They've been on the Ground for six years before Clarke decides it is time to go to Polis. They are at peace with the local Grounder clans – Wood and Sea crew, mostly, and are working toward a peace treaty with the Sand crew – so it is time for them to finally and officially meet the other clans, to impose themselves as one of them. Bellamy stays behind, something that has had him seething for weeks, while Clarke travels with Monroe, now her general, as well as Octavia and Lincoln.
The journey is an exhausting one, the longest she's ever made so far, and her every muscle is sore and complaining when she finally hops off her horse and onto the Capitol's ground. She didn't know what she expected, but it certainly wasn't this – city built in the remains of skyscrapers, life everywhere, children running and people singing, talking, laughing. It is life if she's ever seen it, life bubbling out of every building, every street, and Clarke stares in awe as she makes her way toward the City Hall where the meetings will happen.
She knew Polis was further away from where the bombs fell – TonDC was the epicentre of it, of course – but she now sees the difference, sees how life has survived more easily here, life has gone on instead of being mere survival.
(They say the library still hides many books in its belly, and she swears to make a visit before she leaves.)
Silence falls on the City Hall as Clarke steps inside, blinking the sudden darkness away from her eyes. She didn't expect it to go any other way, but it is still unsettling, the silence then whispers following her every time she meet Grounders. She knows what they say, of course, knows of the tales they tell about her – the girl who fell from the sky with the fury of a meteor, the girl who burnt everything in her wake, burnt her lover and the mountain, burnt everything, everyone. She knows of the nicknames they have for her, how they call her Angel of Death with fear and reverence in their voices.
She hates it, hates it all – especially the shiver crawling up her spine that always comes with the whispers. But, as with many other things, Clarke has grown used to it. Would have grown bored of it, even, were it not for the nightmares still haunting her nights.
Thankfully, the familiar face of Luna is suddenly in front of her, and she feels like breathing again. The woman is as Clarke remembers, her smile as kind as her body is built and dangerous-looking, and the blonde leader all too happily shakes her hand before she is pulled into an unexpected hug. She hears Lincoln chuckling behind her, and can only share the feeling. Luna of the Sea people is one of the few people Clarke would call her friend – the only one who welcomed her into her home, her village, when she wandered the earth after the events in the mountain, after she came out of the belly of the beast.
"Welcome, Klok kom Skai Kru."
"It is a pleasure to see you again, Luna kom Oshun Kru."
"Come," the woman tells her, a hand still resting on her shoulder. "Let's introduce you to the other Hedas."
Monroe follows close, always one step behind Clarke, as they make their way around the hall to meet with the other clan leaders. Clarke feels like a child again, the way her mother would introduce her to all the Councilmen on the Ark during official parties, the way she had to smile and be polite and nice. It is quite the same now, only bigger because she understands the importance of such a meeting and knows a misstep will not be counted as a child's fancy. It is serious now, and so she wears her best smile and slurs some words in Trigedasleng.
(She will never truly master the language, words heavy on her tongue and forced in her mouth, but at least nobody can blame her for trying.)
"And, of course," Luna said as they move toward another corner of the room, Clarke smiling to the leader of the Grassland Clan. "You know the Commander."
That takes her by surprise, and Clarke's head snaps at the sound of the title. It is stupid, of course – she knew all clans would be here, and so she would be – but her heart starts racing anyway as her eyes meet Lexa's, as she forces a smile, very much fake this time, on her lips.
Lexa's eyes move up and down her body, taking her all in – the Grounder clothes she was given so long ago and saw befit to wear, the braids Octavia did in her hair this morning, the dark charcoal Lincoln drew around her eyes – and Clarke fights against a blush at that gaze. They've seen each other before, even if Kane is the one dealing with the Wood clan now – they've seen each other since Lexa's betrayal yet it is the same every time, Clarke's heart racing, her mind numb with too many thoughts. She hates the influence the Commander still have on her, will forever have on her.
Love is weakness, after all, or so they say.
"Yes," Lexa answers, her voice as clipped and cold as ever. "We are acquainted already."
It is one way of putting it, after all, and Clarke forces herself not to scoff at the choice of words. She and Lexa are a great many things, and 'acquaintances' is such a weak word to encompass everything they have been through during two dreadful two weeks such a long time ago. But this is a peace meeting, so Clarke swallows back her sarcasm and nods in greetings instead. It is all Lexa will get from her now.
It is more than enough.
Thankfully, the meeting starts soon – Clarke's sigh of relief dies on her lips when she understands they were waiting for her to start. Her cheeks turn pink with embarrassment at the thought even as she settles around the table with the other leaders, Monroe to her left and Lincoln to her right, close enough to whisper translations in her ear without disturbing the Grounders sitting next to them.
Clarke knows the drill from there – the exchange of gifts that often comes with hums of appreciation when she offers bottles of Monty's moonshine, the transparent liquid as famous as she is, followed by words of greeting and kindness, followed by a shared drink. She raises her cup and refuses to think of Gustus when her eyes find Lexa's across the table. Instead, she presses the cup to her lips and drinks one sip as the other Hedas do the same around her.
Conversations are made then. It is only the first of many meetings they will have in the following days, and so it starts pleasantly enough, everyone talking about their land and the news they have, how good the harvest was this year, how harsh the winter is going to be once again. Nothing complicated nor dangerous, and so Clarkes plays the part too, as she tells of her own people, the harvests, the supplies they found in a few more bunkers. The River clan is interested in medical supplies and knowledge, ready to trade them for fishing nets, and so Clarke agrees to a private meeting with their Heda later on during the festivities. Then the Heda from the Ice Nation speaks of the snow, and how it arrived early this year, and the conversation continues.
The conversation goes on for hours actually, and Clarke has to fight a grin as she feels Monroe growing a little more bored with each passing minutes. The girl was made for fights and wars, not for politics, and it is only out of loyalty for Clarke and passion for her job that she agreed to come. Surely she must be regretting it now.
The sun is low in the sky when the meeting comes to its natural end, and all agree to share a feast before calling it a night. The mood turns a little more festive then, with music and drinks and more food that will ever be eaten, and Clarke laughs as she watches Lincoln forcing Octavia to dance. Her days as Indra's second are far gone yet Octavia always turns a little more Grounder when she's surrounded by them – spine straighter, eyes harder, smile gone from her lips.
You can take the girl from the Kru, Bellamy had said once, with sadness in his voice, but you can't take the Kru from the girl. He'd been right, of course, as always when it comes to his sister.
Clarke laughs at Octavia's stubbornness, feet planted into the ground as she barely allows her hips to sway to the music. That's how the blonde knows she's had one too many cup – she only ever laughs when she's on her way to Tipsy Town, these days – and so she gets rid of her cup as quickly as possible without offending anyone around her. The night is black and deep, after all, and so she finds Monroe in the crowd.
"I'm calling it a night."
"Alright. I'm coming with you."
But Monroe's arm is wrapped around a Grounder's waist – pretty girl with eyes as dark as her skin – and her other hand wrapped around a cup of wine. So Clarke shakes her head, tells her to enjoy herself. Polis is a place of peace, after all, weapons not allowed within its walls. It would be madness to attempt something on a Heda's life now of all times. Clarke is safe.
…
She isn't alone when she enters her private quarters, not that she expected it any other way – Lexa's absence had been more than noticed during the feast, whispered comments on everybody's tongue. Clarke remembers Lincoln's words about her, such a lifetime ago, about what an unconventional Commander she made. Maybe it was what it meant back then, among other things.
She's sprawled on Clarke's bed, above the fur blankets, one feet propped up on the other as she plays with her dragger, spinning it against her finger, over and over again. More than asking about the forbidden weapon, Clarke wants to kick her muddy boots off the bed, and it says more about her, about them, than she likes.
Silence stretches between them, and it takes Clarke quite some time before she understands Lexa won't be the one to speak first. She sighs with a roll of her eyes.
"Acquaintance, really?"
Whatever Lexa expected, it wasn't this, and Clarke takes pleasure in taking her by surprise, for it gives her the upper hand in that unnamed battle they're fighting.
"If you have a better suited word, Clarke, please do enlighten me."
She doesn't, but she won't give Lexa the pleasure of proving her right. So instead she indeed kicks her boot off the bed, satisfied in the way Lexa's feet fall to the ground in a thump, catching her slightly off-balance. Any victory, even the tiniest one, is always good to claim.
"What do you want?" she asks at last, knowing she needs to be straight-forwards if she wants clear answers and not riddles.
"To see you."
Clarke fights the urge to roll her eyes once more. She doesn't hide the coldness in her voice, though. "There, you saw me. Now leave."
Something akin to hurt flashes in Lexa's eyes as she moves to stand up, her movements as feline as ever, every muscle drawn and tensed. She makes for a lethal enemy, even in the dead of the night, even without her armour or body paints. Actually, the softness of her petite frame – short sleeves and thin fabric, the tattoo adorning her arm – only enhances the hardness of her every angle, the fire in her eyes.
She makes for a lethal enemy, and Clarke is relieved to call her an ally.
Or, at least, something of the like.
"Clarke…" she starts, her voice as pleading as a Commander's voice can be, as pleading as love is weakness allows her to be. Clarke isn't impressed.
"I came here for peace treaties, and murdering the Commander wouldn't help in any way. So leave, now."
She wouldn't do it – hasn't drawn blood even since the Mountain, hasn't hurt anyone ever since the genocide – but she and Lexa are alike in their threat-making, always meaning them, always careful with their words. It has been years but the fire of betrayal still burns through Clarke's veins, and killing Lexa with her bare hands doesn't seem like such a stretch, if she's ever given a reason to curl her fingers around the Commander's pale neck.
So Lexa nods, only once, stiffly, before she makes her way to the hunt's door without another word. Clarke refuses to acknowledge that she doesn't only feel relieved at watching her go, swallows down the disappointment she refuses to let fester.
…
By midmorning the following day, Octavia has already beaten six warriors to a pulp in the ring they improvised, and won as many horses along the way. Clarke grins as she stands next to Lincoln to watch her friend fight a man twice her size and weight – he has strength but she is faster, swifter and, as always with Octavia, it can only mean victory.
She's a long way from the girl who chased butterflies.
"The trek back to camp is going to be a complicated one," Lincoln says as he eyes the horses, big and brown and strong. They will do wonders working in the fields once comes spring. But, for now, Clarke doesn't worry about the harvest, instead laughs, loud and clear.
"You made her too good a warrior, is the problem."
"Don't I know it."
But a smile ghosts on his lips, a rare sight on Lincoln's features, and so Clarke grins too as she shakes her head and focuses back on the fight in front of them. Octavia is tiring the other warrior out, that much is obvious in the way he already huffs and puffs as she keeps dancing around him, poking at his sizes and playing on his slow responses. It only takes a few more minutes before she jumps on his back and, with moves worthy of an animal, has him fall down on his knees, one arm around his neck – her grin is lethal in the face of victory.
The crowd goes wild around them, men and women alike already queuing to be the next one to fight her, and perhaps the first one to win. Clarke knows better, knows Octavia is yet to lose a single fight.
Clarke turns to Lincoln then. "What is our schedule for the day?"
His eyes don't leave his lover's body, even as he replies. "Nothing this morning. Then a meal, and a meeting with the River and Grassland clans."
She nods and thanks him softly, before she folds her arms on the railing of the ring to watch the next fight. She recognizes the woman facing Octavia now, the lean yet strong body, the long hazelnut hair, the knowing eyes – she recognizes the woman who claimed Bellamy as hers for a few months before they broke apart, without a word or explanation, without a last glance.
Clarke takes pleasure in watching Octavia kick Echo's ass.
…
Once she grows bored of watching Octavia bruise many ribs and even more egos, Clarke wanders the streets of Polis with Monroe by her side. They whisper to each other with each new wonder they see – colourful fabrics and juicy fruits sold on the streets, children laughing and running, woman speaking to each other from the windows. Every which way Clarke looks, life is bubbling out of the building, vibrant, beautiful. It is something different, something more, and she longs for that, longs for this kind of peace and quiet for Camp Jaha. A hopeful dream, perhaps, but they've been at peace for so long now, finally building hunts instead of tents, that a girl can only hope.
Monroe points to some unknown food, meat and potatoes perhaps, and so Clarke trades a tiny bottle of moonshine against two sharings of food, and they sits on a patch of grass as they eat their meat and Monroe tells her of what happened during the feast once she left.
She's eating the last of her lunch when cheerful laughs cut Monroe in the middle of a sentence, and the both of them look up to see what the ruckus is all about.
Clarke's heart drops in her stomach at the sight in front of her. Lexa kneels in front of a little girl, as a flower crowd is careful put around her head. She doesn't quite smile, because it's a very un-Lexa thing to do, but her eyes crinkle a bit. She wears softer clothes, thin fabrics of browns and beige, and she looks so normal that is unsettles Clarke a bit.
She swallows down the feeling, and with it a sip of moonshine straight from the bottle.
…
When they come back to where they came from, Octavia now is the proud owner of fifteen horses, two goats, a handful of furs, a golden trinket around her neck, and a grin to brighten even the darkest night.
Lincoln rubs a hand down his face, and Clarke laughs.
…
"You need to stop doing this," is the first thing she says as she enters her hunt that night. "Especially the shoes on the bed, it's disgusting."
Lexa's feet fall down on the ground, loudly, one after the other. It makes her look like a petulant child, a little, and it reminds Clarke of how young they were when they first met. They are not so young anymore, the years taking their toll on them. Still, Lexa can be quite childish when she feels like it, and Clarke forces herself not to linger on the pout forming on her mouth, or the annoyed gleam in her grey eyes.
"What do you want?" Clarke asks, even if she once again knows the answer.
She is tired of those games already, tired of the way Lexa keeps poking at her, keeps ruffling her feathers and pushing her buttons. Clarke wishes she could stop already, she could just leave her alone and pretend they don't share a past, pretend the tensions between them no longer exist.
Instead, Lexa walks towards her, grace and determination in her every step, until only a few inches remain between them. The Commander's breaths tickle Clarke's skin, and she holds her head a little higher to give herself some kind of composure in the face of Lexa invading her personal space. It is nothing but an intimidation technique, and Clarke forces herself not to forget it.
That is, until Lexa's eyes fall on her lips, then moves up to her eyes once more. Clarke's breath hitches in her throat – she doesn't need this, not right now. Not ever, actually, anger and betrayal still running through her veins, still turning her blood to ice when she hears the Commander's name. She closes her eyes and feels the pressure of Bellamy's hand on top of hers, closes her eyes and sees bodies, bodies, bodies.
"I hate you," she breathes, and it feels good saying it out loud at last.
She hates Lexa, so much it hurts, even after all those years. Hates her and the choices she made, the taste of betrayal still bitter on her tongue, the dichotomy between 'you' and 'us' still painful after all those years.
"As you should."
There is no apology, no shame nor remorse – a simple acknowledgment of Clarke's feelings as valid. That, more than everything, has her gritting her teeth and glaring at Lexa, has her wanting to bark, a "how dare you?" she's been repressing for so long it makes her teeth hurt.
She goes from closing her fists, but they grabs Lexa's soft shirt instead, goes for taking a step back but pulls the other woman forwards instead. When they lips meet, it's with a clash of teeth that send a flash of hurt down her spine – the kiss brutal and unforgiving, all hunger and no passion, like she is trying to prove her point. To Lexa, to herself, to the world. Who knows, anymore?
She doesn't think of things to come, doesn't think of the regret that will take over her body and mind soon enough – doesn't think of anything, really, if it is the feeling of Lexa's fingers in her hair, tugging painfully as to change the angle of the kiss. She lacks delicacy, too, and it only presses Clarke forwards, only surges her to continue that dangerous dance.
She pushes Lexa away, only to follow with her mouth and body, until the Commander's knees knock against the edge of the bed. They fall on it together with a grunt, and then Lexa wraps her leg around Clarke's hips, turns them over in one swift movement so the blonde's back fall against the mattress. Lexa straddles her hips the way an Amazon would her horse, feral and lethal even as her fingers go for the clasps of Clarke's coat.
They're not in the business of lingering touches and teasing caresses, instead stripping the other off their clothes as if their bodies were on fire. No romance, no built-up – just the need of skin against skin, the desire of sex and release. A moan gets stuck in Clarke's throat when Lexa leans down, teeth grazing against her hipbone before her tongue sooth the burning skin. Her back arches against the mattress and she rubs her legs together before Lexa forcefully pulls them apart.
There is no sense of foreplay when Lexa puts her mouth to Clarke's clit, sucking on the bundle of nerves like her life depends of it. Clarke's hand finds her hair, braids and pearls and knots, tugs and pulls and pushes so she has Lexa's mouth where she needs it the most, so she can set the rhythm of the kiss. The other woman's fingers dig into her thighs, so painfully she might as well draw blood and the sharp contrast with the pleasure between her legs is too much as once, powerful and overwhelming and addicting.
She bites on the palm of her free hand not to scream out, least she alerts people standing outside the tent. He teeth leave indents beneath the thumb when she comes with a muffled scream and a moan, head falling back against the pillow, eyes closing of their own accord.
She keeps them close even when Lexa kisses her way up her body, lips and tongue lingering on her ribs, her breasts, her collarbone. They stay closed even when Lexa kisses her on the mouth, even when she can taste herself on the brunette's tongue. She refuses to open her eyes and see, because it would make it real, tangible. She refuses to face reality, even if she knows she'll have to, eventually.
Eventually comes sooner than later when Lexa says, "I missed you."
It is so simple, so vulnerable, that Clarke can only open her eyes. She regrets it immediately, for the look in Lexa's eyes is as vulnerable as the words rolling on her tongue – vulnerable and pained, the confession ripped from her without her consent.
Clarke chuckles, and it sounds cold. "You're so full of shit."
Lexa laughs, the sound foreign and surprising to Clarke's ears. It sounds like thunder between the trees, dangerous yet beautiful – it suits her, the way black paint and blood stains suit her. The way hating her suits Clarke, because it is easy, because it doesn't ask of her to dwell on her feelings and how complex they might be – 'hate' only the tip of the iceberg, such a simple word to use, such a lazy word to use.
"I won't apologize for what I did," Lexa says, propping her head on her elbow. "It was the right call, and you know it."
"You were thinking of your people. I was thinking about all of us."
"I won't apologize about that, either."
She tilts her chin up a little, candle light casting shadows on her face, sharpening her cheekbones. She looks regal and unforgiving, fire in her eyes and in her veins, and Clarke remembers how easy it has been to fall in her orbit, the push and pull of gravity having nothing on Lexa's charisma. Clarke remembers how easy it could be to fall for her – easy and dangerous, like falling asleep in the cold of the night never to wake up again. She wished she was strong, but she finds herself closing her eyes anyway.
"You are my people now. Your kru is my kru."
Clarke laughs. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"No." Lexa lets her head falls, a little. "But the past is the past, and the future will be different."
She grabs the blanket, now bundled at the foot of the bed, and pulls it over both their naked bodies. Everything is silent outside but for the soft drumming coming from the bonfire and the wind whistling between the trees. A howl hoots in the night, moon silver through the window of Clarke's hunt.
She closes her eyes.
Everything else can wait.