a/n: In any attempt to fill the gaping Clexa-sized hole in my heart...
(I did quite a lot of psychological research on this—each colour has a different meaning, a different purpose, and I tried to fit that in with each moment. I would list each and every meaning, because it really intrigued me, but I'll leave that for you to find out.)
One more thing to note: I know I missed out more than, I don't know, twenty key Clexa moments, but I got Writer's Block while writing, and wanted to finish this rather than abandon it. So, if you all get offended, I'm sorry. :(
alternative summary: Each time you open your eyes, it pours down—the memories, the past, all the black and white, the shades of grey. Forgetting it all, the regrets that weigh you down with that same incandescent flash that did when you first saw her. Forgetting the world, because she's all that kept you sane. Forgetting her, because you… can't… breathe. —clarke/lexa, and all the different colours from 2x07 to 3x07
love is not a victory march
(it's a cold, and it's a broken hallelujah)
i know you're seeing black and white
so i'll paint you a clear blue sky
without you i'm colour-blind
it's raining every time i open my eyes
— troye sivan / blue
The fight is yet to end. She is still in pain. She is still suffering.
You kneel beside her, and clamp your hands around hers, holding on as tight as you can, because in this moment, you don't ever want to let go.
—
It starts with a flash, the kind where it throws you off your feet and blasts you a million aeons back in time—the kind where the effect is so incandescent even if it's dark, that you can't see the world, and all its black-and-white, and shades of grey.
Then it's over, and you see orange.
It is a shade on the brink of red, yet not quite, because it is still very orange in its means, and if orange is orange, then orange is orange, like you are you, and the world is the world, all devoid of grey. It is an orange so fiery and fluorescent, that you begin to question if it really is fire, and you wonder if playing with the flames is the right move. (It isn't, surely, yet you go anyway, because all warnings aside, you want to know what is in store for you.)
You take a short breath, and swallow, but you step forward. She is resting against a throne of nature, branches entwined from behind her, and you swallow again as you see her. The orange is distracting.
"You're the one who burned three hundred of my warriors alive," she says as she twirls her dagger in her hands, her nimble fingers touching each jewel, each piece, the orange only getting brighter by the second. She doesn't look up.
Clarke, think, think of something! "And you're the one who sent them there to kill us."
You are startled, as with one sharp clink, she stares up at you, a gaze withholding, yet impassioning, her eyes brooding, yet beautiful.
"Do you have an answer for me, Clarke of the sky-people?"
You keep your promise (even if all a promise is, is a lie—a lie you only wish to keep). "I've come to make an offer."
She scoffs, and for even a split second, the orange falters, and a new colour, a new shade of deemed black lingers on her, ambient to everything else, even you. "This is not a negotiation." And then a dark-skinned woman beside her speaks—her shade is red, and it is so clear that you swear you can see what is going inside her mind. (You can try, but you'll never succeed. Killing is the answer—it always is.)
"I can help you beat the mountain men," you say, in a tone you only hope is the Clarke Griffin you were fifteen seconds ago. As she gives you the cue, you carry on, talking, and talking, and explaining, and explaining, and the wisps of hope inside you tug and tug, because you don't know if this will work. You carry on, about the mountain men, about the prisoners, about all the nightmares you wished would stop haunting you—about Anya, and that's when she looks up.
Once again, she nods, and she opens her mouth—that's when the orange disappears, not all of it, but most of it, and the black dissolves, instead, a magenta settles upon her, upon the grounders leader, upon the Commander, upon Lexa. A colour that fits her at each edge, at each expression, yet doesn't quite fit her at all.
—
Her eyes bore into you, more and more each time. And each time, even if it is for less than a heartbeat, the oh so angry orange turns into a light, light Pacific blue, but then it escalates back to the orange, back to the Lexa she thinks she is.
You don't know Lexa. Not yet. But the way she guards herself, the way she thinks she knows herself, the way she is, you know that there is something beyond the cloak-and-dagger armour, beyond just killing every person she doesn't trust.
It slips. She slips.
You know it's your fault, as Finn is at stake. It's your fault—it's your fault.
You turn to Lexa, and she is left unscathed, your words, your jumbled-up letters, all backwards, all topsy-turvy, all slipping past her. It slips. She slips. You slip.
You plead. You tell her over and over again, take me! take me instead!, and each time the same words, they fly pass her head.
"Please," you start again. "Show my people how powerful you were," Her power is what keeps her sane; her power is what makes her who she is. Without it, she is nothing, because she's depended her life on such power for too long, it is what she is. "Show them we can be merciful," The moments where Lexa becomes a blue sky, the moments when she is genuine, when she is the Lexa buried deep within her soul—then, she is merciful. Then, she is human. "Show them you're not a savage."
Lexa's eyes show nothing, nothing but black. "We are what we are."
That Lexa is gone. Maybe it is only when you are alone she can see who she really is. Maybe what you saw was just a dream. Maybe everything is.
—
The fireballs crackle, yet the coldness sears through your skin like a silent prayer, a prayer that does nothing but take everything away. You are standing next to her.
Lexa is the first to speak. "I lost someone special to me, too," The pause, it is deafening. "Her name was Costia."
The rest she says goes in a blur, and you don't what to do. "I'm sorry." (You are, really. You are, because she is Lexa, and she deserves someone. Someone like Costia.)
"I thought I'd never get over it, get over the pain," her voice is pulled taut. "But I—I did."
"How?"
"For recognising it for what it is," she replies, and stops to stare deep into your eyes, a deep connection between brown and green, light and dark, good and evil. You stare back, and for a second, none of you speak. You begin to think if she will even carry on. But she does. "Weakness."
"What is?" you say, pained. The concept of loss, of death, it wrings your ears, and twists and turns your soul. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. "Love?" Lexa nods. "So you just stopped caring? About everyone?" She nods again. "I'd never do that."
"Then you put the people you care about in danger. And the pain will never go away," Once again, she turns to you, a movement in which somehow, she changes. Somehow, it shows you something, but you can't distinguish what it is. She's changed in a matter of milliseconds, and you don't know how. "The dead are gone, Clarke. The living are hungry."
And when she leaves, it all snaps.
A new colour—indigo.
—
Something happens, that makes you wake up. It's when you realise that you are not who you are, but instead someone so diverse to you that it's hard to imagine the person you were before was, in fact, you.
Everyone has a breaking point—it's when a string attached to your soul, the string that was the only thing that kept you going, the only thing that kept you sane, like power was to Lexa, like hunger was to her people, like love was, is to you, breaks.
Sometimes, that string is a person, a human, a soul.
And sometimes, humans break.
("Your new—new C-Commander will… protect y-you…"
"I don't want a new Commander! I want you!")
—
It's when she kisses you, does it all change.
An orange turns into a lilac, and the lilac stays.
She calls for you, and so you come, because she is the Commander. (It is not the only reason you come—you come because you want to see her again.)
"You sent for me?" you ask.
"Yes," she says. "Octavia has nothing to fear for me," Pause. "I do trust you. Clarke." (And then there is that spurt of blue again, trusting, pacifying.)
Trust. Lexa. "I know how hard that is for you."
Lexa looks into you, as if she can read you. "You think our ways are harsh. But it's the only way we survive."
"Maybe life should more than just surviving. Don't we deserve better than that?"
"Maybe we do," her voice is raspy, and weak.
And then your world spins around—lips collide, and the colours shift, and the world doesn't stop spinning, and spinning, and spinning. You try and fight back in this love-war, but it is Lexa who is rougher, it is Lexa who is in command, it is Lexa who has the upper hand. (It is Lexa, all Lexa, but you don'tcare—not any more.)
Then you let it all shatter.
"I'm sorry," (It's those two words again.) "I'm not… ready… to be with anyone," You then utter the unbearable truth. "Not yet."
—
("Stay with me, Lexa, please, please..."
It is one movement with her head that changes everything. She nods, and smiles.
Her voice is the sound of angels. "C-Clarke… may we meet again. One day.")
—
Niylah reminds you of her. But she is colourless. She is nothingness. She is like the rest of the world.
When she first kisses you, you are unsure how to respond—Am I doing the right thing? Is this how you do it? You kissed back, not because Nylah made you feel, in a way, aroused, but because you missed a girl's lips on yours, dancing around like the whole world was on fire.
You end up in her bed, kissing some more, again, and again. It feels good—that is moreover an understatement; you feel so salient, on top of the world. And it's Lexa's name you call out, not Niyl-something's, but Lexa's.
"Lexa, oh Lexa."
—
"Hello, Clarke."
You are in pain—such pain, and she is the medicine. Yet something is different, a contrast from what she was when she kissed you, and was rejected, but more from when you first met, blinded, controlled. She is not orange any more. She is red.
She tells the others to leave, and they are left alone. How long was it since they were left like this?
You are in too much pain. She is red, she is red, she is red—she is no longer the Lexa you thought you knew. She let people die. She didn't care. She was being power-taken Lexa.
She is red, she is red, she is red. She has changed. She has changed. What are you meant to do? What are you meant to do?
—
Her hair is swept to one side, and her hands are laced into yours—her mumbles are sweet melodies, and you smile. Her red has died out, and instead, she is a light pink, a light pink that somehow outshines the sun. The pink is so glorious, so powerful, so beautiful. The intricate feeling of skin on skin, and the words that fly out of her mouth ("May we meet again.")—that is when you know that Lexa is your breaking point, your fatal flaw, and everything you have. Lexa gives you something that the whole world can never give you.
You wait, you wait for tomorrow. You wait with her, because time travels thrice as quick. You apologise, you apologise because you want to make sure that she knows what you want her to be. You want her to be the Lexa you always knew was inside of her. You want her to be yours.
You lean in as the sun shines through, you kiss until it stops. Your eyes are filled with such longing, such lust, such pink.
"Lexa," you grouse, in a stolen moment, as you trail your fingers down her arms, down her back. "What colour do you see me as?"
Lexa cranes her head up. "I see… I see…"
"It's okay if you don't see anything," you say in your quietest voice.
"No," she shakes her head. "I see a lot of colours. I see them all, because you are Clarke Griffin—unpredictable, immaculate, a leader, an ambassador. Red, orange, yellow. Green, blue and purple. They all make up you. In fact," She moves to her right, towards you. "you are the most colourful thing I have ever seen, Clarke," She edges even closer. "And above all, I see… pink. Light pink."
You kiss her again.
—
If you could turn back time—if you could just… just play with Fate, and if you could have just pushed her away, even if it would mean putting your life in peril. If only—if only.
Lexa looks up to you. "You… were r-right, Clarke…"
You shake your head over and over again—"Lexa, please…"
"Life is more than just surviving."
She is almost there—her fight, it is almost over. She is surrendering—she has to. You look straight into her, and wonder how you got here. It is that moment, when you look over everything, through the good and the bad, through the regrets, through the happiness, through the endless trees of doubt and the beautiful flowers sprung against the dews so you can hang onto hope.
You want to say it—you want to tell her you love her. In the past hours, that is all you have felt for her—pink. Love. She is your whole world, and when she goes, what will you have left?
But you can't say it—it's at the tip of your tongue, but disappearing as soon as you open your mouth. It's a loop, a constant one, and a circle has no end (except for Lexa's). You love Lexa. You love her so much—so much.
But you don't know her well enough. She needs to live, and then you will be more than just sure that you love her, completely, honestly, wholly. You need her to know that you…
"C-Clarke…"
You kiss her instead, and it's a beautiful lie.
Your whole world, black-and-white, shaded with grey, and charcoal, and dark, dark blood, has lost its only colour source. Lexa was the jewel of the planet, and now, like the rest of the world, she is gone. She is the same—cold, colourless, nothingness. Her armour has fallen. She is gone.
It ends with a flash, the kind where it throws you off your feet and blasts you a million aeons forward, to a world where it is darker, but clearer, in a sense where it is more merciless, more agonizing. In a world where you realise that you need to face facts; a world where you need to believe in death, and accept it, and get over it; a world where you need to recognise love for what it is—weakness. The flash, it is the kind, where the effect is so incandescent even when the girl you love has gone, when her colour, so bright, so beautiful, so powerful, has gone. When she is nothing but black-and-white shades of grey,
—
Every night, you watch the sun set. It's a beautiful sight, one so unlike the dark swirls of pure agony when it reaches midnight—where warriors meet, where people die. (Where defenses are built, only to be knocked down again.)
You watch silently as the orange takes over the sky (pink, may you add, one lighter than most, mixed with sweet, sweet innocent white), and fills the darkness. The orange meets red, and a fire starts.
fin.