A/N: Hello again, friends. This is a sort of revised version of my other beginning 'Jus Drein Jus Daun' fic because that one was so scattered and just... eh, I wanted a better start, one I could work with. So here's this. While I hope to be able to continue this at a good pace, as always, that probably won't happen, so BE WARNED: this will probably be slow-going.
My reasons for this fic were amplified by 4x10. I want to explore Clarke and Roan's dynamic further (as a brotp), and I had already wanted to explore Bellamy and Lexa's, so I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone. So just know that while ships, of course, exist, this fic will largely surround more brotp dynamics than otp ones. So if you came for heavy Clexa or Bellarke, you won't find it here, tho both themes will probably come up (v lightly) at some point. I'm not 100% sure, but I think Clexa will be endgame in this, though, but there won't be like... smut lol.
Spoilers for Season 3. Takes place in an Alternate 3x05, post 3x04. Circumstances, maybe heavy rain, delayed Lexa and Clarke's trip to deliver Nia's body to Arkadia by like a day, so they didn't stumble upon the slaughtered army. Indra signaled for Kane (Octavia) of her own volition after bleeding out for long enough by herself, and Octavia helped her back to Polis where she delivers the news to Lexa and Clarke, and the whole Blood Must Not Have Blood clexa conversation happens there.
IMPORTANT: You will know it's Trigedasleng when dialogue is underlined and italicized.
Rated T for violence and language, probably.
000
It's been three days.
Three days since two mud-ridden figures stumbled into her throne room, one severely injured and nearly unconscious, the other supporting her and carrying a warning.
Three days since thin lips bore a message that stole her breath and made her knees feel weak even as she rose from her seat.
Three days since she was informed that three hundred of her people were slaughtered in their sleep by Skaikru as a declaration of war.
Three days since Clarke rushed to the familiar news-bearer with questions on her tongue and horror in her eyes, their conversation a muddled rush in her ears as Lexa's mind struggled to process what was being said.
Three days since Lexa felt the raw fury that can only compare to that of a lion losing its pride, a cold sort of decisiveness taking place in her gut as she snarled her thoughts, her reply to the shattered trust dealt by Skaikru, barely aware of her own words as they spilled from her mouth.
Three days since Clarke talked her down to the point of pleading, eyes bright and stormy all at once, thoughts concise and perhaps naive but, as always, striking a cord somewhere deep within Lexa.
Three days since The Commander bent to the philosophy of a Sky Person even while her barely-conscious second stared on, almost aghast.
Three days since jus drein nou jus daun.
Blood must not have blood.
Three days since Clarke kom Skaikru had to leave Polis in favor of her people.
Three days since Lexa reluctantly understood and watched with blank eyes as she left, though still commanding that Roan kom Azgeda and one of her best soldiers accompany her; a precaution.
It's also been two days since a scout rushed inside, the third person in twenty-four hours to step breathless into her presence with ill news to relay.
Two days since nearby villages to Arkadia rallied together to serve their revenge, their grief, their loyalty to their fallen people.
Two days since Arkadia fell and Skaikru scattered, captured or taking to the trees, willing themselves to get lost in the wilderness.
Two days since Lexa sent out two of her soldiers to catch up to Wanheda and inform her of this.
Two days of being trapped in her own city, doing her best to appease her own people as they cried out for justice, blood, for what their enemies had done, all while her thoughts stirred among themselves, revolving around golden hair and crystal eyes scrambling through the forest with only two to aid in their defense.
Two days of chaos, but also something else; an undertone of surprising quiet that she tried to logically explain.
In only three days, everything she's worked toward appears to have collapsed all at once.
Fury is a whirlwind trapped in her chest, held at bay by the words of a warrior from the sky that has captivated her spirit. So she thinks of the warrior when she's tempted to give into her peoples' demands and give Skaikru what it deserves, running Clarke's words on a loop in her mind until her blood stops boiling.
She meditates more, eyes closed and spirit wandering, entwined with the absence by her side where she wishes somebody was, but the fury ebbs away as the hours crawl by.
She's almost regained her lost ground, her stability, when a fourth someone bursts into her throne room at the dawn of the fourth day since the chaos began, two guards with a lax body pinned between them following close behind.
Scuffed boots thunk against the throne as she stands to her feet. Her face is a carefully crafted mask of indifference, yet today she doesn't have to try; she's used to this at the moment.
A man, found a mile outside of Polis near the road. A man whose features are indistinguishable from the amount of mud caked in his skin, but they have all the defining features they need.
Skaikru's insignia.
She sees it before they even tell her, eyes drawn to the familiar design even when it's blurred with dirt and shreds of foliage.
For a moment, all she can do is stare, flashes of blood and rain and death. At the hands of this man and his people.
She breathes.
'Someone has to take the first step.'
"Put the baga ona cell," she interjects, voice calm, and her guards set into action, dragging the man down the hall in the direction of their dungeons.
She follows.
"Heda-" A hand raised and they quiet their confusion.
"Is he injured?" she asks after a moment, eyes adjusting to the darkening halls, lit by torches instead sunlight through windows as they go deeper into the building.
"He bleeds," is all Jawen says, the unspoken clearly heard.
Yes, he is injured.
No, we did not check to what extent.
She nods, watching distantly as they find an empty cell and dump him inside, a shackle going around one of his wrists.
"Get a healer," she orders, voice still reigned as she steps inside the cell with the honon. She doesn't look back to check the others' expressions, their apprehension and offense; she just listens to the pregnant pause and then the sound of their retreating footsteps.
Silence once again.
Now that she's alone, the prickle of anger mixed with vulnerability trails along her skin. For all she knows, this could be Pike (as Octavia called him) himself, the man responsible for three hundred deaths and the breaking of her coalition. Or it could be a nameless soldier who simply follows orders as her own do.
'Someone has to take the first step.'
Unfolding her hands from behind her back, she crouches next to the stranger, gaze sharp as it scans his frame for visible injury.
In the quiet, she can now hear his stuttering breaths. Puzzled, she reaches out thin fingers to rub some of the dirt from his neck, just barely noticing the dark bruises there beneath the grime.
Strangled.
She continues her search, tentatively unzipping the man's jacket and peeling it from his body, discarding it by the door. Extra layer gone, she can see the deep red soaked into the fabric of his shirt, wrapped around his stomach like fingers. She carefully rolls him onto his side, her eyes zeroing in on the source of the wound. Just below his left ribcage, lower back.
Stabbed.
She lifts the shirt, wincing as the dried blood sticks to his skin.
Though she's not a healer, she's seen her fair share of stab wounds; this one should heal quickly if they can avoid infection. But the flesh around the wound is already raised and pink, inflamed, so they will have to hurry.
Moving on to his face, she does her best to wash the mud away with just her hands, pulling clumps of earth from the locks of hair framing his features. As his face becomes clearer, she takes note of the flakes of blood under his nose and the bruises coloring his eye, his cheekbone, his chin, but also...
Something.
An irritant, itching at the back of her mind. She frowns.
Tanned skin veiling muscle, thick and dark hair...
Freckles.
A bolt runs through her, electricity, her brows smoothing as it hits her.
The man twitches in his sleep.
She knows him, a face among Skaikru, sharp and vivid, always there in the back. With that other woman named after a bird who was nearly punished in Gustus's place. Hovering like a wolf, looming like a wall even as she gave him no thought at the time, not beyond fleeting notice.
'But you worry about him more.'
She leans back on her heels, reevaluating his features and holding them to the face in her mind.
Belomi.
Dirty eyelids suddenly open in a blink, revealing a glazed brown, and she pulls back just as he lunges, hand instinctively going to her hip, her sword, even as she steps out of reach, the shackle tethering him to the wall. He struggles for only a second before he appears to process his situation, body listing almost immediately. Adrenaline sings in her veins, deep jitters running through her bones as her dilemma becomes more apparent. Belomi's eyes flutter, but he stays conscious, scooting away from her to lean against stone, gaze wary and watching. Guarded.
'Bellamy was a part of this.'
Octavia's words.
'He's with Pike.'
Bloodlust coils like a snake in her chest, fire heating her skin, her eyes, and her fingers curl around the handle of her blade.
'You care about him.'
Eyes, blue, so blue, defensive.
Vulnerable.
'I care about all of them.'
Her eyes close of their own accord, resigned, and her hand inches away from her weapon.
Just a moment of what this man will see as weakness. Then she straightens, staring down at his form against the wall with what she hopes is once again indifference, or at least indecipherable.
"Bellamy," is what she says, maybe a question to make sure, maybe a statement because there's no way she's wrong.
He only narrows his eyes.
The summoned healer picks that moment to scuttle in, supplies half-haphazardly wobbling in her arms, eyes wide.
"My apologies for the delay, Heda," she pants, and Lexa reaches out a hand to steady her, then nods, gesturing to Bellamy.
"There is an infected wound on his lower back and some swelling in his throat," she tells her, not entirely acquainted with specific healing methods, but well aware the information she gives is necessary. The woman, Moyri, bobs her head and kneels. Supplies are set in an arc to her left while she eyes her patient to the right. Her gaze flits to the piece of clothing by the cell door.
The jacket.
"You will heal him as if it were my life in the balance." It leaps from her lips like a threat before she can stop it, hair like sand and eyes like deep water swimming through her mind as she speaks. The woman freezes, lips parted and eyes rounding to discs. "Do you understand?"
A hurried nod.
"Good... I will monitor you as you work." Anxiety blossoms over Moyri as if alive, but Lexa's eyes are on Bellamy, almost daring him to try and harm one of her healers.
She lets some of the flames licking at her lungs manifest in her gaze.
I'm doing this for Clarke.
Surprisingly, perhaps unsurprisingly, she sees recognition reflected back at her, and she knows he comprehends, knows that his life has no value outside of Clarke's.
The only reason he's alive is because Clarke cares for him.
And because something about Clarke's words, beautifully crafted and carved, refined like pottery and etched into Lexa's skin, it reaches a part of her that is both rational and sentimental. A part of her that she can't keep from caring for this wise and tattered soul, but also hears the sense it has to offer.
She cannot continue on the path of jus drein jus daun if she wants what is best for her people. Because there will always be enemies to slaughter her soldiers in their sleep. Enacting revenge will only lengthen the process of death dealt and death received, a cycle.
'Someone has to take the first step.'
Blood must not have blood—it flows like a mantra in her head now, a shallow riverbed but running deeper, Clarke's voice, strong, sure, grounding.
'Let it be you.'
Belomi kom Skaikru will live.
000
A/N: Lexa is the leader of the Clarke Griffin fanclub. Her and Bellamy can battle it out for the position.
It should be noted that I'm aware Lexa most likely wouldn't have a reason to send Roan with Clarke. But I wanted to explore both of these potential brotp dynamics, so I wrote it anyway. Lexa can trust his strength at least, and while she kicked his ass in their fight, maybe their clash of blades gave her insight to his honorable character, idk, some spiritual exchange shit. LET ME LIVE OK.
also A.L.I.E. does not exist in this fic byyyee. (also also, the title is a work in progress) Tell me what you guys thinks. ^_^