexa, they were all once Heda.
She greets them all as old friends; mentors she has communed with ever since her Ascension Day. An invisible string binds them all together and it's as ever present now as it had been in Lexa's dreams and meditation. She's especially drawn to the first Commander, Becca, a frail but striking figure who sits often with Lexa and the others. A shadow haunts her dark eyes. And when she speaks, they all listen.
She uses words that Lexa has never heard before. At least not consciously. Words like artificial intelligence and technological reincarnation; fail-safe backups and cloud servers; uploads and downloads; resurrection pods and bioengineering; DNA and cloning.
But Lexa doesn't need to understand. Not completely.
All she needs to know is that she died, at the hands of her fleimkepa and teacher Titus, and somehow, someway returned in a new body that was both familiar and unfamiliar. When Lexa looks at herself in a mirror, the reflection is the nearly same as she remembers. But gone are the scars from her training with Anya and Gustus, from her sparring matches with other novitiates, from past battles forming her Coalition. Gone too are the markings that had once adorned her right arm-the ones that reminded her of Costia and all those lost-and the symbols and spheres that had trailed from the base of her neck and down her spine.
She feels like an old soul trapped in a foreign disguise, a strong part of her revolting at the realization that everything she had known was a lie, even as the hope of a second chance begins seeping into her heart.
...
Following the betrayal at the mountain, Lexa had hoped for a ceasefire between them, a truce at the most or a respectful meeting of the minds at the very least. But she never dared to hope for forgiveness. And never dared to dream of this: the blonde cradled in her lap, bare legs wrapped around Lexa's waist and slender arms enfolding her in a heated embrace. Lexa tangles her fingers in the golden silk of her hair and drinks her in. Fills each and every sense with her. The clock is ticking, and yet they take their time in languid exploration. Soft lips and calloused fingertips trace reverent patterns on supple flesh, tension building and mounting until they're both desperate and losing control, crying out from the intensity of their pleasure and the ache of their goodbyes.
...
Lexa and the others regain their strength with Abby and Raven's help. They exercise long-dormant muscles. Build stamina. The more they train, the more Lexa begins to feel comfortable in her new skin, more like her former self. The sessions leave her exhausted by the end of the day.
And when Lexa sleeps, she continues to dream, blissfully so, of stars scattered across black velvet, of a woman with golden hair and eyes that remind her of the heavens. She dreams of intrigue, frustrated tempers, the clash of ideologies, the thrill of connection. And when she wakes, the dreams continue. Of gentle hands, healing hands. The scratch of charcoal against parchment. Dreams of feelings, duty, and bittersweet entwining.
Every day, Abby always checks on her, to ask if she needs anything. One morning, after a particularly long night of dreaming, a name finally comes unbidden to Lexa's mind, triggered by Abby's question and whispers from a swelling and contracting heart:
"Clarke."
...
Lexa strikes down her enemies. Her twin blades arc through the air with deadly precision, a protective rage transforming her into a whirlwind of slashing blows and forceful thrusts. She doesn't stop. Can't stop. Not until she knows Clarke is safe. Soon it's over. The last foe felled. She sheathes her swords and reaches down toward the woman crumpled on the ground. And, blood still thundering in her ears, she gently, gently helps her stand.
...
When Abby deems them physically ready, they leave. Together, they walk away from the stale air and the artificial environment, past rooms of now empty pods and humming machinery. Their footsteps clank against metal that eventually turns into the soft crunch of dirt and stone. They seem to reach a dead end, until Raven crouches on the ground and uncovers a hidden panel. She pulls a lever and the rock face parts with a loud rumble that makes the ground shake, dust falling on Lexa's head and stinging her eyes.
She brushes it off and enters a cavern that she has seen only once before. The space is dimly lit by crackling torches adorning the walls. The smell of fire smoke and pungent incense mingle with must.
"Do you know where you are?" Abby asks in hushed tones beside her as the others also take in their surroundings in silent awe.
"The Hall of the Nocturne," Lexa answers, walking toward one side of the spacious catacomb. "Where the Commanders are laid to rest."
She stops before her own headstone, fingertips tracing the roughly chiseled engraving of her name. She wonders if Clarke has entered this chamber and stood in that very spot. She also wonders if Titus would even allow it. She's tempted to ask Abby and Raven, but holds her tongue. Neither woman has been particularly forthcoming with information about Clarke, the present state of affairs of the Coalition, or the current Commander. They deflect her questions for Clarke herself to answer.
"I was always curious about why Commanders were never joined with fire, like our traditions dictate." Lexa turns her head to look back at Abby, who watched her quietly. "Now I know."
Abby only nods and they exit, single-file up an ancient staircase and out into the receding twilight. The sky is tinged with purple bleeding into pink, the sun just barely breaking out over the horizon. In comparison to the underground, the air is warm and fresh and sweet. And as she looks out into the distance, at the tower of Polis rising amidst a canopy of deep green, it's flame burning brightly against the dissipating darkness, Lexa smiles.
"We sent word ahead of us," Abby says, coming to stand next to Lexa.
"To Clarke?" Just saying her name makes Lexa's heart throb in both anticipation and trepidation. Would she be the same? Would they?
Abby's features soften. "She would have heard by now."
Raven brushes by them and tosses over her shoulder, "Yeah good luck with that," she grins, "She might try to kill you for keeping this from her."
"You're the one who recovered Becca's old data from the Polaris drives," Abby pointed out.
"But you're the one who made the decision to keep it quiet," Raven countered as she continued down an uneven trail.
Abby inhaled and exhaled loudly before turning to Lexa. "I have a feeling she'll find it in her heart to forgive me."
With one last smile, Abby follows Raven and Lexa matches her pace. They walk side by side in silence, Lexa feeling more and more anxious the deeper they travel into the forest, lost in thoughts of new steps and new chapters and Clarke. Always Clarke.
...
Clarke clings to Lexa so tightly that it feels like she's squeezing all the air out of Lexa's lungs. But there is no air. Not here. And yet, Lexa can barely breathe, her ribs on the verge of cracking from the pressure of Clarke's embrace. Clarke's shaking from the sobs she's trying to hold in, and Lexa strokes the back of her head, hoping to soothe her. She feels the scar at the base of Clarke's neck and buries her face in Clarke's hair. She pretends that the scent of blood and sweat is real. Don't be afraid Clarke, Lexa whispers. I'll always be with you.
...
Shock courses through the inhabitants Polis as they walk past the gates and into the market square. Guards drop their weapons in a clatter of stone and metal. Residents stop and stare and fall to their knees with shouts of reverence. And it should all resonate with Lexa. She should at least take note of how her beloved capital has changed in her absence, with its new fusion of Trikru and Skaikru culture: mechanical shops situated next to the usual artisan stands, food stalls emitting familiar and unfamiliar aromas, automobiles rolling slowly next to horseback riders on expanded streets, Grounder children playing side by side with their Ark counterparts.
She should notice it all.
But her eyes are drawn to only Clarke, who sprints in their direction and abruptly stops when she catches sight of them. Of Lexa.
Clarke is as breathtaking as ever. Dressed in form-fitting black leather, hair pulled slightly back with braids framing both sides of her face, Clarke exudes the same strength she's always shown, perhaps even more so than before. Lexa swallows hard, her pulse slowing to a standstill at the sight.
She's not even sure who moves first. But somehow the gap between them disappears and Lexa finds Clarke impossibly, miraculously in her arms and her heart springs back to life. Lexa lifts Clarke up and into her, and Clarke kisses her everywhere, almost frantically so-the curves of her cheeks, the arches of her eyebrows, the plane of her forehead, the dips of her temples-before cradling Lexa's jaw, delicate fingers splaying across her neck, and bringing their lips together. Forgetting about her previous worries and not caring about their audience, Lexa pulls Clarke even closer. Fuses herself to Clarke's warmth and the heady sweetness of her taste. They're so close that she can feel the whimper that ripples through Clarke's body, can feel Clarke's own heart pounding furiously against her ribs.
Lexa's cheeks are wet when they finally break apart, but they remain close enough to still breathe each other in.
"Didn't I say I'd always be with you?" Lexa murmurs, nuzzling Clarke's nose.
Clarke laughs through her own tears, a warbled, happy sound that Lexa wants to hear for the rest of her second life. "So is this I told you so?"
"No." Lexa caresses Clarke's cheek with her own. "This is, I love you." She looks deeply into Clarke's eyes. "I love you, Clarke."
"Ai hod you in sentaim," Clarke whispers back.
Lexa leans forward to kiss her again when someone behind them coughs in a way that suspiciously sounds like a strangled gag. They turn to find Raven smirking in their direction and Abby looking anywhere but at them.
"Are you two finished?" Raven asks. "There's still a lot of work to do."
Lexa can only smile as she feels Clarke take hold of her hands and pull her back toward the tower. Maybe someday, she realizes, feels a whole lot like now.
"Come," Clarke says, "Osir gonplei nou ste odon."