This is def shitty but it's the first time I've written something since 307. I've tried several times for the past few days but I was always met with a blank document. This is not a fix it fic, but a closure fic. I just needed to write this. Apologies for the shittiness.

Beautiful tousled hair, soft smiles and bright green eyes painted a perfect picture in her mind as the doors to Lexa's room shut behind her, leaving the brunette naked and glowing — promises of may we meet agains and maybe somedays etched into smooth tanned skin by a pair of hungry lips and eager tongue — under soft white sheets and warm comfortable furs, one hand propped against her cheek as she watched Clarke leave. That was an image Clarke never wanted to forget.

But as she left Polis with Murphy trailing closely behind, without so much as a quick glance over her shoulder to look at the capitol she'd been close to call home, the only image that plagued her mind was black blood flowing out of Lexa's gaping wound, green eyes glazed over in pain and then in acceptance when she realised her fight was over, and the white furs that were drenched in thick black blood after her body was taken away by Titus.

There were supposed to be maybe somedays and a life that was about more than just surviving. The happiness and hopefulness that Clarke was granted with earlier thrived beneath her chest like flowers blooming and dewy leaves dripping of rainwater, air clean and fresh around her like she could finally breathe and live again, for that maybe someday and more, but it was stripped away and ripped out of her chest not even two minutes after tasting Lexa's skin against her lips and hearing those unforgettable whimpers and breathtaking gasps.

Clarke tasted happiness and freedom and love along ridges of skin and beautiful tattoos during that short but sweet, memorable time with Lexa — she was sure she had found her soulmate.

But Wanheda didn't deserve happiness and freedom and love and a soulmate. Death would always follow her, cling to her like a shadow behind her back, dark and secretive until it decides to come out and play.

Except life wasn't a game, it should be about more than just surviving, but now it was merely time she had to waste before she could see her soulmate again.

And how long was it going to take?

Dried black blood caked under her nails and cling stubbornly onto her skin and tears continued to fall silently down her cheeks as her horse brought her closer to Arkadia. The blood on her hands was evidence and a vicious reminder that Lexa's death was her fault. Clarke might not have been the one who pulled the trigger, but she was equally at fault and guilty. She was part of how and why 'blood must not have blood' was born, why the grounders resented Lexa's new policy, and she might as well have been the one who shot Lexa too.

She was as guilty as they come, like the worst criminals that lived in maximum security prisons with high and impenetrable walls. Except her feet were free to roam the world and people had deemed her worthy of leading.

What a sick world she lived in. She deserved be to locked in a cell and throw away the key.

Clarke squeezed her eyes shut and let her horse bring her closer to Arkadia. To home. Not home. To death. Maybe?

How long more before she could see Lexa again?

She strode past the grounder army as if she walked on water, warriors parting like the sea for Wanheda as she focused on the metal gates of Arkadia. Don't be afraid, Lexa's words echoed in her head. The blockade was in full effect and the kill order still standing despite Lexa's death. She wondered briefly if the grounders knew about Lexa, but Clarke couldn't focus on anything else but those metal gates. She needed someone, she needed her mother and her wonderful motherly hugs, the ones she used to dislike back when they were on the Ark, disliked how it suffocated her in all the wrong ways.

Clarke walked alone, parting ways with Murphy before she reached the blockade, something about never stepping into that place again. She walked alone, despite Octavia's protest. Are you trying to get yourself killed? She heard. But she kept walking. She was Wanheda after all, death loomed over her head like a constant grey cloud.

But she made it to the gates in one piece — one fragile, barely holding together piece — and it opened just enough for her to squeeze into the camp and one second later, Clarke's name could be heard as Abby came sprinting towards her daughter.

Clarke was surprised it took her this long before her knees finally gave out, but with Abby's arms secure and safe around her, Clarke fell to the ground as her vision blurred for the hundredth time that day, tears overwhelming her yet again but Abby was there to hold her this time, as her shoulders shook fiercely and her cries echoed throughout Arkadia, heartbreaking and gut wrenching for all to witness.

"She's dead," it was broken and muffled, but it was there nonetheless and her mum heard it the first time. "Lexa's dead."

For a moment, war was delayed. Nothing else mattered but the broken girl in her mother's arms. The same girl who was named Wanheda, the Slayer of the Mountain. The same girl who kept giving and giving, and life kept taking and taking from her.

One day, one day there would be nothing else left for her to give, nothing else for life to take.

Maybe that day had arrived too soon.

The Arkers looked on with curious glances, raised eyebrows and hushed questions. Clarke's pain was palpable in the thick air, some shifted uncomfortably as waves of sobs rang within the confines of metal fences.

"She's dead, mum."

Abby whispered soft reassurances into long blonde hair, stroke her daughters back as they both sat on the ground, unaware of watchful eyes. With every painful sob that came from Clarke, each one more painful than the other, Abby knew.

She knew how much the former Commander meant to Clarke. She knew without a doubt that Clarke loved Lexa. And Abby stared up at the sky, now decorated with bright, blinking stars and pray that this particular death wouldn't change Clarke in ways she couldn't possibly imagine. But Abby knew Clarke's life had changed ever since the moment they first met — despite the circumstances of war and death.

"I loved her."

"I know, honey. I know."

Perhaps someday Clarke'd see Lexa again, in that same bed, with the same tousled hair, soft smile and bright green eyes, smooth tanned skin ready for Clarke to explore and whisper words she'd failed to say.

I love you.

May we meet again.