trope bingo card #1: role reversal

It is Octavia who comes to find her inside her hunt, her blue eyesgrim and serious as they land on Clarke. The Commander can only sigh at thatsight, at her General standing stiff and proud in the dim light of the room.

"You need to see this," is all the warrior says before she goes back outside, and Clarke thinks better than to grab her sword before she follows – in the comfort of her own village with both her Generals to keep her safe, the dangers are minimal.

She pokes her head outside just in time to see everyone looking up, just in time to see something falling from the sky – big and grey and falling, falling, falling, faster than it should. Her breathing catches in her throat at that sight, dread surging through her veins. She has never seen the likes of this, never imagined such a thing. There are tales, of course, whispered in the shadows of the night while bundled next to a fire – tales of how things used to be, such a long time ago, when the Earth wasn't a ghost of itself. Tales of the war, of destruction and survival, even in the most peculiar ways.

Clarke hadn't believed in those tales, made-up stories to make the children shudder in their furs. It needs her a second and a flash of silver in the sky to rethink it.

"What do you think this is?" Bellamy, her second General, asks her as he comes to stand next to her, hand on the pommel of his sword. His eyes doesn't leave the sky, not even when she glances his way, and his jaw is clenched with all the war strategies that must be running through his mind in that moment.

"Problems," Clarke replies simply.

What else could it be? This is Earth, after all.

"Octavia." The dark-haired girl is back next to her in an instant, her every step stiff and measured. "It mustn't have landed – crashed – that far from here. Go and see what it is. If it is human, don't let them see you."

"Yes, Commander." And then she is gone again.

Clarke ignores Bellamy's eyes on her – he may be loyal to a fault, and he may know his sister is the most skilled warrior out there, it never stops him from being wary every time Octavia is sent to the unknown. Clarke wouldn't have it any other way.

…

Octavia doesn't come back.

All hell breaks loose short after.

…

Peace with the other clans is, for all intent and purpose, shaky but possible. Clarke likes to think it is because her spirit has known that of the other Commanders before she was even born, and thus a kinship has bound them for decades, one difficult to break. There are treaties to be written and concessions to be made but, at the end of the day, they live in some kind of harmony.

Peace with the Sky People, on the other hand… Oh, Clarke wouldn't touch that with a three-mile pole. There is violence in their blood and rage at the corner of their mouth, and Clarke wouldn't be that good a Commander if she didn't confess she might be afraid of them sometimes, of what they can do. She knows better than to show it, though, because her people need her to be strong and proud, fearless even when facing the monsters sent to them from the stars.

So when the time has come, when yet another crime of war has been made by those people, she has no other choice but to fight fire with fire, to send Miller's troops, Wells' troops, every troop she has by her side. She needs them gone, once and for all, needs this threat to stop looming over them in the every hours of night and day.

Things don't go as planned.

When have they ever?

Bellamy gets a little more reckless each day, and Clarke doesn't even blame him – how could she, when the rumours of his sister's betrayal have reached the village weeks ago, rumours of her relationship with one of those things, of the blossoming romance between a warrior and vermin. Clarke's own tongue tastes like lead when she hears of it, and she bites on it until blood floods her mouth, until she chokes on her own screams of rage.

Three hundred were killed under the attack on the space ship – it is only a miracle if Miller came back to her, bruised and broken and terrified, speaking of a fire greater than the sun itself.

Three hundred were killed, and then eighteen more.

Eighteen children, mothers, elders, eighteen innocent souls that had never asked for war, never asked for death.

Clarke swallows back the tears, tells herself something needs to be done.

…

Lexa of the Sky People isn't what Clarke expected her to be.

She stands proud and tall in the Commander's tent, eyes never wavering from the other woman's stare, fingers not fidgeting by her sides. She's a brave one, Clarke will give her that, brave and maybe a bit reckless, but you have to be if you want to survive on the ground.

"I've come to make you an offer," she says, and Clarke sees Bellamy's hand moving to the knife by his belt.

"This isn't a negotiation," Clarke replies as she sits a little straighter in her seat. She knows her face makes her look younger than she actually is (and she isn't even that old to begin with), even with the black charcoal around her eyes – it is no excuse to try to play her, though, she is no fool.

"I can help you defeat the Mountain Men," Lexa goes on. "Hundreds of your people are trapped there, used as lab rats. I know, I've seen them."

"Like hell you have," Bellamy replies as he takes a threatening step forward. "Nobody ever escaped Mount Weather."

"I did," she tells him as she looks at him dead in the eyes. Clarke has to give her credit for that, because Bellamy has even the deadliest warriors squirming in their furs. She looks back to the Commander then, and adds with a nod, "Wells and I fought our way out together."

Clarke shares a glance with her General then, and she sees the disbelief in her eyes that matches her own. They'd thought Wells dead, if Miller's tales of the battle were anything to go back – one of the many to fall that day, and Clarke had mourn him the most deeply, her brother-in-arms. Bellamy shakes his head, even so slightly, wariness etching his forehead at that unexpected turn of events.

Lexa uses that momentum to reach into the pocket of her jacket, and Clarke swallows down a gasp at the strand of hair the other woman presents to her. She would recognize one of those locks everywhere, of course.

(It occurs to her, idly, that Lexa knows of their customs, and it doesn't sit well with her. She makes for a dangerous enemy.)

"He told me you were both seconds under the same warrior. I think he'd want you to have this."

She takes a few steps forward to hand the lock to Clarke, and the Commander takes it delicately, something precious, something to cherish. Her thumb caresses the hair, remembering how he'd pull his hair back into a ponytail when they were training together, pearl of sweat glistening on his neck and chest. Clarke fights against the knot in her throat as she looks up to Lexa again.

"Did he die well?"

"Yes. By my side, fighting his way back to you, to give you a message."

"What kind of message?"

"Joining our forces is the only way to get both our people out of Mount Weather."

Unsurprisingly, Bellamy starts fidgeting again where he stands by her side, a single Trigedasleng word escaping his lips. "Lies."

"Shut up. You know Wells was a pacifist." Then, back to Lexa, "You want our army. What do you offer in exchange?"

"The Mountain Men are turning your people into Reapers. I can turn them back."

Another glance shared between Clarke and Bellamy, another look of disbelief in their eyes. Wells teaming with a member of the Sky People, Clarke has no problem believing that – Wells' heart was always soft, his mind set on peace despite his fighting skills. But a cure against Reapers? Clarke wasn't born yesterday – it is impossible, end of the story. Not even a girl fallen from the stars holds that much power, can create such a miracle.

"Like hell you can," Bellamy says after a while.

"I've done it. With Octavia."

There is no stopping Bellamy from there, as he pounces on the sky girl like a puma on his prey, knife to her throat and face a few inches only from hers. Clarke has no doubt Lexa must see the boiling rage in his dark eyes, and he whispers a threatening, "Do no utter her name," that has him trembling with the strength it takes him not to move a muscle.

She gives him this moment, if only for a couple of seconds, then, "Bellamy, that's enough."

He does as she says, ever the dutiful general, and takes a step back and away from Lexa. She glares right back at him, not even shaken.

"Show me. Show Octavia to me, and we'll see to make a deal. If you're lying, Bellamy will kill you himself."

…

"Do you trust her?" Bellamy asks, low enough to be heard of her only as they make their way through the woods. He walks close to Clarke, hand on his sword at all times and stiffness in his broad shoulders.

"Do you?" she retorts.

The ghost of a smile curls up his lips.

…

It takes all Clarke's willpower to hold Bellamy back from surging forward and killing everyone in the room, and it is evidence of his loyalty for her that she manages to stop him with only an arm in front of his chest. He's trembling with rage, once again, or maybe it's her, Clarke can't tell anymore. Everything is blurry and confusing as she stares at the body of her General, lying on the cold metallic floor.

Octavia looks beautiful even in death, which is a weird thought to have in that moment – peaceful, even, with her ivory skin and soft features. But she is dead, and there lies to problem, there lies the rage sipping through Clarke's veins as she stares at the body of her friend.

For a couple of seconds, she forgets the world around her, forgets the half dozen people pointing weapons at each other, the bloodbath she could start with only a word – for a couple of seconds, she can only listen to the sound of her breaking heart, breathing stuck at the back of her throat.

Octavia was a traitor, but Octavia was a sister, too, a precious friend and ally, a good General. Octavia was fierce and fearless, having broken more bones than anyone else in their village, always with bruises and scratches and cuts, even when chasing butterflies.

And now she's no more.

Clarke wants to kill them all with her bare hands.

"You lied to me," she tells Lexa, her voice cold and distant, and she finally sees distress in the brunette's eyes. Good. Let her be scared of facing death.

And then everything is happening fast – their healer pressing an electric baton to Octavia's chest, once, twice, until the young warrior sputter and gulp on air loudly enough to make her brother gasp. There is no stopping Bellamy as he rushes to his sister's side and falls to his knees next to her, ignoring the sword he still holds as he brings a hand to her face.

Octavia blinks, eyes focusing on him. "Hey, big brother."

He laughs then, the sound a little shaken.

Clarke focuses back on Lexa, the other woman's gaze already on her. There is an air of defiance in her eyes, as she squares her shoulders and move closer to Clarke. "Do we have a deal?"

…

"Blood must answer blood. Bring me the one you call Gustus, and we'll see to this coalition."

(He doesn't survive the sword.)

…

Lexa is the one to stitch up Clarke after the attack on Mount Weather, because her own mother is too busy running around camp and patching up as many warriors as possible before the sun has set. Monty follows Abby with herbs and pomades and ointments, but it is a different kind of medicine Lexa uses on the gash on Clarke's arm, one that burns and makes her hiss in surprise.

But the Mountain Men are no more, so Clarke won't complain about the foreign medicine.

"We should go back," Lexa tells her as she grabs a needle and puts some of the same liquid on it. "Medicine, clothes, food… Take as much from them as possible. It's only fair."

She makes for a dangerous opponent, and Clarke is proud to call her an ally now – now that she has seen Lexa fight, that she has seen her with a gun in her hands as she makes her way through the mountain, to save Lincoln from those monsters. Lincoln and Octavia both, and Clarke's eyes find them in the crowd of the village, sitting by the fire as they whisper to each other.

"Good idea," she replies with clenched teeth as the needle bites onto the sensible flesh of her arm. "My warrior will be ready, after a good night of sleep."

"Will you come too? With me?"

Clarke raises her eyes to meet Lexa's, and she tries to read the emotions flashing through the green pupils. Lexa is a wall to her, and it is disconcerting more often than not. Still, the Commander finds herself nodding, "With you."

…

The lights flicker above their heads as they make their way through the empty hallways of Mount Weather. Goosebumps rise on Clarke's forearms at the stillness of the place, at the disturbing silence, like she expects a threat to jump in front of them at any minute now. They are safe, she knows, but it doesn't stop her for being wary of the quiet after the storm, of the peace she doesn't witness very often.

Lexa follows her, her soft footsteps echoing against the concrete walls. They stop once in a while, to check an empty room, an open cupboard. Everything remotely useful ends in the bags they're carrying, the load a little heavier with each new hallway they explore.

"Tell me of the stars," Clarke asks after a while, when the curiosity (and boredom) wins over.

So Lexa does, tells her of the Ark and space, of the view out her window and how she used to draw the planets – how she used to draw pictures fom old books in the library, dreaming of the Ground, dreaming of a life she thought would never be hers. Clarke finds herself closing her eyes, picturing the images Lexa draws for her with her words, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"Being in lockdown was awful because there was no window. Only walls."

Clarke knows enough of the Sky People now not to ask for details – knows the bunch of teenagers was sent there to die, that people were cruel enough to sacrifice a hundred of their own for a sparkle of hope they barely believed in. Still, an answer remains.

"What did you do?"

She feels more than sees Lexa tensing by her side, and wonders if the question was too insensitive – most likely, knowing her.

"I was in love," is the answer she gives at first, voice sharp and unsure, so unlike the girl Clarke has learnt to know. "On the Ark, everything was about survival, about reproduction. You were valuable because you could have a child, or else rations were wasted on you. I… Well, let's say they didn't want to waste rations on me if they didn't have to."

Clarke looks up with a frown from the drawer she's going through.

"Her name was Costia. We were dating. They found out…" Lexa swallows down, before she adds, "She was floated a month before we made it to the ground."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah." Lexa slams the door of the cupboard she was inspecting, effectively startling Clarke. "So am I."

They don't speak much after that, simply pack their bags with sweaters and blankets and vials of transparent liquid Lexa assures her will save many lives, but Clarke can feel the shift between them, can feels the difference in their relationship now. She can't name it quite yet, what is happening, but knows it will come.

…

Peace lasts for a grand total of two months. Two blissful months as summer settles in, with its heat and sun, bright colours and sweet fruits – they allow themselves to enjoy it, to spend blissful hours by the lake like the warriors they no longer are, if only for one day. Clarke's skin turns pink more often than not, a fact that never fails to amuse both her Generals, but it has nothing on the first sunburns the Sky People get, not used to the merciless summers.

Two months, before the Ice Clan decides to come and ruin it all.

Clarke grits her teeth as she looks down to the map in front of her on the table, half listening to strategies and battles yet to be fought. She presses two fingers to the spot between her eyes, as if it could stop the headache from spreading. She may have the spirit of the Commander within her, it doesn't make her any less of a mediocre strategist at best, but she knows she can't always rely on her Generals to get the job done.

Lexa stands next to her, both hands planted on the table as she stares at the map like she wants to burn a hole in it (Clarke understand the feelings), or maybe as if the piece of paper will tire and give them its secrets if she waits long enough. She's as bad at this as Clarke is, but it is little comfort right now.

"At least they're not attacking when we're half freezing to death in the middle of winter," Lexa says.

Clarke snorts at that. "That's one way to see things."

Lexa rolls her eyes, a smile on her lips as she tries, and fails, to focus on the map again. They've been doing this for hours and Clarke knows fully well the answer lays there, so close she can almost touch it, but she is exhausted and hungry and so not in the mood right now.

"Let's call it a night, shall we? If Bellamy asks you, we're only polishing up the details."

"Of course," Lexa replies with a laugh before she zips up her mouth with her fingers and throws away the invisible key.

Clarke still works on getting used to this, the way they can switch from fearless leaders to teenage girls in the blink of an eye, and back again – they do it seamlessly too, and it gives her whiplash sometimes just thinking about it. Women who have grown beyond their years way too fast, put in a position of power, with the heavy load of responsibilities on their shoulders. But it is easier with Lexa now, probably because they share the same story, the same struggles. Probably because they work well together, better than Clarke ever did with the Commanders of the other clans.

"Goodnight, then," Lexa tells her before she leaves the tent – not without one of her secret smiles thrown over her shoulder, the ones that leave Clarke confused and fuzzy inside.

…

Lexa slips into her tent silently, the sound of her footsteps drowned in the sound of war drums around them. Clarkes acknowledges her with a nod before she focuses back on the knives she's tucking in her armour – better safe than sorry, after all. "Do you need something?"

"Yes."

Clarke waits but nothing comes, as so she sighs impatiently when she looks up from her belt to Lexa standing in front of her. There is determination in the brunette's eyes, and she barely hesitates before she crosses the distance between them, before she presses her lips to Clarke's.

It is as heated as unexpected, but Clarke welcomes it for what it is, cherishes the edge of desperation in the clash of teeth and tongue, the desperation she tastes on Lexa's tongue. It is a farewell, she knows, but one laced with the hope left untold, the hope they'd rather not focus on right now. It is war, after all, they can't pretend they will all come out of it alive.

Lexa presses her forehead to Clarke's, and they breathe each other's air, heart beating to the sound of drums and adrenaline rushing through her veins.

Idly, Clarke thinks that she doesn't want to die. That this can't be the end.

"May we meet again," Lexa whispers, voice shaking on the last word.

"Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim."