Hello, It's Me.
Author's Note: This was inspired by Erin M's Clexa video to Hello, It's Me. You should watch it on youtube.
She crouched alone in the darkness on the hill staring down into the distance. She could see the flickering lights of the camp, and she thought she could see vague shadows walking around the campfires that burned outside of the huts. Every now and then she saw a flash of silver as the moon played hide and seek between the clouds. She knew it was for what it was, moonlight bouncing off of the wire that surrounded the camp. Wire that kept her out, wire that would cut her flesh if she dared to trespass into the heart of Skaikru land. She was always on the outside looking in.
She shifted slightly, leaning against the cold boulder that rested among the ruins of another world, long since gone. She pulled her scarf tighter around her head, shielding her face from the bitter wind that howled across the broken ground. She should leave, return to her cave. She was running out of time. Soon the moon would fade, and dawn would peek across the tops of the trees. She needed to be long gone before then, but she couldn't bring herself to leave yet.
She was waiting, so desperately waiting for a glance. She had done this a hundred times before in the years since the Mountain. Night after night, month after month, and finally year after year, she still found her way to this barren outcropping, far enough away not to be seen, but just barely close enough to glimpse flashes of sun. And every time she saw the blonde hair shining in the sun just as it rose, like a beacon of hope beckoning her to the flame, a piece of her that had died flared briefly to life again.
And sometimes…sometimes she stepped up to the wire, her hands hovering along the barbs; and she would look up towards the hill, staring and searching as if she could see her. But Lexa knew that she couldn't see her. She blended in perfectly among the rocks, wearing her mottled grey and brown cloak, the scarf covering her face and hair. It was the same cloak she wore the night they fled Ton DC. The night she had managed to save the one she loved most, only to betray her in the end. It was her shroud.
She felt the old pain lance through her chest, and she wondered if it would ever hurt any less. And perhaps this was simply her penance for her sins. There was no absolution here, no redemption for those whose hands were so stained with blood they no longer recognized the color of their own skin. She was dull red, the color of stained and dried blood, and she felt the hope wither in her chest.
And she would turn away, and a piece of her would go with the blonde as she strode back into her village. And the sun would filter through the trees, and sometimes she still crouched rooted to her spot watching the light chase away the darkness, and how she wished it would chase away the blackened ruins of her soul. These were the most dangerous moments, when she finally would rise to her feet in the light of day and leave, aware that if they saw her; they would probably shoot her before ever asking her what her intentions were.
Sometimes she would come every single night, and sometimes she would stay away for weeks at a time, but inevitably she would return. She couldn't do anything but return. Clarke was the siren and this hill, where she crouched, was the rock she died upon every night, silently screaming for all she had lost. All she had sacrificed. All she had thrown away, and gaia, some days she simply wanted to lay down on this outcropping and never rise again. Simply let the grass grow over her flesh, let the roots of the withered trees break apart her bones, simply let go.
And every night when she finally lay down, she prayed that if she didn't wake, her spirit would find Clarke in another life time, would know enough to love her better. She prayed that in the next life, she would be a simple farmer or a blacksmith, a woman of peace, a woman who created and gave life instead of destroying and burning the world around her. Maybe then she could be free to love Clarke, and Clarke would love her.
But the day had come when Lexa had fallen ill, and she hadn't returned to the hill in months. And when she finally returned, too skinny and worn down, the skin tight across her bones, her heart fracturing in her chest, a dying woman thirsting for one last sip of water. Clarke was her water. Her life. And as she had stumbled up the hill just as dawn broke above the trees, she panted and cursed her weakness, but the need to see Clarke drove her upward, until she had finally crawled the crest.
It was then she saw the familiar blonde hair glowing in the sun, and she had felt the pain in her chest lessen, and she could suddenly breathe again, but then Clarke had turned and faced the hill, and she had seen what she held in her arms: a tiny, crying bundle. And Clarke had simply stared up at the hill and then had dropped her face and kissed the tiny baby.
And she had crouched on that hill, her heart shattering into a million pieces, and she wanted to scream and wail. Her breath roared in her ears, and she was blind as the world crumpled before her. But she had brought this upon herself. And she had crouched with arms wrapped tight around her knees, unable to leave, despite knowing that all hope was gone. Clarke would never be hers again. She had only ever been Lexa's for a brief moment in that tent all those years ago. This was how hope died, with a slow agonizing whimper.
She had seen him approach Clarke, and she couldn't bear it, couldn't bear to see this new family, knowing it could have been her. It could have been her who greeted Clarke with a kiss, who laughed with her as the sun rose in the sky. It could have been her who held them both close to her chest. But she had walked away, and this was her doing. Her pain. Her penance.
But tonight, she stared anxiously into the darkness, watching as the dawn slowly whispered through the trees, and she felt her heart clench in her cold chest. It had been days since she had seen her. Something was wrong. She had known it back in Polis, had felt the old tug in her chest, the hollowing of her belly. She had left abruptly in the dark of night, had ridden her horse almost to death to get here in time. But still, nothing. She had been crouching on this broken hill for three days, and she had yet to see Clarke. She felt the familiar burning in her throat, and the camp swam before her eyes.
She had run out of time. She was needed in Polis. They would come for her soon. She might be Heda, but her own people didn't believe in her as they had once, and she couldn't afford to bring her warriors down upon the Skaikru. The hard fought peace from the Mountain was tentative at best, and most of the clans simply ignored the Skaikru and vice versa. The stayed within their own territory, and no Trikru were allowed past this hill. It was the boundary. It was the other side, and she was on the outside.
She pulled the worn scraps of paper and a piece of charcoal from under her cloak. And just as she had dozens of times before, she carefully wrote a few lines, struggling to write the words. She concentrated so hard on forming the proper shapes that she didn't notice how her tongue peeked out of the side of her lips. If she were aware of it, perhaps she would have remembered the moment when Clarke had first noticed this little habit. Perhaps she would have remembered the light in Clarke's eyes as she teased the might Heda. Perhaps she would have remembered how she fought back the blush, how she had stared so hard at the laughing mouth, how her chest had burned with hope when she gazed into shining blue eyes. But she had forgotten what it felt like to live with hope, to live with anything other than this naked pain, this festering wound.
And she was so sorry. So sorry for breaking her heart, for breaking her own. But she needed to know, needed to know how she was. She needed to say hello, to ask her if she was happy. Maybe then she could let her go. Maybe then she could return to Polis and never return to this hill. Maybe time would eventually heal her wounds, even though she hadn't done much healing so far. But she was running out of time. And so she bent her head closer, and wrote the words she had written dozens of times before.
Hello, it's me. I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet. To go over everything. They say time is supposed to heal ya, but I haven't done much healing. Hello, can you see me? I'm waiting on this hill dreaming about who we used to be when we were younger and free. I've forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet. There's such a difference between us and a million miles. So hello from the other side. I must have written a thousand times, to tell you I'm sorry, for everything that I've done. But when I write, you never seem to read them. But hello from the outside, at least I've tried to tell you that I'm sorry for breaking your heart. And I know I shouldn't, but I will still come back. Until we meet again.
But she was concentrating so hard, she didn't hear the scrape of the boot against the rock. Perhaps if she had, she would have already been on her feet, would have already been retreating down the other side of the hill, keeping to her own side, her own boundary. But she didn't hear. She wasn't ready.
"You have to stop."
She jerked in surprise, whirling around a hand on her dagger. She stared at the intruder, her mouth dry, her heart thumping and banging against her ribs. She eyed the warrior in front of her. She would always be more Trikru then Skaikru, and she was one of the few able to travel between the clans.
"Oktevia," she nodded slowly. She should have known that Octavia knew of her sojourn, of her silent watch upon the hill. Her tongue darted out, moistening her lips. She let the dagger fall back into its place, and she carefully folded the scrap of paper. She held it out to Octavia, willing her hand not to shake. But still it trembled, and she knew Octavia saw it.
"Beja, Oktevia."
"She doesn't read them, Lexa." Octavia sighed but still reached out and took the paper. Her anger had long since cooled. It was an unwritten rule that no one spoke of Lexa, and whenever Octavia gave her reports to Clarke and the council, she was careful to never speak of the Trikru Heda.
It had started years ago, when Octavia had found the first letter tied to a bramble bush, the 2nd in a corked bottle that had become ensnared among the rocks of the creak that ran through Skaikru territory. And she had known immediately who they were from, and she had collected them all, unsure of what to do; unsure of where her loyalty lay. She had eventually left them outside Clarke's door one night, and they were gone the next morning; but Clarke never spoke of them.
After that, Octavia kept an eye out for Lexa, and she had finally seen her a year ago leaving a message in the hollow on the downward slope of the mountain. And so each night, Lexa left her letter, and Octavia collected them and dropped them at Clarke's door. But Clarke never wrote back, never spoke of them.
"I know," she whispered brokenly, "but I have to try."
"You have to let her go."
"I know, but I can't," she admitted in shame. Her voice cracking. She dropped her eyes, biting her tongue hard, willing the tears to not drip down her face, but even her body betrayed her. And when she looked back up again with wet, green eyes; she didn't see the pity she expected, just sorrow in deep brown eyes.
"Where is she? She hasn't been out in days."
Octavia hesitated. This was breaking the rule. She never spoke to either of them about the other. She refused to be the messenger. She was sure Clarke knew it was her who dropped off the letters, but she wouldn't ask or mention them. So they all played this little game of denial and ignorance. And it was costing them all.
"The baby has been ill," she finally admitted, worriedly.
Lexa was sure her heart stopped for a brief moment, only to start thumping wildly again. She had been so sure it was Clarke who had been hovering between this world and the next. She felt a brief moment of elation realizing that Clarke wasn't lost to this world yet, but it was quickly subdued. And she felt shame course through her at the relief she had felt knowing it was the child, Bellamy's child who was ill.
"What is wrong with it?" She hesitated, her fingers worrying the frayed ends of her scarf. "I could send a healer or medicine," she offered tentatively, part of her hoping Octavia would say yes, and part of her hoping she would say no.
"I'm not sure, she keeps coughing. Clarke is afraid." She. The child was a she, and she felt her chest ache.
"I will send Joska," she nodded resolutely. He is our best healer in Polis. She nodded again and looked up at Octavia, swallowing hard. "He is good with children. They trust him, and he…he loves them." She finished quietly.
"You can say that there is a sickness going through the clans, and he is visiting them all to help, and he heard of a sick Skaikru child. You can tell…tell them anything." She stood abruptly, stumbling slightly, and was shocked when she felt a steady hand under her elbow. She started in surprise at Octavia who stepped back quickly.
"Make her accept Joska. He will heal her child." She held her hand out for the letter, wiggling her fingers impatiently. Once Octavia reluctantly gave it back, she opened it and took out her charcoal. She scratched out the last lines, and handed it back to Octavia.
And she turned and made her way down the side of the hill. It was time to let go. Too much time had passed, and she had tried. Clarke may not have ever written, but she had answered Lexa; and Lexa had been too blind, too broken to accept her answer.
And so she didn't look back as she walked down the other side, letting go of the one she loved, but could not have.
If she had looked back, she would have seen Octavia open the letter, she would have seen her shake her head, and perhaps; if she had looked hard enough, she would have seen the tears in Octavia's eyes as she gently tucked the letter inside her shirt.
But Lexa didn't look back.
Author's Note: So what did you think? Is this the end of the story? You tell me.