As the city collapses around her, Clarke stumbles into consciousness in the throne room. Gasping as she awakens, stumbling forward off of the throne. She feels her throat close up, eyes burning with tears. She's not even aware of whether or not it worked. Faintly in the background of her mind, people are shouting, but she doesn't know if the words are directed at her or not.
Clutching her chest, fighting to get air into her lungs, she falls backwards. One hand catches on the throne and she pushes, wrist collapsing shakily as she crawls onto the throne, pulling her knees to her chest.
I doesn't feel like a panic attack. She's had those before. Her lungs are screaming, but she keeps her mouth closed tight. Her head is ringing and her eyes are shut tight against the tears that threaten to burst forth. White bursts behind her eyes.
When it feels like she's going to pass out, she opens her mouth to breathe. Sobs spill out from her lips instead and the tears she had tried so hard to hold in pour down her cheeks. Air still won't enter her lungs properly, leaving her gasping through her sobs, choking. Her hands go from wrapped around her legs to holding onto the back of the throne, and her head lolls to the side.
She's choking on her own tears, on air. She starts to cough between sobs, watching as red liquid spills forth. She doesn't have the strength to reign in her tears, though, only to lean forward as they drip along with blood onto the floor.
Her head is still pounding, filled with white noise. A thousand images of Lexa fly past her eyes, and all of them painful. She's feels as though she's being ripped open, torn limb from limb and stars burst behind her eyes as she realizes how little air has passed into her lungs in the last five minutes. Her head feels like it about to explode with pressure.
She holds her chest tighter, beating on it, willing her body to take in the air it desperately needs. Still she gasps and heaves, unable to gain any sense of the ground or the people around her. All she can feel are her hands clutching the back of the chair. Her knuckles turn white and her fingers are burning with the effort of keeping her upright. The rest of her body feels suspended outside reality. Colors whirl around her vision, voices calling about around her, and faintly she feels a prick in one of her arms.
She hears someone screaming to stop the pain. She doesn't realize it's her. Her throat burns with blood and her voice is a harsh rasp. She can't stop shaking. She keeps choking on tears and blood.
Out of the haze, arms wrap tight around her middle. They squeeze until almost painful, and then they release, only to squeeze again.
Her lungs fill with air. She gasps out, drawn out of her state, lurches forward and vomits on to the stone floor. Tears are still falling from her eyes, and she sobs even as she continues heaving. The arms wrapped around her have changed into hands pulling her hair back and knees pressed into her back, helping to hold her up.
Faintly, she realizes there's only one person small enough to squeeze into such a small space behind her.
She leans back, head resting against the back of the throne. The tears refuse to stop, and so does her shaking. Behind her, Octavia says nothing, only continues to stroke her hair, knees pressed on either side of her spine.
She can see her mother now, by her side, hands floating near her, ready to reach out and hold her if asked. Murphy and Bellamy stand further back, out of sight, but she can hear their voices, soft in the background. The chairs that barricade the door are being thrown down. She hears them fall, but doesn't bother turning to look.
Someone opens the doors. More light floods into the room. And she's not sure who enters. Good or bad, she doesn't have the energy anymore to fight them off. All she has is her grief, and a pressing sadness that makes her oh so tired, right down to her bones. Someone yells something in trigedasleng, but she can't comprehend what their saying. Everyone except Octavia feels very far away.
She feels Octavia's hand on her back.
"We have to go now Clarke," she whispers.
Clarke nods, stumbling from the throne, passing the others, stepping through the pooled black blood on the floor. Octavia follows, one hand on her upper back and the other wrapped around her wrist, guiding her out of the throne room.
Together they walk down the stairs, and she hears footsteps behind them, but doesn't have the energy to turn. Octavia leads her out of the tower, out of Polis, all the way back to the rover seated deep in the forest. Helping her into the back Octavia turns back to the people behind them. Abby, Kane, Brian, Miller and Bellamy hand over blankets and supplies, and pile them into the rover. Octavia climbs into the back with her. Abby, Brian and Miller follow. Bellamy shuts the door, and climbs into the driver's seat.
Octavia takes the blankets and wraps them around Clarke, piling them up until she can barely move. Then she curls next to her, moving her so Clarke is leaning up against her.
The rover starts to move.
Clarke is still shaking. Tears are still coming down her cheeks, with no sign of stopping.
Across the rover, Miller holds Brian's hand in a death grip, head bowed in sadness.
Neither of them understand the loss Clarke is experiencing. None of them are. But while Octavia, and even Abby, can relate, they cannot.
Brian squeezes his hand back.
Clarke feels old. A hundred years old. She can barely move. She barely knows how she made it all the way to the rover. All she wants to do is sleep, but she can't bear to close her eyes, afraid of what she might see.
Against her will, the darkness consumes her.