AN: I don't know where this came from other than my obsession with Clarke and Roan together. I don't know. But I binged on seasons 1-4 pretty quick and somehow landed here? Again...don't know.
But hopefully this is a coherent oneshot if you read with one eye closed.
Don't cry… Don't cry.
Clarke repeats the sentiment in her head over and over again, each step she takes toward her chambers a little heavier than the last. She schools her breathing, telling herself she can't cry. But she can't handle this; not now.
She does her best not to look at Echo, her husband's second; the woman he trusted more than anyone else in battle—when she's feeling practical she can admit that the two warriors were in love once.
"How is he?" She asks in trigedasleng, her chest already heavy with grief. Her blue eyes brim with tears. A war is being waged, men, her men dying, and she's feeling it all right now.
Echo squares her shoulders, pulling ahead from the Consort slightly. But she doesn't answer and Clarke fears that's worse than getting a response.
The Azgedan-born woman stops at the double doors of the bedroom, her hand hesitating before she waves the two guards away. They look to the Consort standing to her left, flanked by two more escorts. Clarke nods her head— a reflex she's garnered from years of everyone looking to her for permission to even breathe— flattens her hands to the side of her legs, and closes her eyes for a moment.
"What's been done for him?" Clarke asks. She needs to know, it will settle some of her nerves and prepare her for what she's going to see. The woman she is now isn't as naive. If she knows his injuries, it still wont help with the sick feeling pooling inside her. But she needs to hear the reality of the situation.
"I think it's best you hear it fro-"
"I'm asking you." Clarke cuts her off, her blue eyes boring the warrior's. Those around them look down to the floor, solemn and quiet. They're grateful Clarke hasn't turned to them for answers.
"The healers cleaned his wounds, but he's lost a lot of blood." Echo answers, "The arrows were poisoned. He's caught pneumonia on the way back."
It's the middle of winter, the air is cold and unforgiving. It's been a couple years and she's still not used to it. It's no surprise that the frigid weather could befall even someone as strong as her husband.
Clarke swallows, squaring her shoulders.
Echo grabs her arm, "He's weak." She says grimly, "Comfort is all you can give him now." They both know that Clarke will never stop being a healer, a fixer. But some things can't be helped. The thought alone makes Clarke want to scream. But she's not a child, she's hardened by life, her eyes having seen many tragedies. So she simply exhales and steps into the darkened room.
"Leave us." Clarke says, announcing her presence. The healers that had stood around solemnly can't meet her eyes. There's nothing to be said, and they obey. When they're gone, she lets out a strangled sob; lip quivering. "Roan…" she says, nearly tripping over the laces of her boots while rushing to his side.
He looks at her, his eyes warm as he gives her a tired smile. The Azgedan King is too tired, he's resolute to the fact that his fight is coming to an end. He doesn't want to give up. But his body is already going out from his control.
The bed dips as Clarke sits at his side and raises a hand to his cheek. She kisses his forehead; feeling the burning of his clammy skin. She runs her knuckles over his forehead, moving the untamed hairs from his face. She looks him over, eyes scanning the injuries the furs drawn up to his waist aren't covering. His wounds are bandaged, but blood soaks through them. Red wets white. He's been shot with two arrows, in his lower abdomen and one in the chest. She drags her gaze over him, hands moving to make sense of it all—trying to ease his mind by cupping his cheek. His skin is damp with sweat, and his skin doesn't glow the way she remembers it.
Her former home in Arkadia has opted to stay out of the war— residing in Trikru territory, they're in a bad spot. Clarke can't help but feel rage toward them all. She was one of them, and still they chose to leave the ice nation on their own. She knows what happened at mount weather left a bad taste in many of their mouths. But she did what she did, she saved the 47. At the time, the way she did it hadn't mattered to them.
There was no use crying over it, it was too late. Roan would never make the trip. And even if he did— no matter how much she wished— she couldn't be sure her mom would be inclined to help.
"Love…" he croaks, catching her hand in his own, drawing her wrist to his mouth. He kisses right where her vein pops up slightly, stark blue against the pale of her complexion.
She leans forward, pressing her nose to his cheek, eyes closed. Breathing him in, she opens her mouth to say something, anything that would comfort him. She wants to tell him it's okay, that he can let go. But she can't find her voice. She just wants to cry and hold on to him— to tell the afterlife it can't have him.
When they married, it was for politics, to hold their alliance between the sky people and the ice nation together; When Lexa had shown to be untrustworthy. Marriages can't be broken in the Ice Nation, they're forever. Somewhere along the way she grew to love him. He took her for who she was— held back judgement for the terrible things she'd played a hand in. He'd done worse. Clarke the arker would have hated the situation. The Clarke who would do anything for her people— the one who did—understood who he was. They were companions. He treats her as the equal she truly is.
If only holding off on a war or ignoring it completely were an option this time. He wouldn't have ridden off had that been an option.
The Trikru waited. They took their time, preparing for a war to settle the years long feud between the two clans. Roan had refused to let her be a puzzle piece and refused to cut ties with her upon Lexa's demands. Clarke and Roan were married to protect her. And look where it got him. Guilt threatens to force her to vomit, her mouth watering and her stomach quivering.
"Don't mourn me yet…" Roan says weakly, clasping her hand with the little strength he has left. "Terrible manners, Queen."
Clarke laughs despite herself. He's dying and still teasing her. Usually, she'd toss an equally sarcastic response back at him, but she doesn't have it in her right at this moment. His humor has always been dry, but it's a part of his personality she's confident many people don't get the pleasure of experiencing.
"You fight this." The young woman pleads with him. There's a big part of her that hopes he can pull through. She needs him. She's not too proud to admit it's something she feels. This war, it ends with unnecessary bloodshed and death. "Don't leave me." Her eyes begin to spill her tears and she has to bite her lip to keep herself from choking out a sob. She leans forward, holding his face in her hands as she presses a desperate kiss to his lips.
He gives her a look, one saying he'll never be gone. But he can feel himself slipping away. There's no counteracting it. Everything that could have been done, has been done. He's dying. The woman he married— the naive teen she was when they met— is gone. She's strong, she's kind. A natural leader, someone who carried her emotions like a heavy burden, her heart on her sleeve; she's strong, those emotions make her human. He only hopes she trust those instincts even when he's gone.
"Stay with me." Clarke croaks. She takes his hand, bringing it to her mouth to press kisses to his bruised knuckles. She's supposed to be strong, to comfort him, but she's losing him and a little piece of her is dying. There's not much left, her father, then Finn took a piece of her, and everyone on the mountain too. Roan's imminent demise is sucking the life right out of her spirit. It hurts because he didn't choose this. He didn't want this war, but he had to fight it.
Roan stares up at the ceiling. His eyes flutter shut for a moment and he can feel his breath growing more shallow, his energy is leaving him as moments tick by. It's becoming more and more difficult to keep up with his lungs needs for oxygen.
Clarke shifts over him, kneeling at his side in the middle of the bed. She carefully settles his head on her knees, crowding herself to him. She begins to hum a song she remembers hearing around their village, smoothing her hands over his forehead to dry the beads of sweat. She runs her thumb along the raised scar on the left side of his face, still humming but doing her best to not move him too much. He turns his face toward her, drawing in a breath. Having her there in his last moments, he doesn't care what happens next. He doesn't wonder if death is the end or not. It's just the two of them in that room. She's all he sees.
He takes a hold of her hand and keeps it in place over his heart. "It's okay."
With a deep exhale, she nods, looking down at him as he closes his eyes. She can't help the cry she lets out, her pain rumbling through her entire body as he takes his last breath. The hold he had on her hand loosening.
Echo and their two guards break into the room, thinking the worst. And it is. She opens her mouth to say something her eyes brim with tears and instead she cries. Echo wants to look away, but instead rounds the bed, staring at her downed friend. "Your fight is over."
Clarke wails. For everything that has happened, this hurts the worst somehow. It's as if losing him, another person she's loved, is punishment for her sins. He hadn't deserved this fate—not in her stead.
The guards look stunned, sad and stunned. They've never seen her react to anything this way. No one but a handful of people have ever seen her cry much less yell out in tearful agony. The young queen rocks her husband in her arms, hugging him as though her pleading for his life will bring him back.
They let her release all her pent up anger, all of her pain. She balls her hands in the furs, pulling the thick bed cover higher up on Roan's body. She kisses his face tenderly, as if he can feel it; her sobbing quieting to simple tears.
When they come to take him away hours later, Clarke is still there, holding onto his body. She can't let go. She can't. Echo has tried, and after the first couple hours, she gave up. She pulled up a chair, her head down as she listens to Clarke's sniffles. Her entire being aches, there's too much going on in her emotionally that the only thing she can do is let it take over her. Roan was the pragmatist. Clarke, she feels. It colors her every choice. And right now, all she wants to do is hold on to him. As queen, she can draw this out as long as she needs to. Customarily, the Trikru will allow them to grieve the loss of their king.
The anger settles in her core soon after. And there's not much else to be said when Clarke presses one final kiss to her husband's lips, removes herself from the room and stands in the hallway. She heads out into the gardens where she and Roan hid away to just be— where she wasn't of the skaikru and he wasn't the king of Azgeda— where they could just be.
Clarke crumples to her knees, her face in her hands. She combs her hair back, holding the back of her neck as she rocks. She lets herself sob. Right now, Roan is being taken away, his body will be prepared to burn on a pire no one but she will set ablaze. That will be the end and she won't know how to move on from there. This isn't supposed to happen.
The people of the Ice nation will need a leader, but she doesn't know how to do that on her own. She always ends up alone.