A/N: Oh boy. To compensate for a fairly fluffy Indra and Octavia fic, here's me vomiting out feels about Lexa's death in 9000 words.
Imma say this now: THIS CONTENT COULD BE VERY TRIGGERING.
Clarke is not doing well, guys. She's the saddest of pandas and she's really very dark. So, consider this a trigger warning (I'll also put it in the tags) for self-harm, fascination with death, and general self-destructive behavior.
There are moments that the words don't reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
She closes her eyes.
Lexa would have wanted that dignity.
She closes her eyes and then she leaves.
You hold her as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable
Lexa's eyes are closed and Clarke's are not.
Maybe it's best to start with the most unfair part of this.
The moments when you're in so deep
It feels easier to just swim down
It's not what she expected.
When she twisted a knife inside Finn, she felt it.
She felt the sadness, the regret, the shame.
It draped over her, enveloped her like a blanket.
And it stayed there, for weeks.
She buried her in that town
And learned to live with the unimaginable
Clarke existed in a blanket of darkness, in the prison of her own thoughts. Until one day, she didn't. One day, the sun shone a little brighter and her friends greeted her with hugs and the blanket that had closed off Clarke Griffin began to fray at the edges.
Oh, he wasn't forgotten (as if Clarke could ever forget one of the millions she killed). Her stomach still twisted at the mention of Finn. There was still a Finn-shaped hole in her life. She would still look over her shoulder from time to time, expecting to see him.
But that protective shield frayed in time, and then a green eyed woman who called herself the Commander started cutting holes in it, until she could climb out, never really free but still alive.
Not this time.
This time, she feels no sadness, no grief, no slowing of her system.
Instead, anger twists her insides, ties her intestines into a knot.
It's everything she feels, all she feels.
At who?
She doesn't really know. But it's there all the time. Clarke is angry, so angry, and when anger is no longer enough to satisfy the demons, it morphs into hate.
And it takes up permanent residence.
Clarke comes to refer to it as The Hate.
It lives inside her, snarls cruel words in her ear about all the people who would look at her with pity in their eyes.
I had a dream my life would be so different from this hell I'm living
Hate is all she feels, and she is so thankful for that.
Hate powers her through the day.
She hates her people, and their inability to find peace.
(Although maybe she shouldn't, because Clarke has only known peace once in her life, and that room and those furs and her are things she will never have again.)
But still, she hates.
She hates Trikru, who molded the most compassionate person she knows (knew) into a political puppet.
She hates the woods.
She hates Arkadia.
She hates life.
She hates death.
She hates herself.
Good.
Some people don't feel a thing, some kind of blissful dream
Clarke's not dead.
Clarke doesn't talk.
It's not in her nature to fall apart. Maybe they expected her to. But she never did.
She dried her eyes that day, and came home. Crept behind the blockade, went to sleep, told nobody.
In retrospect, she probably hoped, with the last bit of naiveté that she possessed, that they'd never find out.
But of course, the next day, Heda's death spreads like wildfire.
People cry in the street, scream out her name.
Clarke's people cry too, because what now?
She clamps her hands over her ears to block out their cries.
They don't get to cry over her.
They didn't know her.
I wish I could live that now
And then the looks start.
They all look at her like she'll shatter at any moment.
Not many knew about her and Lexa, but her closest people did.
When they find out, on their own, they offer her sympathies, and it is like talking to a deaf person.
She doesn't acknowledge any of them. Not from anyone. Not from her mother, not from Marcus, Octavia, Raven, Bellamy, nobody.
Sympathies are met with a blank stare, and Clarke kom Skaikru (don't call her that, don't call her that)keeps going, just as she did before.
In point of fact, she begins purposely avoiding them.
They would have held her away from Lexa at knifepoint if they could have.
They had made her waste so much time, and time had run out.
So she hates them, too.
There's a blaze of light in every word
That first day, that first morning after, she makes her way to the medical bay and begins to work. She changes dressings, she rubs herbs on wounds, she ignores Abby when she suggests Clarke take at least the day off, and she absolutely, completely doesn't think of where she was a mere 24 hours ago.
Lexa's dead.
Her eyes are closed.
Ai gonplei ste odon.
Maybe she hates Lexa too.
Abby tries to hug Clarke, that first day, when she still allows it.
She allows it, but it might be easier to embrace a statue.
She lets her mother hug her.
Because Clarke Griffin gives people what they need, and her mother needs this, even if Clarke sees no point in it.
Maybe if she was someone else, she would find comfort in the embrace.
But then she remembers the coldness with which her mother addressed Lexa. She hears in her head all the times her mother reminded her that the commander was not to be trusted.
All the time wasted on hate.
Which is ironic, really, because that's exactly what she feels coil inside her, just as it did with her "friends", as she pushes Abby away.
There's a grief that can't be spoken
Kane finds out, too. She never really expected he wouldn't, but when he does, he looks at her with such…. gentleness.
In the days that pass, she will come to appreciate (wow, that's a deep feeling. Maybe more like she will come to not be ferociously annoyed) with the way he doesn't try to make her talk.
He will even steer her away from people, sometimes. People with their prying questions and stupid fucking sympathetic murmurs.
She hates those words.
She hates all of them.
But they are still her people.
And the one thing Clarke Griffin does, is protect her people.
You were born for this, Clarke.
I never asked for that.
But you'd never give it up.
The words tumble in her mind, from the one who will never speak again. Whose eyes are closed.
Does it matter? You'll never see her again.
There's a knowing tone in her voice. No judgment, just…peace.
She hopes it's peaceful there.
She hates peace; even such as it is, down here.
There's a pain goes on and on
And there was some semblance of peace now, which was really fucking funny because apparently all it took for peace was the murder of the Commander.
(That's what she comes to refer to her as. Her name carries with it a strange feeling in her throat, a clenching inside her chest that she'd rather not feel, not ever. Not feeling, she found, was just so much easier.)
With the kill order lifted, life at Arkadia fell into a routine.
How would you know, Clarke? You haven't been here.
Medical rounds with her mother begin at 5am.
Her mother pats her shoulder and tells her if this is too early, she is welcome to start anytime.
Clarke doesn't really understand the gesture.
It's not as if she's sleeping.
They burn the bodies at night, Clarke discovers.
Less smell then. The camp's sleeping occupants don't complain about it, at least, and the smell disperses overnight.
She finds them that first night, that first After night.
She slips unnoticed out of her room and flattens herself against the trees.
The Hate comes with her.
It always does.
Nobody else goes with her, and that's probably a good thing, because she can't be entirely sure that if someone were to try and stop her, she wouldn't just kill them.
I'm a prisoner in my own skin
Clarke stands with her back against the trees and watches flames lick the edge of flesh, watches the melting of skin and bone with dispassionate curiosity, breathes in the scent of burning flesh.
It's that first night that she imagines it for the first time.
She lets the smell fill her, closes her eyes and pictures her own body burning on the pyre.
She's alive during it, of course. And she's in pain, because she has to be. But that's okay. This is real, physical, tangible pain, pain she can associate with a source.
And it doesn't last forever. She pictures the pain giving way, imagines the world floating away to a world where she is not Clarke Griffin.
A world where it's just her, and possibly one other person.
A world that doesn't, cannot exist here on earth, nor in the sky.
A world where it's just them, and the Hate is gone, and she is not a chancellor, an Ambassador, where she bears no weight for her people.
A world where she is free.
The pain gives way to that.
And that is worth every moment she doesn't sleep.
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down
Life became a bit fuzzy, a bit worn around the edges, with every night's lack of sleep.
But a dulled feeling is a feeling Clarke Griffin welcomes, because everything around her seems bright, sharp, harsh.
After rounds, late morning usually sees a council meeting, every one of which Clarke attends dutifully. She listens, she advises, she puts in obligatory suggestions for their continued survival.
And then after lunch, she slips away.
No, not mentally or emotionally (but wouldn't that be nice).
She assigns herself to food rations, and slips into the woods.
The lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown
She hasn't slept in days.
Maybe that's what makes her stupid enough to go wandering through the woods, through trikru land.
Maybe she wanted to be close to her.
No, not that.
She's dead.
She finds a pond one day, nearto the place they had slept after the Pauna.
A rock lies in the shade, moss covered.
She lays against it, watches the water.
She doesn't even remember falling asleep.
The moss against the rock was just so soft, and it was so alone and…quiet.
So she doesn't remember closing her eyes.
Don't think about tomorrow
But she remembers seeing her.
That first time, it almost seemed like a miracle, before she remembered there are no miracles here. Never were, never would be.
But she's standing in front of Clarke, free of war paint and armor and so soft and real and this is too cruel to exist, even in this shitpile world, this is too cruel to be real.
But that's the thing, isn't it?
It's not real.
And then she smiles at Clarke.
She smiles and says "Hello, Clarke."
Just those words. And that voice.
And reality doesn't matter.
Clarke's sure she is crushing her in the fiercest embrace she can manage, but it doesn't matter.
(Only those who breathe are worried about lack of oxygen, The Hate will later whisper in her ear, when she replays this for the thousandth time in her mind. Not then, though. No, here, The Hate is gloriously, blissfully quiet).
She found them, indeed, but it made her heart bleed
That's why she sleeps.
It would otherwise be perfunctory, a way to fill the vast spaces of time she faces in front of her, but in sleep, she sees her.
Every day, Clarke sees her.
And that is the best (only good) part of her life.
She's there, and she's real, and the world is silent, and she never breathes but Clarke forces herself not to notice.
They are together again, they are in love. She loves her.
She is the reason The Commander is dead, but god, she loves her.
We were so in love, and that's what I find so odd
The Commander's eyes are closed.
The blockade is dead.
The kill order is lifted.
She's dead.
Dad, Anya, Atom, Finn, Lincoln, Maya, Aden and the nightbloods, Titus.
Those were only the ones with names.
There are hundreds more, thousands more.
Because of her.
So in a way, she deserves life. She deserves the burden of being alive.
But the world still lets Clarke see her in sleep, and Clarke doesn't know much but she knows she doesn't deserve that.
I am the one who knows you
She didn't sleep.
Not that night. Nor, really, any night since.
She sleeps during the day. Crawls to that spot under the ferns and dreams.
She needs this time.
She can see her then.
It's dangerous, out in the woods.
Creatures lurk in the shadows. Enemy clans would pounce in a moment.
Her knife is hidden on her back belt loops.
It's hard to access.
Doable, to kill game.
But in an emergency, it wouldn't help her in time.
Her blood would spill in seconds.
She lets that thought settle in her mind, and smiles.
She dares think it would be quick. Almost painless. That thought fills her with rage, and she comforts herself by imagining a slow, torturous death.
Perhaps chained to a post, like Titus. Destined to give blood for all the blood on her hands.
Blood must have blood.
Blood dripping down in a steady flow, like water from a tap, until there's nothing left. Until the blood stops.
It would hurt. It would take hours, delirious in the sun, hurting from every appendage, skin ripped and bathed in thick red.
That thought is much more satisfying. It feels like what she deserves.
There's a hole in the world.
Feels like we ought to have known.
The people at Arkadia don't question her, because she's fine.
Clarke keeps up her watch with diligence. She disappears during the day, and comes back with food.
She is, by all intents and purposes, the same as before.
But for that look in her eyes.
"You're starting to scare them, you realize."
A shrug. "They aren't my priority."
"Yes, they are. Always have been."
"Well, they can wait."
"For what?"
It's not a question Clarke's prepared to answer yet. She comes here, to this rock, in these woods, so she doesn't have to answer.
I don't want to be here if you can't be with me
A grounder is brought into the medical bay one day. He's badly injured, his stomach gored open.
Clarke stares in fascination for a few seconds, taking in his pained eyes, his sweaty skin, the pinkish hues of the torn flesh.
Her mother calls her back to attention, and she gathers her supplies. It's a deep wound, he's lost a lot of blood.
They sew the wound shut, give him whatever medications they can manage.
He's resting more comfortably an hour later. Her mother sighs in relief.
Clarke assigns herself the night watch that night.
It's a slow night in general, but the grounder's heart stops anyway.
He could be saved, technically, Clarke knows. Not as he was, though. He will never be the same as he was.
His wound has torn muscle, cut bone, marked skin permanently.
She watches with dispassionate fascination as his breath comes in slower and slower gasps. As his body stills, as his face pales.
She lets his heart patter.
He's dead in moments.
"You're driven to fix people, Clarke."
"The dead are gone."
"What if he wasn't dead yet? What if you could have yet saved him?"
Clarke turns away, digging her fingers into her palm until little half moon marks break the dirty flesh.
"Why would he want to be saved?."
"You believe he is better off dead?"
She toes at the ground, refuses to meet the green eyes.
"It's peaceful there. Maybe I saved him in the way we all should be saved."
Time must pass, and every life runs a rapid pace
She doesn't allow herself to remember the Before too much.
But in her dreams, she's there.
The furs are soft against her skin and her companion is softer, her back pressed against Clarke's chest as her fingertips trace patterns on Clarke's skin.
One time, Clarke runs her fingers over the raised scars spanning the Commander's ribcage.
"Village murders," she murmurs without being asked. "I hadn't sent enough gonas to protect them. Six children died."
"That wasn't your fault."
"They needed someone, Clarke. Scars heal. And at that point, I was…cold. Perhaps too cold. I barely recognized the murders of children as an event. Not with the war. So maybe.." The Commander's eyes close, her cheek rubbing in the furs.
Clarke moves her hand to stroke the long brown hair. How does one comfort a person who has been made to endure what no human should?
"Maybe the marks are a good thing. A reminder of the dead to stay with us."
Clarke thinks about that today, and when she thinks about that she thinks about Atom.
Gone so long, it was as if he was never here.
But he was.
Death by Clarke, Raven had said. Because the acid fog was there, but Clarke killed him, and so she remains alive. That's her punishment, yes, but it's not enough.
So that night, she gives herself the first mark. For Atom.
Just a small one, but it's there.
And oddly, that comforts her. Seeing the blood spill out of the open wound comforts her, as does the chafing of the small bandage she allowed herself against raw skin.
I know you're lonely, and I hope you'll be alright
Titus yelled at her, when he was executed.
On the day of his execution, she dressed herself as a grounder but he still recognized her.
"It's you," he hissed. "If it hadn't been for you, she'd still be here."
She doesn't fight it.
He's right, she knows, she knows.
Death by Clarke.
He was executed by a thousand cuts. It takes hours.
He screamed.
Clarke relished the sound.
She never screamed.
She never got that chance.
His blood is red.
She fixed her eyes on how it flowed off the wooden platform.
Like a sea of lava, sinking into the wood, staining its insides forever.
She gave herself a mark for Titus that night.
A tiny one.
He didn't deserve a space at all, but she's learning that Death isn't picky about who it hits, how close to her these people are, so she can't be picky about the marks.
And as with the other mark, when she does, her head is silent. The Hate says nothing, which almost feels like silent approval.
I will always see your face
She slaps her mother.
Clarke thinks back on it now as she lies back against the trees, closes her eyes.
Her mother had distrusted the Commander.
That was more wasted time.
And time is something they didn't have enough of, but now it is all Clarke has.
She had finally snapped at her mother. It's nothing new, really. Just one more sympathetic hand on Clarke's shoulder. The patient they had been treating died, a young woman.
Lailah.
It's the L name, Clarke supposes. Her mother thinks she feels some kind of connection to her in this random stranger.
"Clarke, I know you were close to her. I think you need to talk about Lexa…"
"Shut up," she had hissed. "Shut up, mom, shut up."
The slap came without even thinking about it.
Lashing out is just what she does nowadays, it seems.
She deserved it, The Hate snarls in her ear. They all do.
I'm falling on my way
She remembered hands stroking through her hair, fingers nimbly braiding the tangled blonde mess.
"Your mother was distrustful. Of me, of the coalition."
Clarke felt a tiny flare of anger. "She should have trusted me."
The Commander hums in agreement, her fingers never stopping.
"But she is your mother. She wanted to protect her family."
Clarke doesn't know what makes her ask.
"What happened to your family?"
The hands still instantly.
"I was told they are dead."
"Told? You never tried to find out?"
"I was taken from them at five, Clarke. I never really knew them."
"So you never had any family?"
Clarke can feel the Commander's head shake. "I was a nightblood. That is the highest honor."
Clarke sits up, stilling the hands in her hair. "When was the last time you had a friend?"
The Commander looks away, cheeks burning.
The "you' is so implied, it doesn't need to be said.
You'll explain the infinite
Bellamy sits down with her one day, as she stitches together fabric for a wound dressing.
He's silent for long moments, and she's grateful.
But he just couldn't keep silent, The Hate whispers. Because he's a fool. And because you don't deserve peace. Not after what you've done.
"I'm sorry, Clarke," he whispers.
She swallows hard, shakes her head, because she's fine, she's fine.
"For what?"
He looks at her with a mix of incredulousness, and, oddly, anger. It's a look she's become a bit too familiar with.
"You know what," he tells her. "I'm sorry you're hurting."
She returns to her work, puncturing the needle through the dressing.
Hurt is for people who deserve it. He doesn't deserve to hurt. You don't deserve to hurt. You're both murderers.
"I'm fine."
"No," Bellamy scoots a bit closer, until his thigh is pressed to hers.
She used to love this.
She used to be so comforted by his presence.
"You're not fine, Clarke. You lost someone you cared about. You're not fine."
She doesn't answer. What would she even say?
The Commander's eyes are closed.
She's dead.
"Clarke," Bellamy reaches his hand out, curling his fingers around hers.
"You were born for this, Clarke."
No, not now, not here, not that voice.
It will never change. It will never get better.
A different voice, but one that sends an equal amount of chills through her. And then they mix, tainting a pure memory, seeping into the cracks like blood.
You'll all always be murderers, and the pain will never go away.
Then you put the people you care about in danger, and the pain will never go away.
This is your life. You will never be free.
You will never be free.
It's that both of those voices are right that does it, in the end.
She wrenches her fingers out of his and leaves.
You can't find the fighter
That night, she rubbed her hands raw, washing the blood off, until the mix of black and red ran and her hands remained bandaged for three days. Nobody notices, not with long sleeves.
But that night, that tinge of red didn't seem like enough.
So she kept scrubbing.
The jagged cracks on her hands give her some twisted sense of satisfaction.
She welcomes the pain, relishes it.
Two weeks later, her hands are healed.
Which, interestingly enough, ends up being the anniversary of her father's floating.
That day, she looks at her mother with more anger than usual.
It's the only thing she will allow herself to feel.
Until that night, when she gives herself the next mark.
It's crude, with a dull knife.
Nonetheless, it bleeds quickly and fiercely.
The Hate abates, just a tiny bit, and Clarke smiles.
I feel you, I see you
They make one more attempt, one final lifeline thrown.
Octavia draws the short straw, she supposes, but if anyone's going to try to talk to her, a trained warrior isn't the worst idea, especially since Clarke's currently whittling something with a knife.
Her foot taps impatiently against the ground. The knife moves slowly, digs into soft bark.
Octavia doesn't talk this time, just extends something toward Clarke, eyes cast down.
She's offering something to Clarke, and whatever it is, Clarke didn't want it.
She doesn't move, so Octavia lifts Clarke's hand and presses something stringy and soft into it.
"Indra had this. I think she'd want you to have it."
She's trying to bring you back to them, The Hate whispers. You don't want that. You don't deserve it.
She looks down anyway.
It's a braid. Soft, brown hair presses into Clarke's skin, like it did once. In the Before.
She has no control over how the tears well immediately.
Her voice wobbles, and she hates it. "Is it…"
"It's hers. Maybe…maybe it'll remind you of her."
Remind you of her? As if you could ever, ever forget.
Octavia's expression is soft and kind. Like it used to be, when they first landed. When the world was bright and beautiful, not the world that made her a murderer and ripped the person she loved from her arms.
She swallows back the tears she doesn't deserve and digs her knife into the log beneath her, peeling up the bark, avoiding eye contact.
She hears Octavia's wistful smile in her voice.
"Y'know, Lincoln used to do that, when he didn't want to show me how he was really feeling. Drove me crazy."
And then Clarke comes back to the present. Because this feels like connection, and that is something that will never happen again.
(Like so many other things.)
"I don't want to do this."
Octavia starts, the kindness slowly seeping from her expression.
"What?"
"I'm not going to bond over the dead with you, Octavia."
She looks hurt, truly hurt, but Clarke can't remember the last time she felt pity.
Plenty of regret, but that was for one person only.
"You need to talk about her, Clarke."
"No I don't." She doesn't.
She's dead.
"Yes, you do. This is killing you. We can all see it. Only difference is, I actually say something about it."
Clarke stands, breathes in.
She made you leave. You never would have gone to say goodbye. And if you hadn't, you might not have killed her. The Commander's blood is on her hands too.
It's right, again.
She hates Octavia.
And hate leaves room for nothing else.
"Go find someone who wants to talk, Octavia. I am so goddamn sick of everyone wanting to talk about my feelings. There's nothing to say about this."
"This?"
Clarke swallows hard. "Her."
"Listen to yourself, Clarke."
"I'm fine."
Octavia crosses her arms, her face puckering into a scowl.
"You can't even say her name."
Fuck her, Clarke thinks. She knows nothing. Nobody knows anything.
She wants to prove Octavia wrong, so wants to prove that she's fine.
But the name sticks in her throat, her lips refuse to curl around the word, trying to say it tastes bitter.
So, in the spirit of Clarke Griffin nowadays, she lashes out.
"You never even liked her. Don't pretend to be the voice of sympathy now."
But Octavia won't give up so easily. "Her? Her who?"
Damn her.
"Stop," it's a low growl. It burns around her throat; it chokes on the word it really wants to say.
"Say it, Clarke."
"Fuck you."
"You have to say it."
Octavia is right up in her face now, breathing down on her,
You're the one who burned 300 of my warriors alive.
Her hands move of their own volition and strike Octavia right in the face.
Her look is stunned for only a moment before she hits Clarke back.
Clarke is more grateful for that than any false sympathies she has ever gotten.
Octavia's trained fist hits her nose.
She hears a crunch, and feels blood immediately.
And that feeling, the feeling of blood, of life just flowing out, like Titus', like Lincoln's, like…
That feeling is more addictive than anything.
So as soon as Octavia puts her arms down, Clarke hits her again. And again and again.
And Octavia retaliates, but this comes from somewhere deep inside Clarke, it takes over her, it makes her punch her best friend over and over, kick her, stomp her to the ground.
She stops only when she sees Octavia curled on the floor, her a slash on her ribs seeping blood through her clothes. She doesn't ever remember pulling the knife, but the sight takes her somewhere else.
I need something to stop the bleeding.
The bleeding.
She's losing too much blood.
I don't want the next Commander.
May we meet again.
I love you.
And when she finally returns, she finds Octavia staring up at her, all defiance, her eyes bright.
"Did that help?"
Clarke doesn't know how to answer.
So she runs.
It's nighttime, but she runs to that spot in the woods, she runs because she needs Lexa, she needs Lexa.
She stumbles over the rock in the dark, falls to her knees, her vision blurred.
She clutches the braid to her chest as her chest heaves; finally quaking with the release it has needed for weeks.
Her body probably meant it to be a cry, but it comes out a scream.
It's a long, desperate scream of her name, followed by the vast, gasping sobs that Clarke had suppressed for weeks.
"Lexa," she cries. "Lexa, Lexa, Lexa."
She shuts her eyes tight, prays for sleep.
But Lexa doesn't come.
She can't see her.
She can't hear her.
She looks for her. Realizing how crazy it looks, she searches around the trees, inside the cave, calling out her name desperately.
Lexa, Lexa, Lexa.
But she's not there.
You'll always have a home inside of me
The panther is, though.
Her knife is abandoned.
The Hate is silent.
Everything is silent.
There's pain, though, and it's just as she imagined it.
It's there, tangible and real, pulsating through her, from the long, deep wound in her stomach.
She closes her eyes, relishes, cherishes it.
It doesn't last long.
You're here in my heart
Suddenly, there is no more pain, only softness, light, and bright green eyes that gaze at her with love, with forgiveness, and arms that reach for her.
It's finally over. Clarke feels the knot of hate so permanently in her belly unfurl slowly, releasing a warmth through her.
She knows she smiles.
She doesn't quite touch Lexa before the world goes black.
I am the one who held you
For the first time in months, Clarke feels herself coming to, and smiles. She leans her head back, ready for the feeling of soft grass tickling her forehead, reaches up her arms for Lexa's embrace.
She's ready.
She 's ready to let go, let her friends grieve but let them know she was happy, so happy. Free of the anger and the hate and the sorrow that had plagued the last few months.
Ready to live out eternity.
And it didn't matter where.
As long as she was free.
And Lexa was there.
She brings her arms up to feel the grass under, extends her fingers in anticipation of warm skin beside her.
Or rather, she tries to.
Because there is no soft grass under her.
There are no trees above her.
Her body isn't free of pain.
Rather, upon opening her eyes further, she finds white bandages around her hands and her torso swathed tightly in a white fabric.
Instead of the smell of the trees, her nose burns with the scent of antiseptic.
And instead of soft arms and wide green eyes, her mother's loose hair tickles her face as she leans over Clarke.
"Clarke," she sighs. "Thank god."
And then everything is back.
I never asked for that
I'm trying every day
I'm trying my best
Well, it's not good enough.
No, indeed it hadn't been.
Because she's alive.
And hate is all she feels.
She yanks at the IV, finding that if she tugs it up and out, the skin tears.
Because blood pulsates beneath it. Blood from a beating, living heart.
"Clarke!" Her mother lays a hand on her shoulder, applying pressure and pushing her back into bed. Forcing her back here.
"Thank god," she breathes. "We were so worried."
Clarke struggles against her hand, and she feels another hand on her. Bellamy. He's joined by Raven, Octavia and Kane, and they won't let her go, they won't let her go.
Her arms kick wildly, her legs flail.
"Clarke, calm down," her mother attempts a soothing tone, but it's no good.
And then the most insane statement ever spoken is said.
"You're safe, Clarke," Kane tells her.
Her head whips to look at him for a moment, as her hands tear at the bandages, trying desperately to get at the wound. Her questing fingers are stopped by Kane's as she fights, trying with all her might to reopen it.
"Clarke, you need to relax," Octavia says. "You don't need to worry. You're alive. We brought you back."
At that, her hands still.
She reaches slowly for the IV pole.
She doesn't even think about it before she whips it at the nearest person.
She's not sure if she cries. Do people cry in times like this?
Her mind goes blank as the rage consumes her.
"I could see her!" she howls. "She was right there! It was over!"
She swings the IV pole again, and it hits Bellamy's leg with a satisfying thwack.
"It was over, and you brought me back! I hate you! I hate you! You should have let me die!"
She swings a frantic gaze around the room; a searching look she knows is fruitless.
Lexa's gone. She closes her eyes, but Lexa doesn't appear. She's gone. She can't even feel her.
"I could see her, and you brought me back! I hate you!"
She doesn't even need The Hate to help her this time.
No, she is The Hate.
It is everything, her entire being.
And before her mother grabs at a syringe, and before the world goes black again, she knows this is what she deserves, but her hands reach out for Lexa anyway.
I am the one who cried
One night in her dreams, they dance.
There's no music, but that almost seems appropriate.
It's quiet.
It's the only quiet Clarke gets nowadays.
Lexa's arms loop around her waist, Clarke rests her cheek on Lexa's shoulder, and they sway slowly.
It's the most peaceful Clarke has felt in….ever, really.
Lexa's fingers stroke through her hair. All Clarke can feel is peace, and love, and happiness, in its purest form.
But happiness only exists here, her brain reminds her.
And then Lexa whispers against her hair.
"You have to go soon."
Clarke tightens her arms around Lexa.
"Just a little bit longer," she whispers, desperation she knows is obvious creeping in.
Lexa disentangles herself from Clarke and lays her hands on Clarke's cheeks.
"You can't keep coming here."
It's the exact wrong thing to say, because here is the only place Clarke ever wants to be.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize my presence was offending you."
She flops down against the rock and begins gathering her things, the absurdity of the action pounding at her mind.
She's fucking asleep, where does she think she's going to go.
Lexa drops to her knees in front of Clarke, reaches out for her.
Clarke wants to pull away, but these small touches, touches that aren't even real, are the only thing that feels like absolution these days.
"Clarke," Lexa whispers.
Clarke closes her eyes and tries to memorize the sound of her name on Lexa's lips. It's fading so fast from memory, just like her smell, her taste, her voice.
She wishes she could forget her importance.
"You must stop this."
"Stop what?"
She knows what.
Lexa sighs, arranges her legs beside her and pulls Clarke to her so that they are sitting with Clarke's back to Lexa's chest and the Commander's head on her shoulder.
"You are fading, Clarke. You still have life, and yet you are fading from yours. And every time you come here, into this world, you fall further away from your world."
Clarke shakes her head, catching her blonde hair with Lexa's brown.
"That's not true. I'm there. I'm alive."
Lexa sighs, her body deflating, wrapping around Clarke.
Clarke feels her eyes drift closed, her arms wrapping Lexa's arms around her.
"Being alive and living are not the same thing, Clarke. It is…hurting me to see you like this."
"I don't know how else to be." The confession is whispered.
"I don't know how to be me anymore. I don't even know who I am. Only you knew that."
Lexa runs a hand up and down her back.
"You are Clarke Griffin."
Somehow, when she says it, it sounds simple.
"And who was Clarke Griffin?"
A smile. She can feel it even from behind.
"Mine."
I am the one who watched while you died
Disappointingly, she comes to again, but this time, she is lying on something soft.
Passing her hand over it, she finds her wrists bound.
Her eyes snap open, the wide blue taking in the room around her.
It's a room she recognizes.
At least, she recognizes from last time.
Only, last time looked a bit different. Last time the air was heavy with sweat and sex and the furs were soft and Lexa was there and Lexa will never be there again.
But, to her great shock, Indra is there.
The older woman sits beside the bed where Clarke lays, fiddling with a knife in her hands.
"I requested you transferred here. You have been asleep for three days," she says without preamble.
"Why?"
A shrug, and Clarke thinks if Indra could blush, she would.
"I thought you might like to wake up and feel close to her."
Clarke snorts. "You wasted your time then. She's…she's never been further away from me."
Indra stands, takes up a position over Clarke, like a sentinel.
"You have to stop this, Clarke Griffin."
"I wasn't trying to kill myself."
Clarke isn't sure why she sounds so defensive. Indra hasn't been here. She doesn't know. She couldn't.
The older woman sighs.
"Nor was Lexa. After Costia."
The words stop her dead. She had been told little about Costia, but from what she gathered, The Commander's grief was tremendous.
"You were there?" Clarke breathes.
Indra nods, looking sadder than a moment before, the expression foreign on her stern face.
"She had seen only seventeen summers, yet she knew the fate that rested on her. The duty she must not neglect. The people she was sworn to protect."
Clarke casts her eyes to the ground, oddly shamed.
"When Costia's head was delivered…something changed behind her eyes. Her smile was no longer, her thirst for vengeance insatiable."
Indra shook her head. "But vengeance did nothing to soothe her soul, and she bore a look much like yours."
"Like mine?"
Indra nods.
"Aware of the responsibility on her. The power, the importance. No, we knew Heda wouldn't hurt herself. But she could just…" Indra pauses of a second, sweeping her eyes up and down Clarke.
"Just stop being careful. Just let the danger of the job overwhelm her. I could see it in every battle, no matter how fiercely Gustus and I tried to protect her. She could be caught on a blade, it would only take a second…"
"And it would be so easy," Clarke puts in softly. "Just one moment, one moment where you forget to be careful."
"Yes."
"And nobody would ever know. And…" Clarke isn't even aware of her own tears at this point, much less why she's crying in front of Lexa's general.
"And she'd be the first thing you'd see."
Indra reaches over, shocking Clarke by grabbing one of her hands.
"Your fight is not over, Clarke Griffin. Do not do something she would not approve of."
And the Hate tries to whisper something, something about how Indra was trying to absolve her and she didn't deserve it, and it's true, it's so true, but Clarke can't even hear it over her own cries.
The sobs wrack her now, folding her body in two. She's cried too much recently.
"I miss her so much," she gasps.
Because she does, she misses Lexa, Lexa is so very far away, and nomatter how hard Clarke tries, nomatter where she is, she will never be close to her again.
"Sha," says Indra, her expressions soft. "But she will wait, Clarke. She will wait."
I never dreamed home would end up where I don't belong
Clarke leaves Arkadia.
Runs.
Never looks back.
Vows never to go back.
(The Hate doesn't go with her, because she is The Hate. She hates all of them. She spreads hate. She is hate.)
Maybe, deep down, some part of her wants to return but doesn't know how to.
Oh, she could walk back. She could go back to Arkadia, she could join her mother, her friends, her family.
But that person they knew? That was Clarke Griffin.
She doesn't know how to be Clarke Griffin anymore. She doesn't know how to be Wanheda.
She doesn't know who or what she is.
She doesn't know how to exist in a world where Lexa doesn't.
Which seems insane, really, when they had such a short time together.
She should be fine. She's lost people before.
But Lexa's dead.
And along with her went the person that Clarke was.
I don't understand.
Why can't I stay?
She wanders through TonDC.
She doesn't really know why.
All Trikru know her. They thank her, they present her with gifts, and they invite her into their home.
Clarke eats their food, accepts their gifts, falls into bed with someone different every night.
It doesn't change the hole inside of her.
Not everyone comes out to greet her, she notices.
Children hide in the street sometimes, and she hears whispers of "Wanheda", in a tone laced with fear.
Because wherever Wanheda goes, death follows.
Good, she thinks. They should be scared of her. Death will follow wherever she goes, and nobody is safe from it, except herself.
Ironic, isn't it? You would greet it as an old friend. But it refuses to touch you.
And then she catches a flash of green eyes in the crowd.
Bright green, hidden under a hood, peering at her timidly.
And her heart stops.
Because she's seen that green before. She's gazed into that green before.
She feels a grip around her chest, something she hasn't felt since…well, since it happened.
Without really knowing what she's doing, she goes in the direction of those eyes.
But they run away, and why wouldn't they?
Clarke chases the figure, because she has so little left to cling to, but she will follow that green anywhere.
The figure runs, and she isn't fast enough. It disappears and she looks everywhere, until her legs shake and collapse under her, but it's gone.
That night, she gives herself three new marks.
Stupid girl, dares to hope.
When the heart's beyond repair
They had so little time.
So little time, when they should have had forever.
She hadn't even gotten to bury Lexa.
She goes to the rock but doesn't sleep. Lexa is gone.
But the rock is still a balm over her wounds.
And that is where Indra finds her again.
When there's nothing left inside of you
"Clarke kom Skaikru.."
"Don't call me that."
"That is your name, is it not?"
"You're not allowed to call me that."
Indra sighs greatly. "Clarke…"
The word almost sounds gentle on this fierce woman's lips.
Clarke has no time for gentle.
Not anymore.
"Stop…stop looking at me like that. I am so fucking sick of everyone looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
Is it something about you that makes everyone play stupid in your presence?
"Like I've seen the dead." It's perhaps a bit more honest than she wanted to be.
Indra tries again. "Wanheda…"
"Or that! I am not her anymore."
There is a long moment of quiet, before Indra asks.
"Then who are you, skygirl?"
Clarke kicks at the dirt. The sharp end of her boot arranges the pebbles into a little pile. Circular, with a rounded top. Like a miniature gravestone.
Nobody.
"I can't be Wanheda anymore, Indra. And I was never much good at being Clarke Griffin."
Indra scoffs. "My people would say differently. You have sufficed."
She sounds so sure of herself, but Clarke doesn't know how.
Clarke shakes her head. "I don't… know how to be Clarke Griffin anymore. Clarke Griffin was never a help to anyone anyway. Clarke Griffin is responsible for the deaths of too many. For the deaths of elders. Children. Clarke Griffin never really did know what she was doing."
Why? Why are you telling this to her? What difference will it make? You'll still be alive. She'll still be dead. That's your punishment.
Her throat closes. She doesn't know why she's telling Indra this. Or maybe she does. Maybe when you walk in the action of death, you find precious few companions.
She shuffles her feet, digs deep in the dirt with the toe of her other boots.
"Everyone knew it, too. I was just faking it. But I felt those decisions, I felt that weight, every time I breathed."
Clarke heaves a great sigh. The Hate is still trying, but she's just so tired.
And she's only ever felt peace once her life.
And Lexa's eyes are closed.
"The only time I ever felt normal….the only time it seemed like someone understood…was when…"
Indra's head bows. It's almost a respectful gesture. Honoring the dead.
"Was when there was Lexa. And she knew, Indra. She knew. She told me once 'that's why you're you'. She knew who I was. I'm not sure. And without that, without her, I…"
Her throat clenches. Indra inches closer. Clarke supposes in that moment, in that place, neither of them are who they appear.
"And then there were these moments, these tiny moments, where she would look at me, and I was….I was just me. I was just Clarke."
Her boot digs deeper and catches on a root. The sharp edge tears a line in the leather. Something that will never be fixed.
"And that? That will never happen again."
Her head slumps. She can feel her body sagging. That used to bring her comfort. It was a precursor to sleep. But Lexa's dead. She can't see her.
"There was Lexa. Now there's nothing."
It is, she realizes, the most honest thing she's said in months.
Silence permeates for long moments, but it's a comfortable silence, if a sad silence. Pregnant and mournful.
Indra is the one to break it. Her head is bowed, but her voice is clear as ever.
"Do you have any idea what you did for her, Clarke?"
Oh, yes. Yes, Clarke knows what she did for Lexa.
"The same as everyone else around me," she spits. "Got her killed."
Indra's head snaps up. Her hands move to seize Clarke's cheeks, and suddenly Clarke finds herself looking into brown eyes so full of emotion, shining with tears she hadn't know Indra to ever have.
"No," Indra rasps. "You cannot keep blaming yourself for her death."
Clarke averts her eyes, but Indra holds on tighter.
You killed her, you killed her, you killed her, you, you, you!
Indra holds Clarke's gaze, her eyes deep and sad.
"You must trust me on this, Clarke Griffin. I knew Heda. Long before she was Heda, I knew her."
It was you.
Indra never lets her fall.
"Heda grew up in Tondisi, same as Lincoln. I have known her since she was a babe - a chubby little two year old, all fire, ready to fight. And yet still she had this...goodness about her, a kindness that we all prayed she'd never lose."
Her eyes take on a note of regret.
"She was taken from her parents at five, and then Gustus and I took over. Heda was always the strongest, the bravest...and when she was chosen, we all know what a leader she would be. But then, we also know what weight would rest on her shoulders.
She finally releases Clarke, but Clarke hangs on to her words.
For a moment, she allows herself to picture tiny Lexa, a brown-haired spitfire, insisting on being taken along on hunting missions. Imagines her first kill, her refuge in Gustus' arms, the time she allowed herself to be comforted.
Indra circles her spear into the dirt, drawing patterns.
"Being heda was so very lonely. And Titus' teachings did not help. He forced her away from all of us, hardened her heart. But still, that kindness in her eyes remained, and then when she met Costia, we all knew right away. Heda glowed. She smiled. She carried with her a brightness we had not seen before."
Clarke smiles despite herself. Lexa had a beautiful smile. She pictures seventeen year old Lexa, young and in love. Sneaking kisses in hallways, holding hands under tables, making plans for forever.
"And then when Costia was killed….something changed. Something behind her eyes left and didn't return. And she became ruthless. Hard and unfeeling. We could see her close herself off to everything and everyone. And we are warriors, Clarke. We live to fight. But that child we all loved disappeared, and we all grieved for her, as she would never grieve for herself."
Clarke fists the moss in her hands, tries not to picture this, but she knew this Lexa.
The dead are gone, Clarke.
So you just stopped caring?
I could never do that.
I need you.
Indra turns to her, her eyes shining.
"When she was around you, that light was back. That light, that kindness, it returned to her. You made her feel saved. You made her feel loved. That was something she hadn't been for years."
The tears are silent. She doesn't deserve tears because she killed Lexa, she killed her.
Indra's hands return to Clarke's face, her brown eyes boring into Clarke's.
"You did something so amazing for her, Clarke Griffin. You must believe that."
You made her feel loved.
You changed her life.
Clarke?
I'm here.
How light carries on endlessly
Even after death
"Indra?"
"Hmm?"
"Tell me what our unity ceremony would have been like."
Indra starts. "What?"
Clarke's eyes open just briefly, level on Indra.
"We didn't get enough time, Indra. We never will. But I want to know…what it may have been like. If we got there. So I need you to tell me."
Indra swallows hard. "You wish for me to lie to you?"
Clarke's eyes fall closed again, and she nods. "Yes. I want you to lie to me."
There's a pause, and after a time Clarke feels like Indra may ignore her. She can't really be surprised. There is nothing about fierce warrior Indra that has time for childish fairytales. But after a time, she speaks, and Clarke knows she is letting her have this time, and it is all she'll ever get.
"Heda would have given you her best knife. Trikru tradition. She would have insisted on asking. The tattoos would be on the arm. Visible. Heda would have wanted the world to know that you belonged to each other."
You belonged to each other, the Hate whispers. But its tone is soft. Almost reverent. Not like hate at all.
"Your people would have wanted white dresses. It would have been simple. Your hands in each others, as you pledged forever."
"And we would have been so happy."
"Sha. Forever."
"Forever," Clarke echoes.
It feels so close and yet so far away.
No more words are exchanged. Indra sits quietly, and Clarke feels herself fall into a black, dreamless sleep.
And I'll kiss the stars goodnight
A year later, Aden comes running to her, and tells her of a healer in the woods. A healer who could lift the dead right from their graves.
Clarke doesn't even think.
The healer tells her it's dangerous.
She doesn't care.
The healer tells her that she would have to tie Lexa's life force to someone else. That it would be painful. Almost unbearable.
Clarke smiles.
A needle is inserted into her arm. Pain floods her.
Her arms flail.
Her body jerks.
Her heart sings, beating at twice its normal rate.
And then
She can see her.
Only this time, Lexa smiles.
Says "Clarke" in that voice, reaches out and laces their fingers together.
Somewhere on earth, or somewhere in the sky, a heartbeat slows to a stop.
Lexa's arms loop around her. Her lips press to Clarke's forehead.
And Clarke's eyes close.
You're here
That's all I need to know