Author's Note: So, I only caught up on 2x15 this morning. And, firstly, wtf. Secondly, I will take the betrayal and a future promise for a meet-up at The Capitol (wherever the hell that is) if it means that we get to keep Lexa as a character in season three, but they better have a lot of discussion about how Lexa has betrayed everything her people stand for (honor, integrity, bravery in battle) in order to betray Clarke. Because this is unacceptable. My heart hurts. So this is me, working to heal it. Hope you heal a little, too.

"What did you do?"

These had been the words; these had been the words chosen to follow the dawning look of realization in Clarke's battle-ready eyes, whispering with quiet desperation through the small space allowed between them.

Lexa had not needed to return.

It would have been a simple thing – an easy thing – to have called for the horn of retreat from where she had stood in reluctant compromise with the Mountain Soldier sent to negotiate.

It would have been the easy thing, but Lexa could not dishonor Clarke in that way.

Lexa could not hide from her betrayal, for she had owed that much to Clarke, at least; she had owed Clarke the opportunity to see the truth of this treachery within Lexa's own eyes. She had owed Clarke the regret, and the apology that she had twice repeated, for Lexa could not mean it more.

This is not all that Lexa owes to her. Her debts to Clarke are immeasurable in number, but Lexa fears, now, that she will carry those debts unpaid; she will carry them forever, from this life into the next, and into all the ones that may follow, for Clarke has given Lexa's people fire and hope and freedom.

Clarke had offered this to them freely, but Lexa had selfishly taken more than her share.

For all the things that Clarke has offered to them have not been kindly accepted, but taken; Lexa has stolen her people's fire from the blackened pits of Clarke's eyes, and the hope for her people's survival had been snatched from what little light had remained in Clarke's heart.

Clarke's people will not share in the freedom of Lexa's own, for Lexa had thieved their freedom away from beneath Clarke's trusting nose.

Love is weakness, Lexa knows – but she had never meant to be the one to prove this point to Clarke. She had never meant to teach this lesson in this way.

But Lexa is Commander, and that title carries weight, and responsibility, and Lexa has no choice but to put her people first. Lexa knows this, too.

But it does not help.

It does not ease the pain of regret that swells in her chest; it does not relieve the infuriating need to swallow hollow cries that ache to be freed into the night as they retreat.

It does not offer relief to her heart, for even as her mind soothes her decision with reason, the organ in her chest rages against it, pulsing furious vengeance through her blood. For Lexa's heart is Clarke's, and so it, too, must be in ruins.

Lexa does not fool herself.

Each lesson she has trained into Clarke has prepared her for this, but Lexa knows – has always known – that her lessons had never reached Clarke as intended. For Lexa taught, but Clarke contended.

Love is weakness.

But, no – for, to Clarke, love is all that she has left. She has no desire to be leader, no desire to be anything. Clarke has no wants, and Lexa knows this, for Clarke had told this to Lexa herself.

Clarke wants only for the safety of her people, and Lexa–

Lexa has wanted only to provide Clarke with what she wants. Instead, she has deprived her of it.

Lexa does not lead her people away, for as they retreat, she is turned to the back of her gathered warriors. Lexa does not mind; she requires the solitude.

For all that Lexa can truly see is Clarke's eyes, dying with the lives of her people in Mount Weather; all that she can hear is Clarke's hopeless voice, begging for comprehension that would come, perhaps – but not today, and likely not soon.

"What did you do?"

Lexa rests her eyes, staggering against a tree, where her shoulder slams into roughened bark and scrapes, but Lexa cannot care.

"This is wrong."

Lexa bows her head and draws heavy, burdened air through lungs that cannot hold it. Clarke spoke these words, once, and their truth had been clear to Lexa, even then; even as she knew that it must be done. It still had not been right to leave her people to burn in Tondc, but it had been necessary.

She tries to tell herself that this had been, too; tries to tell herself that, given the choice, Clarke would have done the same.

But no truth rings through these thoughts, for Lexa knows that Clarke's heart would not have allowed her to commit the same betrayal in Lexa's stead; Lexa had been chosen for that reason, for these Mountain Men had shared time with Clarke, and surely even brief moments spent in the company of such a precious thing could have told them that Clarke would not have stood for abandoning anyone's people to the hatred of this Mountain.

And it had not been necessary, here. It had saved some of her people, yes, for war inevitably incurs death, but it had not been necessary.

It had been strategic.

The people of the mountain have, for too long, threatened her people, and peace between them is not ideal, but it is beneficial, still. Her people will no longer be taken and twisted into savages. Her people will walk free, and will roam the woods without concern for the Mountain Men or their advanced weaponry.

It is worth it, Lexa tells herself. It is worth it for her people, she insists. For Clarke has sacrificed everything for her people, and now Lexa has done the same.

She has sacrificed her heart for them.

"Heda," Ryder draws her attention.

Steeling herself, Lexa raises her head and schools her face, but her hands shake and betray her will.

Lexa ignores it.

Ryder lifts his chin and thrusts it forward, guiding Lexa's eyes to her warriors; her warriors, who have ceased their march despite that Lexa has not ordered it so.

"Explain your meaning!" Lexa demands, for her heart cannot bear this.

She needs her home. Lexa needs her bed and her tent and the comforting smell of the fires that roar warmth through her village. Lexa needs, and those needs must be satisfied, for Lexa has sacrificed already all that she wants.

Lexa has sacrificed Clarke.

"Heda!"

It is a hardly clothed woman whose name Lexa does not know, but her drawn appearance and lack of armor make it clear that she had been one who had bled for this Mountain.

"Why do you refuse to march?" Lexa frowns, though imbues the question with enough strength and displeasure to carry it through a fair portion of her army.

"Heda," the woman locks her jaw in determination, "we will not leave them."

Lexa blinks.

Her confusion is paramount to anything else, though she recognizes that fury should rightfully have preceded it, for this woman is blatantly challenging her position before the largest army Lexa has ever commanded, and surely that should not stand.

No, surely it should not.

But Lexa is confused and weary, and she is heartbroken. Lexa concedes this, for she has no strength left to fuel her denial, and it will be of no use to her, now. Her heart is broken, for she had given it to Clarke, and Clarke's spirit now dies with Lexa's heart held in its careful, trembling hands.

Lexa's spirit will die with hers, too.

"Heda," the woman says sternly, "we have offered them our word. The Sky People have held true to theirs. Retreat is dishonorable," she insists.

The woman is right, and Lexa had known this from the start, but she had believed that, for this, her people would allow it. So angry, her people have been; angry with the Mountain Men and the Skaikru and the world that shatters their families.

Lexa has saved them that anger, for she has returned to them their families and removed the threat to their people.

Why, then, should they refuse her sacrifice?

"Our people would die, on that peak," Lexa announces to them all. "Have we not suffered enough? Have we not already shed enough blood for this Mountain?"

Her people murmur and whisper amongst themselves, but it is Ryder – Ryder, who had once stood as Clarke's guard – who gives voice to their desires.

"The Sky Princess has suffered for us all," he declares with stoic calmness, but determination lights his eyes and straightens his stance. "Her people do not care for us, nor we for them – but she is good. Clarke of the Skaikru… she is good," he nods, finality sticking to his words like fog that clings to the surface of the earth and will not rise before it is chased away by the warmth of the sun. "She has earned our loyalty, Heda. Do you disagree?"

So this is not a challenge, then. There will be no coup; none will fight her for her title.

They care little for such a thing, tonight.

Their wish is to fight at Clarke's side. Her people wish only to pay their debt; to honor the Sky Princess with their weapons at her behest.

And this, Lexa realizes, is what she has fought for. She has fought for her people, yes – but this is the reason. Her people have honor, and morality, and though they are slow to trust, once granted, the fires of hell itself could not keep them from laying their lives for a cause they deem just.

"You wish to fight," Lexa measures carefully, eyeing each of the warriors nearest to her with calculating intent.

Her footmen rustle their shoulders and nod amongst themselves, but there is not enough movement of their heads to convince Lexa that this is the consensus.

"You wish to fight," she repeats slowly, "for Clarke."

Not with Clarke. Lexa is cautious in her wording, for it is important. Clarke will not trust Lexa's command, if she accepts their return at all, and Lexa would not expect it of her. If they fight, they fight for Clarke. Under Clarke's command.

"Yes," the woman brave enough to approach Lexa nods her matted locks fiercely.

"Speak true!" Lexa orders of the crowd, eyes dancing across their faces in search. "All of you! If this is your wish, then it will be done! Speak true!" She insists, volume creeping upward with each furthered word of her demand.

The roar that follows shakes the trees, pounding feet rumbling the earth beneath.

"Den osir gonplei!" She cries, the cheers and cries that sound in the wake of her words sparking stores of reserved energy that Lexa had not known herself to possess, but she will not question it, for her people are with her, and they will help her make this right. "Sound the horn!"

Lexa's warriors feel too big for this moment, so Lexa leaves them in the woods to her back and orders them to silence themselves.

For they are too much. Too loud. Too eager.

Too armed.

For there is Clarke, but she stands alone. She has no people left, for those who had been ready to fight at her side had, too, abandoned her, and the others are still inside.

Where Lexa had bartered them away to die for the sake of her own people.

Clarke is alone. She is alone, and there is nothing on her face but hollow defeat that sags in her shoulders. And still, Clarke stares down the door as though the Mountain Men might show her mercy; as though they might release her people, too, for she had fought for them with the same ferocity with which Lexa had fought for her own, and how can it be justice for only one of them to bring their people safely home?

There is no justice in that.

"My people will not leave," Lexa says, several paces behind her and terrified to move closer. Her voice whispers, but it carries.

"They've left already," Clarke tells her, voice void of emotion not by careful precision, for it is unnecessary; Clarke has no emotion left to give that has not already been taken from her and crushed.

She is empty.

Lexa is not solely responsible, for Clarke's mother and Raven and Octavia, and her people in Mount Weather, too, have frayed the edges of Clarke's passion, already. But Lexa had been the one to shatter its core.

"They left because you told them to," Clarke nods, a tinny echo coloring her voice as though she is hardly present at all, like she has told this to herself more times than once in the small span of time since Lexa's shameful retreat, but still it does not cure the ache she must feel.

"They defy my command," Lexa hesitates, but shifts one foot before the other and moves herself a little closer. "They refuse to march for me."

"Why would they do that?" Clarke laughs, though it is laced with hysteria more than anything else. "You're their commander," she spits, like the title itself has betrayed her, and not the woman who carries it.

"It is their wish to march for you."

And there is so much truth in it that Lexa is nearly unsurprised that these are the words which finally reach some barely-there part of Clarke that somehow – impossibly – still cares.

"Why?" Clarke frowns as she turns to face the Commander, though her eyes only meet Lexa's with a blankness that curls around Lexa's heart and makes her feel the same emptiness.

And it is not as empty as Lexa had thought, for this void hurts.

For so long, Lexa has deemed emotion weak and has stowed it beneath the guards of impassivity, but this true, momentary lack of it feels only like pain. It does not last long, for this emptiness is not her own, and the pain that she feels stirs Lexa's regret and pitiful sorrow to the surface once more.

"The Trigedakru are in your debt," Lexa rasps, bowing her head for only a moment, for as strong as Lexa is, she is weak in this moment, and she may only stare into those vacant eyes for so long before her heart will crumble, if there is anything left of it. "They wish to see it paid. They would fight for you, Clarke."

"For you," Clarke amends. "They fight for you, Lexa," she says pointedly.

"Not tonight," Lexa whispers, shaking her head as she lifts it, too, hoping to make Clarke see. "Tonight, my warriors are yours to command as you please. They have wished it so."

"You told them to retreat," Clarke frowns again. "That was your command. Disobeying the Heda is not your way," she insists, though Lexa believes that edges of confusion are beginning to cloud her eyes.

It is not ideal that confusion should prevail, but still, it is a relief. For any sign of life in those eyes is a blessing Lexa does not deserve.

"My people have learned much from yours," Lexa remarks idly. "Perhaps they have grown fond of democracy."

Clarke pins her in place with a withering look that makes Lexa cringe, for she is crafted for leadership, and for war, but Lexa is not crafted for this.

She is not crafted for pretty girls who fall from the sky like dying stars. She is not crafted for the trust that Clarke had given her. She is not crafted for pleas of forgiveness, or murmured words of sorrow.

Lexa is not crafted for that, but she will become it.

"My people care for you," Lexa tells her, elaborating when it has not been asked, for she knows it is what Clarke needs. "They honor your sacrifices and your leadership. My people would fight for you," Lexa says again, "if you may allow it."

Clarke straightens her shoulders and stares into Lexa's eyes, but it is not blankness which meets Lexa's gaze, now; it is anger.

It is anger for Lexa, and anger for Clarke, herself.

"Love is weakness," Clarke reminds them both.

But Lexa does not need this reminder, for she knows. Lexa has always known.

"Yes," she nods.

"I can't afford weakness," Clarke locks her jaw, but does not falter.

"No," Lexa agrees.

"Then stop making me weak, Lexa," Clarke deflates with a sigh, soft and barely there.

But as that fated huff of tired air expels from her lungs, Clarke's empty eyes are abruptly no longer so, for now they brim with more emotion than Lexa believes she has ever known. There is deep, haunting sadness, and endless grief. There is guilt and fear and raging fury. There are tears, which Lexa may only force herself to bear, for she is the cause, and she has not earned the right to turn away.

"Stop making me weak. Please," Clarke begs, and is not ashamed for it, for she has no reason to be. Her trust has been betrayed, her strength diminished. She has been left, for she will not abandon her people, but neither can she help them. Not alone. Clarke has no pride left, and it is Lexa who has stripped her of it. "Stop making me weak, Lexa," Clarke whispers desperately.

Lexa swallows, but though she is not crafted for this, her next movement comes without thought.

She gracelessly jerks her body forward, catching the soft planes of Clarke's cheeks in her palms as she brings their foreheads together, delicately smoothing her thumbs beneath Clarke's eyes as though clearing the evidence of Clarke's tears will erase the memory of them ever having fallen at all.

"I have betrayed you once already," Lexa chokes out as Clarke's fingers rise and dig beneath her armor to bruise against Lexa's hips. "Do not ask me to do so again by telling you a lie. I can do nothing for your feelings when I cannot tame my own."

"I need to be strong," Clarke argues, sniffing softly and hiding her face into Lexa's neck. "And you're a weakness."

Lexa says nothing, for what can she say? Her army waits, and has promised blood to the Sky Princess, but it is not blood which she wants. She prays only for the strength to be what her people need from her.

"You left me," Clarke pushes against her hips, but Lexa will not allow her the distance she fights to put between them. For, yes, Lexa had left her, and only so much of that can be relieved by Lexa's return, but Lexa, too, knows that comfort is what Clarke needs most, now. And Lexa will give it to her, even if Clarke is intent upon rejecting it.

"Yes," Lexa nods against the side of her head, dry lips pressing tenderly against the top of blonde curls that feel soft on Lexa's face. "I left you, Clarke."

"And you're sorry," Clarke bites out bitterly. "You left me and you're sorry."

"Yes," Lexa repeats, for she knows that it is not enough, but what else can she offer? "I left you. And I am sorry, Clarke. You- deserve better than that," she whispers meaningfully.

Clarke raises her head, eyes scanning Lexa's for deception.

But Clarke will find none, for Lexa has lain herself bare beneath Clarke's feet, and still it is not apology enough for what she has done.

"Fine," Clarke nods finally, sniffing once more and pulling away from Lexa's hold as she draws furious hands across her face. "Fine. You're a weakness, but at least you're a weakness who can protect herself. You say you still have an army? Let me use it."

"My army is yours," Lexa vows earnestly. "As is every other part of me."

And it is truth, for Lexa had sacrificed her heart this night, but she knows now how that feels, and she could not do it again.

"Every other part of you will have to wait, because right now, your army is all I care about," Clarke steels her jaw firmly. "I want my people out of there tonight."

"Then it shall be done, Clarke," Lexa promises, every thread of her humanity crowded within that promise.

And as they stand before that broken metal door with Lexa's warriors in eager position behind her, Lexa – impossibly – feels insistent fingers push through her fisted palm, threading through her own.

"Don't die," Clarke murmurs, but will not meet her eyes, drilling holes through the door with her penetrating gaze.

"I can protect myself, Clarke," Lexa says, a ghost of a smile whispering across her lips – for the real thing has died tonight, and Lexa knows not if Clarke may bring it to life again.

"I am not even close to being finished with punishing you for this. You can't die," Clarke holds firmly.

"Love is weakness," Lexa reminds her.

"Which is exactly why you can't die," Clarke snarls furiously as her head snaps to find Lexa's eyes with her own. "You may be a weakness, Lexa, but you are my weakness, and I'm not asking!" She insists with impatient anger. "Don't. Die."

Lexa eyes her with consideration, and sorrow and apology, but there is pride in Lexa, too – for, in this moment, Clarke is every ounce the leader her people have doubted she could become.

She tightens her fingers around Clarke's, and whispers with all the truth that she has ever possessed, "I love you, too, Clarke."

Clarke swallows thickly and stares, only for a moment. But then she nods, eyes briefly flickering with fear. Fear for Lexa, and fear for her people, but none for herself.

But that is fine, for Lexa feels all the fear in the world for Clarke in that moment.

Though she may be Clarke's weakness, Clarke is hers in kind. Lexa will protect that weakness with everything that she has, so it matters not that Clarke is not afraid for herself.

Lexa will make certain that Clarke has no reason to be.

Den osir gonplei: Then we fight.