I posted this on AO3, so figured I should leave it here, too. ob broke my heart and I found refuge in another (also probably sinking) ship. So... ya know. Let me know if you like it.
"Lexa, you promised." Clarke was all but whining now which was, admittedly, tearing a bit at Lexa's resolve to not watch the skaikrumake drunken fools of themselves. Lexa had no patience for babysitting, beyond the hand-holding that being a commander of an army seemed to entail far more often than she'd like to admit.
"I did not promise anything, Clarke." She replied evenly, keeping the sigh of frustration to herself though she knew by now that Clarke could hear the way it tinted her voice, however the clench in her jaw as she spoke. "I said I would return to your camp with you as a gesture of alliance between our clans. I never once agreed to 'party' with them." The word felt strange in her mouth, and she had no clear definition of what it meant beyond Clarke's eyeroll and assertion that it meant 'you know, having fun. Do you know how to do that? Have fun?'
Clarke took a step forward to crowd into Lexa's space, sending her head spinning from the peculiar scent of the skaikru's clothing and the earthen, musky tinge of her skin. "Beja, Lexa. It would mean a lot to the alliance for them to see you as a person." Just what I don't want , Lexa thought bitterly, another refusal on the tip of her tongue. Until Clarke added, "it would mean a lot to me."
And with that, Lexa felt the resolve that used to come so easy to her before she met Clarke, felt the walls built around her humanity begin to crumble and crack and the words hit her in the festering corpse she'd tried to tell herself her heart now was. The dead are gone, after all.
But Clarke made her feel it, the breath of life in her lungs and the pulse of blood through her veins. It was intoxicating and frightening (though she would never admit that to anyone) all in one, but she couldn't quite bring herself to hate it. It had been a long time since Costia, the woman who had been her soncha all those years ago, had brought these feelings forth so easily. That had been the height of her youth, when she was still second to Anya and had yet to ascend to her position as Heda. The days had felt longer, simpler, when where she and Costia could slip away to for stolen kisses had felt like the most important worry she'd ever have.
And then that light had been extinguished. So easily. With calls of 'Heda' that brought her stumbling out into the first cracks of pink dawn warming the frosty morning air to find a scarred, rotting head on the ground. Left as a threat, a warning, a declaration of war.
Clarke took her by the hand and tugged, trying to pull her toward the group assembled around the fire. Any other leader who tried to do so would have lost that hand with a swift flick of her wrist. "Come on, I got to know your people in Polis. You should get to know ours, now that things have finally settled. Get to know us in peace, not blood." Lexa considered it, for a moment. It would be irritating at worst, and a fortification to the shaky foundations of their alliance at best, she figured. After everything that had happened between their clans—between her and Clarke—solidity was desperately needed.
She ducked her chin slightly in a nod, and Clarke bloomed into joyfulness. "For the alliance."
Clarke's smile and the hot slide of her palm against Lexa's was intoxicating. "You won't regret this, Ipromise. C'mon."
(Lexa already did)
Clarke pulled harder on her arm, and Lexa—though she knew it was childish and not at all befitting her station—couldn't help but drag her feet just a little as she trailed behind her.
She immediately caught the eyes of Lincoln and Octavia, the most solemn-looking of the group, who both offered her a nod of recognition and respect. After her retreat at the Mountain, they had defected; she could not truly blame them. Had she not been indebted to her people in the way she was, she might have done the same.
They were a bridge between these worlds, between sky and forest. Lexa almost envied it, the way they were able to move between them. But not everyone had the luxury of flexibility. Some people were destined to be citadels, to hold space and ground for others to come and go as they wished. This was what she'd tried to teach Clarke. She wondered if she had succeeded.
"Griffin!" The one she recognized as Raven stumbled to her feet, steadied by the broad blonde man (Wick, she'd later find out) behind her when she almost stumbled over her injured leg. Lexa frowned. She knew from experience that saying so out loud would make Clarke withdraw from her, but the weakness of allowing such a person to continue life as a warrior in their clan stunned and confused her. "You made it! Have a drink!" She shoved the metal cup toward Clarke, clear liquid sloshing over the side and making the fire spit when it splashed into it.
Clarke laughed, and Lexa marveled at the sound. She couldn't remember if she'd ever heard it before, in all honestly, clear and open as it was here. The times Clarke had laughed around her, it had been derisive or sardonic, never an indication of genuine amusement. Clarke reached over to take the cup from Raven.
"O-kay, Raven. I think you've had a bit too much already."
"Pfft." Raven waved a hand dismissively. "I'll drink all you fuckers under the table, just watch me."
"All right, babe." The blonde man pulled her back, guiding her to a less-than-graceful seat on the log. "Drink us under the table while you're sitting before you add 'burn victim' to the list of obstacles you've had to gracefully overcome." Lexa took the moment to appreciate him. He was muscular, though not in the way she was used to.
The Skaikru had odd musculature, giving them more in common with the crumbling remains of statues than the Trikru. Their muscles were balanced, forged not of hard work and survival, but surely from intention. She wondered what Clarke looked like beneath her clothes, if she'd have more in common with the lean, thick strength of Lexa and her people or the tight, balanced definition of the Skaikru. Raven was still talking, she noted, as Clarke handed Lexa a cup with a shy smile that made her chest clench.
"Glad to have you back, princess." Bellamy, who had been sitting quietly to the left of Octavia, said. The gentle smile on his face made Lexa's blood boil. Ste yuj. She thought the words, and they echoed as Gustus' gruff baritone in her head.
"It's good to be back, Bell." She returned the smile, as soft as Lexa had ever seen her. Except no, that wasn't entirely true. Clarke had been nothing but soft in the tent that night, when Lexa had thrown custom and strength to the wind and let herself be weak for Clarke, when she'd asked Clarke without words to be hers. The memory of Clarke's gentle kiss sent a thrill through her skin.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You wanna bone. We get it." Raven all but shouted, and every head around the fire was whipping toward her, flickering panicked eyes to Lexa and then back again. And Lexa was not familiar with their slang but she was not an imbecile. She tightened her grip around her cup. Raven, however, noticed none of this in her inebriation. "I built a stereo system. It's so sick, check it out."
And then the girl was scrambling for something, and a sudden, deep noise shook the ground beneath their feet.
Instinctively, Lexa dove, wrapping an arm around Clarke to force her to the ground as well before tucking into a roll and unsheathing her sword in one smooth movement. She stayed crouched, in case there was more fire, and scanned the trees for enemies. The sound continued, though now it warbled and warped in a way Lexa had never heard before, except perhaps when her people beat on the long, thin sheets of metal they'd scavenged from the ruins of the nearby cities. She turned back to the group of them around the fire. Lincoln was tensed as well though he still sat on the log and the rest of them watched her with wide eyes and gaping mouths.
"What." She growled low in her throat, "was that?"
"Uh, music?" Raven offered, cocking her head to the side as though she couldn't comprehend why Lexa would ask.
Lexa found herself looking to Lincoln again, who gestured to a small box that sat on the ground beside Raven, pulsing the strange, fast beats and warbles into the air. Her brow furrowed. How...? But her lack of knowledge was weakness, so she simply rose to her full height, tilting her chin up to look down on them all. Every single one of them (except Clarke, of course) seemed to cower into themselves at the scathing look.
"It's, you know, electronic." Raven added, a bit sheepishly when she realized how little that probably meant to Lexa. "You know what? Don't worry about it. I can turn it off if it's freaking you out?"
Clarke, who now stood behind Lexa, laid her hand gently on Lexa's shoulder. "It's all right." She spoke quietly, like she might send Lexa diving to the ground again if she moved too quickly or loudly, but it was clearly intended for both her and Raven. The touch calmed her, and she felt a tense frustration boil through her. Ste yuj. "Go sit down. Let me refill your drink."
Lexa went and sat, adrenalin still rushing through her veins. She didn't like this, not at all. They were drinking, making so much noise. If there was an attack right now, they would all be—
"Here." Clarke sat next to her, and the heat of her thigh soaking through the fabric on their legs cut her thoughts of war short.
Lexa nodded and took the cup from her. She allowed herself to let their fingers brush, just to feel Clarke's skin again. She so rarely had the opportunity, even during the time they'd spent together in Polis. "Mochof." She mumbled, and Clarke pressed her shoulder into Lexa's, making them sway like branches in the wind.
"Anytime."
The conversation droned on, and mostly it seemed the Skaikru were content to let Lexa and Lincoln sit quietly in the corner and watch. Lexa spoke excellent English, but much of what they were saying ended up lost on her, especially when it was Raven, Wick, or Monty who was speaking. They spoke much of their former home, and Lexa tried to remember as much of it as she could. To learn more about their people. For the sake of their alliance. Not for Clarke. Of course.
The liquor burned her throat more than the wine of the Trigedakru, but there was a restless energy in the thick nighttime air that had her sipping at it every minute or so. Every time her cup went empty, someone passed the jug over to fill it. She thought nothing of it until her head started to feel hazy and her thoughts began to bounce around her skull with an uncontrollable force.
Her movements too became more impulsive, which she realized quite alarmingly when Clarke turned to her with a raised eyebrow and Lexa realized her hand had settled on her knee. She withdrew it wordlessly and went back to staring at the fire, not willing to admit to either herself or Clarke that it had been entirely instinctual, entirely a product of the way Bellamy was eyeing Clarke from across the fire, yellow light dancing bright across his dark, somber eyes.
(It had nothing to do with the way Clarke gazed back with a look that should have been Lexa's alone)
"So, like," Monty started, leaning in toward the fire conspiratorially to engage the gathered Trigedakru, his eyes flickering from Lexa to Lincoln as he spoke, "what do Grounders do for fun?"
"The same things you do." Lincoln fielded the question, and Lexa was grateful to be spared the inquiry. "Dance, sing, fight, swim." He shrugged a shoulder. He'd become more talkative now, and Octavia less so. A bridge between not only their people, she noted, but each other as well.
"Swim? With those river snakes in the water?" Monty snorted. "No, thank you."
Lexa felt a stutter of indignation in her chest. These people come down to the ground, know nothing of this world, and question their ways? She would not let it stand. "The river is not the only place to swim." The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and she immediately regretted it when all eyes fell to her.
"Whoa, wait." Raven held a hand up in the air. "Hold the fuck up, guys. Commander panty twist actually does things for fun?"
Lexa bristled and straightened (she hadn't realized she'd been slouching in the first place). "I am no longer a child, but I was not always Heda."
She caught Lincoln smirking out of the corner of her eye and she almost—almost— smirked back before catching herself. If only they knew. Memories of slipping out of TonDC with Lincoln and the other seconds with a bottle of pilfered wine and the reckless drive of youth washed warmth through her skin and again, she found herself thinking of Costia and the little copse of trees they'd hide in to press lips to skin, keeping quiet so the other seconds would not hear them from the nearby pond . She found herself thinking of the glint of moonlight off Costia's dark skin, the bright, soft light of her eyes. The whispers of a i hod yu as Costia broke and shuddered around Lexa's fingers. Perhaps it was the drink making her weak, or Clarke's presence at her side, but she missed those days with a passion that left a gaping ache in her chest. She clenched her fingers tighter around her cup.
She returns to the moment when she realizes Lincoln is speaking again, gesturing faintly to the east. "...a pond not far from here. We would go when we were staying outside TonDC."
Octavia's eyes are bright and starry when she speaks (Lexa thinks she gets why Lincoln would try to move the Earth for her when she looks at him like that, Sometimes she thinks she catches Clarke doing so, but she always looks away before Lexa can tell). "Can we go?"
"No." The word comes to her before she can truly think about the idea. Her whole body seizes and stammers at the thought of it, of bringing these outsiders to her childhood haven. To the place that holds her most intimate moments, dew like the drops of her sweat and her tears, and the whisper of wind through branches echos of war cries and unrestrained laughter. She does not want these sky people to be able to listen, to hear the trees whisper her secrets, her weakness to them.
Octavia lets out a little whine of disapproval, but doesn't push the matter. Lincoln, on the other hand, watches her for a few quiet, contemplative seconds before he responds in Trigedasleng.
"She wouldn't want you to keep it from them."
It is so presumptuous, so frustrating that she clenches her jaw tight and fixes him with the cold stare of her position. She is Heda now, and she will not be spoken to as such. And she can still feel Costia's breath ghosting along her neck, still hears her voice chanting ai hod yu, Lexa, shawhere it had been buried deep enough that it would not be remembered. Perhaps that is why she responds at all, when ordinarily she would simply say nothing.
"Do not speak to me about her." The words are supposed to come out as a growl—a warning—but instead it sounds broken to her own ears.
"Leksa." His voice is kind, and this is what she hates most about Lincoln. The way he could always see straight through her. He had never been cut out for the life of a warrior, even a healer amongst them, strong and valiant though he is. He should have been a Speaker, she thinks, one who could grow old and tend to the children and the well-being of a village, hold their history and their soul. But he was borne of warriors, and it was his destiny to fight and die for his people. His eyes flicker to Clarke then back to Lexa. "You cannot have both of them at once." Lexa's chest clenches around her heart and squeezes and it's painful and uncomfortable to feel so open, so tender, so easily read by him. She says nothing. "Besides," his lips curl in another smirk and he leans forward—apparently to be nearer to her, but she knows better, knows he's preparing. One of his heels lifts to rest against the log. "You know what happens when you're last to the lake."
"Linkon, no."
Her protests fall on deaf ears as his smirk grows wide across his face, breaking into a full-blown grin. He looks wild and mischievous and she can't help but be glad for him, that he's found a place—found happiness—here. Some people are citadels, she tries to remind herself, but then he's on his feet, running as fast as he can toward the gates, leaving nothing but his lingering shout behind him.
"They're a deer's ass!"
And damn it, Lexa doesn't lose. Ever. Which is why she's sprinting after him without consciously willing to, throwing her trepidation to the fire to be consumed and cleansed. She can hear the shuffling and shouting of the Skaikru as they stumble to their feet to follow clumsily behind them.
"Open the gates!" Lincoln shouts, still lumbering toward the guards posted there, who are beginning to look increasingly alarmed at the two Tree people who are barreling toward them, looking for all the world like they will not be stopped, like hungry panthers in pursuit of prey.
Behind her, Octavia takes up the chant, "open the gates!" And soon, the rest of the Skaikru is joining, whooping and yelling and leaping in their excitement. This either appeases the guards or frightens them into compliance because then the gates are scraping open and Lincoln is shoving it wider to accommodate his bulk. Lexa slips through easily in the gap he leaves and when she's several paces out from the camp, she hears the gates shut behind them with a clang. There are footsteps behind her also, and she tears her gaze from Lincoln to make sure the Sky people are following. Octavia is a few steps behind her, then Clarke and Bellamy lagging just after. The rest are a ways back, close enough to keep visual contact but far enough that she knows they won't be a threat.
It's just her old friend she needs to worry about, then. Good. She returns her gaze to him and he's not far in front of her but the lake is not far either, so she knows she needs to speed up fast. She takes a deep breath and blows it out evenly, letting the breath clear her mind of the thoughts and inhibitions that normally now plague it—she lets go of strategy and gives in to instinct. It seems that among these people, her only weakness is her strength, anyway. She lets her body take over, lets her feet navigate over and around the roots and logs of her home, and she feels...
Free.
For the first time in as long as she can remember, her feet are not fused to the earth. The heft of her armor does not weigh heavy with souls passed to new vessels in her name, with blood and tears shed and the distended stomachs of starving children. The pounding of her feet on the ground is not a war beat now, but a song—a rhythm sent to the sky in celebration, the hum of a contented tune under the breath of a nomtou caring for his yongon or a hunter coming home to her family after a lengthy day in the forest.
She pulls up to Lincoln, a broad smile on her own face (it makes her cheeks ache but she can't stop) as she begins to pass him. He takes a chance and throws an elbow out to the side, shoving her a couple steps off course and making her brush along a sapling lean from the cluster of bushes choking out its roots. She nearly snaps the poor young thing in half before she's able to regain her footing.
"You cheat!" She shouts the words at his back, now just slightly in front of her again, and he chances a glance back at her, teeth gleaming in the darkness.
"There is no cheating in war, Heda."
For the briefest of seconds she feels the weight threatening to return to her at the reminder of her place and she feels stupid, so utterly silly for playing at these children's games. But then she sees the brush that separates the lake from the eyes of the forest and she charges forward again, shoving her body into Lincoln's back as hard as she can to make him stumble forward then using his lowered shoulder as leverage to push herself through the brush and into the clearing (if that also prevents him from righting himself quickly, well, that's an added bonus). She pulls her shirt over her head and shoves her pants down and off her hips. She unclips her chest binding and lets it fall off of its own accord and then she's splashing into the water, a cool and welcome change from the thick, summer-hot air around them.
She hears Lincoln just after and dives forward, forcing herself toward the center of the lake as fast as she can to keep her advantage on him (she's always been the better runner, but he's always been able to catch her in the water). There's shouting just beyond the splash of her arms entering and exiting the water and the garbling silence of one ear then the other dipping below the surface:
"Marco!" The voice is deep and shrill and she thinks, Wick.
"Polo!" Octavia.
Then there's another splash of a body entering the water and a hand grasping at her ankle and she's underwater, trying to blink away the filmy haze of it and slip away from Lincoln. He pushes off the bottom of the lake and grabs her, the both of them wrestling to both break the surface and also keep the other under. A third body comes and pulls him away, and she kicks up easily, tasting the air in a few hungry gulps before Octavia and Lincoln surface. Octavia is gasping but also laughing uncontrollably, clinging onto Lincoln's back as he treads water.
"You're doing well." Lincoln says with a smile back at her.
"I had a great teacher." She replies, matching the sparkle he holds in his eyes for her with an equal intensity.
Suddenly, Lexa feels out of place, as though she's intruded on a moment far too intimate for her presence to be appropriate. In the distance, she sees the rest of the Skaikru gathered on the shore, Raven still clutching to Wick's back with her arms and legs. Clarke is there, too, resting her hands on her knees, her hair wind-tousled and perfect around her face. And even from so far, she feels it—the connection of their eyes, the way they seem to find each other from anywhere and tug them toward one another.
"And I had to protect my Commander." Octavia adds with a laugh and brings a stiff hand to her forehead then jerks it away awkwardly.
Lexa smirks at Lincoln, who just rolls his eyes and leans back so he can nudge at her hip with his foot.
"What are you bitches waiting for? Get in here!" Octavia calls to the shore. Before either Lincoln or Lexa notice it, she's jerking her arms in clumsy, too-loud splashes and gliding awkwardly toward shore. They decide wordlessly to follow, though Lincoln jostling her again has them clashing and splashing at one another, each trying to swim with the other interrupting them and pulling them under the water.
Lexa's feet touch ground and she uses the sudden advantage of leverage to send Lincoln flying over her shoulder and back down below the surface in what would have been a crushing impact had they been on solid land. She manages to catch a glimpse of his face as she sends him sailing over her shoulder, eyes wide and mouth gasping open in surprise, and she laughs. Laughs, deep and full and heady, and she stumbles toward shore to avoid being pulled back under by a grumbling, dripping Lincoln. He looks like he's about to retaliate, stepping toward her with a glower, when he seems to notice something and pauses, hovering between in the water and out. His eyes scan the shore with bunched eyebrows, and Lexa turns to see what has alarmed him.
The Skaikru is gaping at them, Raven's hand clamped tightly over Wick's eyes (though, Lexa notes, she does not avert her own gaze from Lincoln once). Bellamy is watching them with flared nostrils and jaw set tight, and Monty has taken a keen interest in turning over rocks on the ground with his boot.
Then there's Clarke. Her lips are set in a tender, amused smile and even in the shadowy light of the moon looming large and round above them Lexa can see the pink flushing her cheeks. Clarke's eyes flick up guiltily from where they'd been studying Lexa's body. In that moment, they catch again and Lexa is breathless. She feels the tug of the blue of them, dotted and swirled with all the constellations in the night sky, and Lexa takes a step forward until she's close enough to see each mark distinctly again.
"Hi." Clarke breathes out the word, and it's warmth to know Lexa can steal her breath, as well.
Lexa smiles, and she knows it's subtle compared to Clarke's but she thinks maybe this is what Clarke needs—someone who can hold the space for her to be wild and unrestrained. Suddenly, she feels much less like a citadel and much more like a home.
"Oh, come on." Octavia whines, turning to Lincoln and placing a hand on his bare shoulder. "Please tell me we'll never get that gross."
"Too late." Raven has alighted from her perch on Wick's back and begun to strip her clothes from her body. "Don't worry, we love you enough to only joke about it behind your back."
"Whatever." The word is a groan, and Octavia turns to splash back into the water with Lincoln close behind her. Soon, the rest of the Skaikru is stripped and following them with the exception of Clarke and Bellamy who hangs back, one thumb tucked into the waistband of his underwear.
He's hesitating, watching Clarke and Lexa from the corner of his eye with lips thin from how hard they are pressed together. He reaches a hand out and it settles possessively on Clarke's arm. She turns to meet his gaze and smiles.
"It's okay. Go, I'll be there in a minute."
With one final glance to Lexa that leaves no question of what will happen should harm come to Clarke in his absence, he pulls the shorts down his hips and runs out into the water after his friends. Clarke clears her throat and shifts her gaze to her boots.
"Are you going to undress, Clarke?" Lexa asks, words soft as she tries to stem the nauseating mixture of panic and excitement swirling in her stomach.
Clarke raises her eyebrows, eyes glinting with mirth. "You haven't even bought me dinner yet, what kind of a girl do you think I am?"
Clarke's face falls a bit when Lexa remains unmoved, and it sends an odd pang of something akin to regret through Lexa—an old voice that reminds her she isn't what Clarke wants, what Clarke needs. That she isn't made of easy banter and the path of least resistance like the Sky People. Her hands clench against her bare thighs, the ones covered in marks—dark ink and scars and sun-spots. She is the earth, the trees, marred and warped by weather and time, and Clarke is the sky, spotless but for clouds and stars and all the things that are untouchable and perfect and beautiful.
"Sorry, that probably doesn't mean anything to you." Clarke moves to settle on the ground, bending a knee so she can tug at the laces of her thick-soled boots. Her fingers work the knot loose nimbly and the pounding anticipation of Clarke—bared—clouds Lexa's mind. It is stronger than even the alcohol had been (not that the haze has lifted. It has only shifted to fit the situation, she notes with disappointment and pleasure in equal turns), and she returns her gaze to Clarke's face. Clarke pulls one boot off then begins working on the other, glancing up to catch Lexa watching her. A corner of her mouth turns up so briefly it's gone almost the second the memory coheres. She pulls the second boot off then clears her throat and settles back to lean her weight on her hands. "Could you turn around? Give me some privacy?"
Lexa does as asked and crosses her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling too exposed, too imperfect to be naked like this in front of Clarke. She thinks of the gnarled flesh on her back marking the number of people she'd killed as a Secondlike a knot marks a healed wound in the oaks. She wonders if Clarke has noticed, if it has sent a twisting regret through her the way it sometimes does for Lexa, alone in her tent in front of the mirror when she runs a finger over each one and remembers.
Kills do not leave you, Lexa. Anya had told her once, the heated tip of a blade boring into the tender young flesh just above her left shoulder blade . We wear them as scars so that we remember their sacrifice. Anya's hand—rough and calloused and everything Lexa's skin, her heart, wasn't just yet—covered her forearm to steal her attention from the simmering pain in her back . If they do not follow us as victories, they follow us as ghosts. Do you understand? Lexa had nodded, she remembered, but she hadn't truly understood yet. She was still numb, still shaking from the wind of the other warrior's blade swishing past her face, of the force it took to shove her own into his gut and the squelch it made, still thinking of the way his eyes stayed open and how he crumpled into an unnatural contortion on the ground.
Warm fingers graze against her hip and Lexa closes her eyes tightly, feeling... No. Clarke makes her feel too much, she will not, cannot keep letting herself do this. Because life is not more than survival. Life is brutal, and short, and it is her responsibility to ensure others don't need to live with the burden of this knowledge, that they may sow seeds and cobble shoes and tailor clothes and grow old and become elders who sing songs of the joyous beauty of life, of victory.
"This is gorgeous." Clarke's voice brings her from the brink of darkness wine always threatens Lexa with, and she swallows down the images, the grief. She tries to focus again on the pride, straightens her back.
"It is the mark of the gona." She does not worry that her voice sounds strained or clipped. She doesn't.
"Warriors, right?" Clarke's fingers trace along where the tattoo narrows at her waist. She hears the rustle as she lifts her body from the ground to get a better look at where the thick black lines begin to once again spread along her ribcage. "All warriors have this?"
Lexa nods before finding her voice, which comes out scratchy and tired. "Yes, in some way. It teaches tolerance and endurance."
Clarke's hand stills then twitches, her nails scratching lightly against the sensitive skin stretched across Lexa's ribs. "How old were you?"
She reaches up to cover Clarke's hand, pressing her fingers into the spaces between Clarke's."It began when I first turned ten years, and finished when I completed my training." In the beginning she had dreaded it, but by the end it was a welcome sort of burning, a thousand small taps of wood on bone on skin that she would survive and be marked by—a mark of her people, a tree that spanned the entirety of her side from her thigh to her armpit. By the end she was no longer a child, but a warrior who would endure anything to protect her people. She touches her free hand to the butterfly marking on her arm, bringing Clarke's attention to it. "This was the final piece, the first one I was able to choose for myself."
"Why this design?"
Lexa licks her dry lips, unsure of what to say. The truth is, she'd always found the butterflies beautiful, that they used to illuminate Costia's face just so when she kissed her on warm summer nights much like this one. "The Elders say the butterfly guides the spirit through to its next life." She says quietly, letting herself lean toward the lingering warmth of Clarke's presence behind her.
Clarke hums out a little noise of acceptance and takes a step forward. Her hand slips away from Lexa's to trace a line down her spine. "And these?"
"The marks of the eleven other clans." She explains, her voice beginning to tremble slightly with the shiver she's suppressing in her body, no matter how hard she attempts to clamp down on it. "A symbol of our unity."
Clarke seems to notice her hesitance (though apparently she misunderstands its origin) because she asks,"even the Ice Nation?"
Lexa tenses but doesn't move. "Even the Ice Nation." It had been a different sort of pain, to let them place their mark upon her after what their Queen had done. It had been a moment of transformation, the torch to the funeral pyre of Lexa the Girl. Every organ in her body had burned, leaving only the spirit and wisdom of the Commander behind. Painful, yes, but necessary.
"And the other leaders have your symbol on them?" Clarke's hand slides back up to rest on Lexa's shoulder and she steps forward again, her bare body fitting along Lexa's back, her face pressing into the hair behind Lexa's ear.
The brush of exposure-hardened nipples and coarse hair against her jolts Lexa and she suddenly feels like she is falling from a very great height, wind whistling in her ears and a thick vertigo overtaking her mind. She reaches back to steady herself against the dizziness and the twisting fear of impact crowding into her chest and throat and stomach and finds purchase in the soft skin of Clarke's hips. She exhales sharply, taking wild, gasping breaths like she'd just broken the surface to the pond after minutes in its depths.
"Do you have any more?" Clarke's voice is just against her ear, filling her head, making it impossible to think of anything else.
"On my shoulder." She isn't entirely sure how she's still speaking—still thinking—with Clarke so close, but she manages to choke out the words.
"Show me."
She turns, slowly, reluctant to break contact with Clarke's body, nervous she'll never have the chance to touch and be touched by her like this again. She forces herself not to look, despite the urgency with which her eyes strain to dart down and take in the glorious sight of her, as much as she wants to simply take her into her arms and away from the eyes in the pond and make her regret ever turning away from her affections. Instead, she keeps her eyes focused on Clarke's face and raises a hand to the mark along her own right shoulder.
Five stars in a line.
Clarke looks down to where Lexa's hand lingers (though her own hands remain resting against Lexa's hips), studying the symbols—the one closest to her neck less faded than the rest—briefly before glancing back up to meet Lexa's gaze. "Stars." She lets out a sound that is almost a laugh. "What do they mean?"
"One for every war I've won as Commander." Lexa responds quietly, losing herself again in the speckles and swirls of Clarke's irises. There is a question there, one she has no answer for. She bites down on thoughts of destiny and fate and love and says instead, "it is a tradition much older than my understanding."
Clarke nods. There is a long silence in which she finally allows herself to trace the outline of each of the marks, soft fingers lingering on the most recent, the most vibrant.
Lexa still remembers the pierce of the bone needles, the musty smell of the dark soot paste they were dipped in hanging over the small room. She still remembers the songs Anya used to sing her during her first Marking to make the time pass faster and distract her from her suffering; tales of courage and heroism that she did not yet know would be sung about her in several years' time. Now that Anya and Costia are both gone, there are none to sing for her, to soothe her. Now the melodies play only in her head, keeping time to the sharp, rhythmic tap of pierced skin.
"Are there marks for wars lost?" Clarke asks and, for once, Lexa regrets her position. Clarke seems to bring this longing out of her, in a way she hasn't felt since Costia's death. The innocence about her, the way she does not think immediately of death and pain and darkness even now, this is what Lexa adores about her. And so, she wishes. She wishes her life was simpler, wishes it had fewer absolutes.
There is no room for "maybe" or "someday" in the life of Heda.
"No." Lexa's heartbeat picks up in her chest and she reaches up to once again hold Clarke's hand in hers. "So many deaths without victory cannot be without consequence." She swallows down the thick throb of her heartbeat, hoping Clarke can't feel it, can't sense the jittery dis-ease that thrums along her skin.
Something in Clarke shifts and she moves to pull back, but Lexa doesn't release her grasp around her hand and her waist and she can't pull away. Lexa relaxes her grip slightly, loosens it so that Clarke knows she will not be held against her will. Clarke doesn't attempt to move. "So, if you lose a war, they kill you?"
"The opposing army does, yes." Lexa agrees. "If I were to survive, it would mean I had shown cowardice and my people would punish me accordingly."
Clarke snorts and looks away, her eyes flitting to the sky and catching the moonlight, and Lexa can see the tears shining in them. "Jus drein, jus daun, right?"
Lexa nods. Clarke turns her head further, trying to distance herself and it aches in Lexa's chest and she feels hollow again, for a moment. Heartless. She regrets sharing this with Clarke, stealing that piece of innocence to fill the desperate emptiness inside of her.
"There is peace now." It's a flimsy attempt and they both know it, and Clarke's hand tightens against her shoulder, digging nails deep into the skin there. Lexa welcomes it, these marks of a different kind, these marks ofClarke, marks of passion. She releases Clarke's hand and instead brings it to her cheek to turn her face back toward her. "Let's not speak of this."
There are still tears in Clarke's eyes, though they do not fall, and she leans forward to rest her forehead against Lexa's. "Sometimes I forget nothing's permanent down here." The tip of her nose brushes gently against Lexa's, and once again Lexa finds it difficult to breathe.
Is Clarke going to kiss her?
She tangles one hand in the hair at the nape of Clarke's neck and wraps the other further around her waist. "Was there permanence among the stars?"
Clarke snorts; a lonely, melancholy sound. "No."
Lexa licks at her lips, restless with the feeling that she's waiting for something, stuck in a repeating moment that stretches tighter and tighter and threatens to snap at any moment. It's the same feeling as learning to be a scout amongst the trees, settled on a branch and holding her spear in tense, inexperienced hands. The feeling that one moment could send the winds of war blowing either in the Trikru's favor or against them.
This is that moment with Clarke.
And Lexa is a brilliant tactician, but love—well, plans don't last long in either a battle or an embrace but she gets the sense Clarke is much more suited to this sort of improvisation. So, she waits; feeling tense and heavy and drunk and consumed by a fire she'd forgotten how to feel long ago.
"For fuck's sake, Princess, either take her into the trees and do it or get your ass over here!" Octavia calls from the other side of the pond, shattering the moment, the suspension of time, the magic. Just like that, it snaps and the tide turns against her.
Clarke breathes out a chuckle and moves to pull away again, but Lexa clings tighter to her. "Just..." But there's no more to say and Lexa has never been good at wasting words so she simply breathes in the smell of her closeness one final time then lets Clarke's skin, her hair, slip from her fingers and steps back.
Clarke watches her with startled, confused eyes for a moment, then—when it's clear Lexa has no intention of saying any more—starts walking toward where the others are splashing around, chasing each other and shrieking and yelling and how had Lexa managed to not hear them before? How had the rush of Clarke's voice in her ear completely drowned out the row these idiots were making? She shuts her eyes tight, the press of it comforting in its darkness, and wills away the emptiness of Clarke's absence.
It's eerily familiar, this chill skimming along her skin, this lack of feeling. It is what she is—a sacrifice to the gods of war.
Octavia's voice rings out again, piercing the emptiness of the evening and she turns her head in time to see her chasing Clarke in the periphery of her vision, the water slowing them to an awkward shuffle. "Heda! A little help here?!" She's barely audible over Lincoln's war whoops and the yelling and splashing coming from behind her, and she finally allows herself to turn fully, to see what is happening.
A small smile tugs at her cheeks, nearly imperceptible to one who does not know her, at what she finds. Lincoln and Octavia are both trying to get past Wick, Raven, and Bellamy to take down Clarke. Bellamy is squared off with Lincoln, locked in a tussle of brute strength and agility, while Octavia is doing her best to dart around the combination of Wick and Raven (who moves with significantly more ease in the water than she does on land, but is still not nearly as quick as Octavia). She catches sight of Clarke hiding behind them—Monty is a few feet away, laughing at his friends' antics and "guarding" Clarke, who is lounging carelessly in the water. She's laughing nearly as hard as Monty is, occasionally breaking to shout encouragement or direction from her vantage point.
Lexa makes sure that no one is looking at her and dives down beneath the surface of the water, keeping low to the ground so she won't be noticed. The water is murky, dark clots of dirt littering the path to the pale legs she's keeping her eyes trained on and small, silvery fish darting away to avoid collision. Seaweed brushes along her bare stomach the closer she gets and she realizes Clarke had intentionally positioned herself so she was behind a thick clump of it, so that any who got past her guards would get tangled in the weeds. Clever girl.
Not clever enough.
She's now just ten or so feet away and she kicks off the bottom of the pond, propelling herself forward as fast as she can and knocking Clarke's legs out from under her with her shoulder. Clarke lets out a yelp (muffled by the water, but still audible) before crashing into the water next to her. She looks beautiful like this, clouded by bubbles, her hair fanned out and eyes shut tightly, limbs thrashing uselessly around her and Lexa smiles fully now, kicking off the ground again to scoop Clarke up in her arms and break the surface, this time with Clarke's hips in her hands.
Clarke's arms and legs wrap instinctively around Lexa, and she gasps for breath and shivers at the blast of nighttime air on her wet skin. She looks down to Lexa and grins. "Hey there, stranger." She whispers softly, reaching up to brush a lock of dripping hair that had gotten loose out of Lexa's eyes.
"Hello, Clarke." And suddenly they are the only two in the vicinity again, and this is dangerous, Lexa thinks. Reckless. Yet, she can't seem to stop herself from leaning forward, from pressing her lips to Clarke's, dripping and salty and a little sweet. She can't seem to let this moment pass her by again, curious eyes and consequences be damned.
Clarke's kiss is glorious. Perfect. Tender and passionate and clumsy and everything a kiss should be. But it only lasts a moment, because then Clarke's lips, her heat, are gone and all she can feel is the brush of wind against her stomach. Bellamy's voice is booming and loud when he shouts, and it echoes through the forest around them.
"Get the hell off her!"
She snaps back to the moment just as Bellamy's hands connect with her shoulders and send her stumbling back a couple steps. She narrows her eyes at him, but does not move.
"Touch me again, Bellamy kom Blake, and you will regret it." She growls, doing her best to raise herself to her full height.
But he's taller than her and her weapons are far away on the shore. She takes him in, wondering for the first time how he'd be in hand-to-hand combat. He moves with confidence, shoulders squared and chin raised in a high defiance that rivals her own. She wonders if he's had some sort of training. But that training would be with a gun, and he is far too cocky for his own good without one strapped to his hip. She could use that to her advantage. He takes another step toward her, raising his arms to shove her again and she tenses, readying herself to duck under his arms and deliver a sharp blow to his stomach.
"Bell, stop it!" Clarke horns her way in between them before anything can happen.
"No." He snaps back, eyes fiery and defiant. "What the hell are you thinking, Clarke? Have you forgotten what she's done? Left all of us to die in the mountain? Left your mother to die?"
Clarke takes a step back, stunned, her mouth clamping shut, her jaw pulsing with the grind of her teeth. "Of course not."
"But you let her kiss you." He snaps, pointing over Clarke's shoulder to where Lexa is standing with legs wide and stable and her arms loose by her sides. Still ready for a fight. "Are you insane?"
Clarke does not look away, and her nostrils flare in anger. "You don't get any say in who I kiss, Bellamy."
This seems to soften him a bit, and he holds his hands up defensively. "Okay, fine. Look. It's not about the kiss. It's about—" He waves a hand dismissively in Lexa's direction, like he can't quite find the words to describe something so disgusting. He takes a step forward but Clarke doesn't back down. "Her. What she's done. It's about trusting her again."
"I never said I trust her." Clarke snaps back, and there's a sudden burn in the back of Lexa's throat, a dryness. All of the affection that had been brimming in her heart drains in an instant.
Clarke doesn't trust her. What is she doing, here, acting like a foolish child with a group of intruders on her land? She clenches her fists tightly, feeling wild in a manner entirely different from how she'd felt in the woods not long before.
"Don't be an idiot, Clarke. She's playing you. She's a cold-hearted bitch" his hand reaches out past Clarke to shove lightly at Lexa's shoulder again in a display of force that is not lost on her, "who doesn't care about anyone but herself, and if you think you're anything different to her, then you're out of your fucking mind."
Lexa doesn't know whether to sigh or grin. She'd warned him, after all, that if he touched her again there would be consequences and Lexa always keeps her word. Lexa shoves Clarke aside and her fist connects with Bellamy's jaw so quickly it stuns everyone in the pond into silence, the only noise the crash of his body hitting the water. Okay, so maybe that felt more cathartic than terrible. Yes, she had definitely wanted to hit him and the way he'd toppled half into the water had been nothing but satisfying.
"Lexa!" Clarke snaps, eyes wide and panicking.
Lexa has no time to think about Clarke's feelings because then Bellamy is back up and charging at her, tackling her into the water (a mistake on his part, because she's much more adept in it than he and it causes him to lose the advantage of his size). She twists them so that he's face down and she's above him, her weight holding him onto the bottom of the pond as he struggles to free himself. Strong arms are pulling her after that, and she's out of the water again with her arms pinned to her sides by Lincoln's hold, and Octavia and Wick are holding Bellamy back, though he's coughing and spluttering and struggling for air so hard Lexa doubts he'd be much of a threat to her right now anyway.
"I can't believe this." Clarke snaps, stomping toward the shore. "You're both acting like children!" She's pulling on her clothes, then, and the rest of them are simply watching, all chests heaving in vain attempts at breathing normally, at calming the rush in their blood from the fight.
"Clarke!" Bellamy shouts, moving to follow, but Octavia holds tight to his arm.
"Bell, don't." She says quietly. "She needs space."
"Let go." He growls back, fixing her with the most menacing look he's capable of giving to his sister.
Octavia does as asked with a roll of her eyes. "Your funeral." She mutters as Bellamy darts through the water to dress and follow where Clarke has disappeared into the trees.
Lincoln has released her by now, but keeps his hand resting on her bicep. It is more a calming gesture than a hold, and she allows herself the comfort of it for a few moments while the Sky People still stare after their leaders, now disappeared into the darkness of the woods.
Raven sighs. "Ain't no party like an Earth party cause an Earth party always ends in a fistfight and tears."
Octavia snorts. "Is that not how parties went on the ark? Cause I'd only been to one and the guard showed up and put me in the sky box." Her voice is full of a mocking sort of innocence and Raven and Wick both laugh short, breathy laughs that are more of relief than humor.
"Don't know about you all, but this is just a normal Saturday night on Mecha station." Wick says, shoving lightly at Monty's shoulder. He joins in the laughter reluctantly.
It fades quickly, leaving them standing naked and stunned and silent in the dark water. Octavia clears her throat and motions to the shore. "We should probably head back."
The return to camp is significantly more somber than the mad rush to the pond. They all walk slowly, hands shoved in pockets or wrapped around torsos. Lexa leads, keeping her ears keen for signs of attack but hears and sees nothing but the rustle of rodents on the ground and night birds in the trees. There is comfort, at least, in the familiar weight of her daggers against her thighs and ribs.
Lincoln walks next to Octavia a few steps behind her, but she can feel his eyes on her back, worming into the skin between her shoulder blades. She rolls her shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling, but it persists. A part of her wants to turn around and snap at him, but there has been enough conflict for one night. She had lost control of herself, and she can practically hear Indra's scolding already.
Raven falls into pace beside her about halfway through the walk, hands tucked into the pockets of her bright red coat (camouflage is really, really not the Sky people's strong suit). "I've been meaning to ask you something, Commander."She sounds so quiet now, so sober, that she almost seems an entirely different person from the woman who almost fell into the fire just a few hours ago. Lexa nods her assent, and Raven continues. "When we first got here, the trees lit up at night." She motioned to the darkness around them. "They don't anymore."
It's not actually a question, but Lexa understands her meaning well enough. "It comes and goes with the seasons." She runs a hand along the bark of the tree, feeling the coolness of it, the slight moisture that she has always associated with the season of growth. "The rainfall is nearly over. It will return soon."
Raven nods and they keep walking quietly for a few paces. Lexa is no stranger to silence, but now it is so loud, so heavy with words not spoken and questions left unasked. For both of them. It is nothing like being among her people, a people who value the calls of the birds and the brush of wind through trees. There is no silence in the forest, not truly, not if you know what you are hearing. But here, with Raven, the quiet feels like an absence of something that should be. Something that Lexa has no idea how to provide. So she simply continues to walk.
"He's an asshole." Raven says finally, when the towering fences of Camp Jaha start to peek through the cracks between trees. "But he'll come around. I mean, look at us. One of the first things he said to me was 'I should've killed you when I had the chance.'"
"Charming." It's the sort of thing she'd normally say to Clarke or Anya or Costia and no one else, but she's tired and there's something familiar about Raven (perhaps the fiery loyalty of Anya?) that tugs at the humor in her.
And sure enough Raven laughs, loudly. "I never thought I'd say this, but you're funny, Commander. Clarke's really been rubbing off on you, huh?" She nudges at Lexa's ribs with her elbow, slowing her pace as they draw nearer to the front gate. Wick, who had been lingering quietly off to the side, steps forward to talk to the guards and Raven grasps Lexa by the arm, keeping her out of earshot from the rest of them. "Don't hurt her again, okay?" For once, the girl's eyes are serious but without the venom with which she usually glares at Lexa. "There are plenty more places around here that could go boom."
Lexa nods and searches for words—any words—to convey the truth. Clarke could hurt Lexa much more easily than she could hurt Clarke. "I am only a threat to Clarke if the alliance breaks."
Raven squints at her, eyes flickering from one of Lexa's to the other. It's a long, tense silence before the scrape of the gates draws their attention away from each other. Lexa waits until Raven starts moving to do so herself. They still walk side by side, but neither says anything until they're through the gates.
Raven pauses at the entrance to the metal ruin the Sky people reside in and turns to face Lexa. She opens her mouth, then shuts it again and looks down to where her boots are tracing lines in the dirt. Finally, she says "Good night, Commander."
Lexa nods courteously and replies, "good night, Raven." Raven walks away to resume her place at Wick's side and Lexa turns her head to look over her shoulder at Ryder, who had come and begun to shadow her since she passed through the gates. "All is well. Rest."
"Yes, Heda." He says, and she listens to the sound of him walking away, to the rustle of his tent flap opening and falling shut again, before she allows herself to return to the small room provided for her by the Sky people.
She undresses quietly and slowly, slightly sore still from her tussle with Bellamy, then lies on the bed, pulling the scratchy blankets provided for her over her body. Tomorrow, she will need to bathe and find Clarke but now, now she is tired. She closes her eyes and lets herself imagine Clarke in a room much like this one, once in the sky and then again later, on the ground, dreaming of the one who could thaw a heart frozen by loss. She falls asleep to the thought that maybe they have both found them.