"I'll keep them safe."

Those were the last words given to her as a strong hand grasped at her elbow. Lincoln pulled in close, his other hand resting on Clarke's shoulder. She could see it in the eyes of the warrior, the sympathy and pain that swam behind them. He knew she wasn't coming back. As soon as his name had fallen from her lips, he had to have known.

She asked him a small mercy. A way out. A way not to see the pity and misplaced pride in the eyes of her people every time she looked at them. To not be plagued by what she had done to return them home.

And so he gave it.

She expected her friend to tell her no, to protect her like he always had. Every since Clarke had know him, he had always been a protector of those he loved, every since he found Octavia, broken and bruised. So she was surprised when he didn't comment or hesitate. But she was grateful. Grateful for the soft-spoken words, and for the promise to her people.

"I can't go back, Lincoln."

He'd nodded gravely. A deep seeded understanding that seemed to go beyond what any of her people could offer. He wordlessly handed her his leather bound journal, showing her where to find his shelter. And also where to find his capital. The last of which saw a surprised flicker seep behind his dark eyes at the question. But again, he didn't hesitate.

"May we meet again," she breathed, before releasing her grip.

He responded without words, Clarke watching him turn his back to catch up to Octavia. His hand slipped gently into hers, Clarke's view of the pair disappearing into the broken line of her people.

She didn't bother being silent. They knew she was there. She could see them through the trees, their bows taut and ready. But she kept her eyes on the gates ahead of her, the late afternoon sun shining at her back, casting a dark orange haze over the rusted steel and high walls of the capital.

Whispers followed her in Trigedasleng from guard to guard as she passed. But no one touched her, Clarke walking purposefully to the imposing front gates. Twigs and underbrush gave way to her, the sounds of her footfalls melding with that of Polis. She could hear the distant commotion of a city alive with conversation and child's laughter.

The sounds of life.

Innocence.

Something she no longer was, and barely even remembered.

It had been two months since she'd left Camp Jaha, two months since she'd said goodbye to Bellamy, and to her mother, and her friends. And two months since she'd asked Lincoln for a way out.

By the time Clarke had left his burrow there was a frost covering the damp earth, dusting the surrounding trees and freezing the air. It had turned bitterly cold after the first four weeks, the cave walls bracing her during the coming winter.

And by the time she'd left, there was hardly a wall that wasn't covered by charcoal and limestone. The dark cave rock was alive with images of a far off life, of a happiness she scarcely remembered. Her tiny cell on the Ark housed sketches of a life she only dreamed of, and now the cave walls held those same dreams. And it was all Clarke could do, to put her mind at ease, to have the vivid memories fade, even for a moment. To have the bloodshed and the weight lifted.

But she thanked Lincoln every day. For giving her somewhere away from the Mountain, and TonDC, and Camp Jaha, and the bunker that she and Finn called home. Away from everything she knew. It was a kindness she never thought she could repay.

But even as the weeks floated on, and the seasons changed, seeing Clarke heal and forget and memories fade to a background hum, a weight that never lifted, one no amount of charcoal or paint or time could ever erase, was one of those eyes. That green grey that she saw every time she closed her own. Before the Mountain, and the faces of her people came, it was always those eyes. Etched in war paint and darkness. Like the most beautiful nightmare realised.

She remembered the words of her best friend. Of Bellamy. Of those kind words that he'd offered Charlotte all those months ago. The thought made her throat thick, and her chest heavy. But she had to go. She had to face her. It was the only way this pain and those eyes were to fade. She had to face her demons. Even if by the light of day, that demon took her breath away for an entirely different reason.

The guard closest to Clarke watched her with an emotionless stare, his hand gripping his spear that was imbedded in the cold earth. She stayed silent, gauging him. But he didn't shift, waiting for any sign of a threat from the Sky girl, perhaps.

Clarke noted that the grounders here were different somehow. Cleaner, their war paint sharper, and their clothes darker than that of the outlying villages and outposts she'd come to know and pass. Like in the shadow of the wall and beyond, there was no need for camouflage or to stay hidden. They stood in plain sight. There was something sinister about them. Dangerous even.

When the man didn't speak, Clarke opened her mouth. "My name is Clarke-" Her voice was tight and bolder than she suddenly felt. It sounded foreign, not having heard it in so long.

"Kom Skaikru," he finished, his tone deep, foreboding. "You've been expected."

"Expected?" Clarke shadowed. He inclined he's head. Clarke hesitated. "I'm here to see your leader. Lexa."

Saying her name out loud scolded her throat, a mix of anger and sadness coming to the surface. Mistrust. And for a brief moment, Clarke swore she saw the hint of a smirk on the guard's face before the gates clunked behind him, the sound of heavy gears grinding as it opened.

He stepped back, letting Clarke see her first glimpse of the capital; a long paved street, teeming with life. But before she was allowed passage, the guard stopped her with an outstretched arm, turning his hand palm up and looking at her silently, expectant.

Clarke understood, upholstering her gun and her knife, and placing them in his hand reluctantly, the guard nodding and stepping back.

"Our leader will see you now." His tone was dry, almost a jest. But Clarke dismissed it. The man nodded at two guards just inside the city walls, followed by a foreign sound akin to a grunt.

Both turned on their heels to set a pace that Clarke followed. And as she did, her eyes went wide, stepping past the heavy steel doors and into the capital that was blanketed in the orange haze of sunset.

Polis was a labyrinth, that much she could tell. Stone pavers and long forgotten roads sprayed out like a spider's web, covered in moss and overgrown vines. But they didn't seem out of place, like the people of Polis chose to keep them. They crept up cement and brick that lined the streets, covering houses and buildings and lampposts.

Clarke suspected most of the city's infrastructure withstood the bombs, many buildings still standing if not corroded and shells of their former selves. But it was easy to see the city that once was 100 years ago.

The streets were busy, crawling with people. Elders. Children. Families. But these clearly were not warriors. Besides the guards, none were wearing battle armour or carrying weapons. They were in plain clothes, pants and shirts, jackets and wraps. And they were clean, no marks or ink etched their skin. Nor did they have any sign of the thin hair braids of grounder warriors.

They were just people, not seen to be touched by war or despair.

Lexa had been truthful when she spoke of her home.

It was beautiful.

People turned to stare at her, those same whispers following her through the streets. Clarke did her best to ignore them, setting her jaw.

She passed what looked like a public market, stalls and street music singing out into the darkening sky, before being turned down a pathway lined with old statues and the remains of a fountain in the centre. Her two guards lead her to a large set of old wood doors, with two more grounders stationed outside.

Clarke's heart pitched tightly, knowing what lay beyond; or more specifically who. She stole herself as they wordlessly opened the doors, leading Clarke inside a candlelit passageway that opened up into a large room with a throne in the centre toward the back of the space. A staircase looped up on both sides, leading to other areas of the two-story building behind a series of closed doors.

Her guards stayed by the opening to the passageway, Clarke looking back at them before approaching slowly until she was in the centre of the room, standing several feet away from the throne and the one sitting upon it.

Clarke expected to be met by familiar green eyes staring back at her, to feel the addictive brush of that gaze over her skin, as much as it would hurt to do so. But these eyes weren't those of her Commander, dark and unwavering.

This woman was not Lexa.

She stared back at Clarke from the oversized chair of branches and vines. She was closer to the age of her mother, with darker skin, and intricate tattoos that wove up her bare forearms, stopping when they reached her impressive armour.

Much like Lexa, her dark hair was in braids, but her head bore a crown made of twisted thorns, framing her strong cheekbones and jaw.

"Clarke of the Sky People." Her voice was smooth and stoic, filling the large space with a calm ease. "We meet at last."

"I'm sorry," Clarke muttered, breaking eye contact to look up at her surroundings, as she took a cautious step forward. "But, who are you?"

The woman gave a curt but amused smile. The right side of her head was shorn to a buzz, a braid lining the new hairline created in its wake. "My name is Dontania," she replied coolly. "And I am the Queen of the Trigeda. I believe you've met my Commander."

"Queen?" Clarke echoed.

"I've heard much about you, Clarke." Her voice was like ice, but wasn't without kindness, almost commanding. "Your legend truly precedes you. Though I imagined you'd be taller."

"I'm sorry, my legend?"

"Are you not Clarke of the Sky People?" she edged, feigned surprise colouring her tone. "The girl who fell from the sky. That can turn monsters back into men." She paused, her dark eyes roaming over Clarke. "And the girl that brought the Mountain to its knees."

Clarke was taken aback by the way the Queen spoke of her life. Like she assumed to know anything about her. She stole herself, hardening. "No offense to your legends," she gritted, bitter. "But I can assure you, the real story is quite different."

"Be that as it may, Clarke. While your actions may have all but ended the alliance my Commander had formed between the 12 clans, and her actions in turn may have very well ended the truce she so generously extended to your people," she said, matter-of-fact. "That is still to be told. But I do believe the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Until they are seen to be otherwise."

Clarke kept silent, shifting under the Queen's strong gaze. She relaxed in her chair. "So please," she implored, her tone lighter. "Join me for supper. We have much I'd like to discuss. A guard will show you to your room, where you can wash up and change into something more… appropriate."

Dontania looked Clarke up and down, a slight distaste marring her otherwise pleasant smile. Clarke looked down at her thick coat she'd removed from Lincoln's burrow and her mud covered boots. But she nodded, resisting the urge to scoff, and let the guard escort her from the room.

"And Clarke," Dontania called once she turned on her heel, Clarke glancing back at the Queen. "Welcome to Polis."

Torches lit the dark walls, their flames warming her skin as she shrugged off Lincoln's jacket and unbuckled her pants. She kicked off her boots, before brushing a hand over the thick furs that covered her bed, and the fresh clothes that had been lain out across it. There was a washtub in the corner filled with steaming water, and a tarnished full-length mirror propped against the wall to the far side.

Clarke forced back a shiver against the similarities of this scene and the one she woke to in Mount Weather when she was first welcomed by President Wallace. But she suppressed it, pushing it far from her mind as she picked up the small rag from the hot water and pressing it to her bare skin.

She felt deflated, her body heavy as she dragged the washcloth across the back of her neck. Clarke had expected to see those eyes, to face Lexa as soon as she had walked through those gates. But she now found herself losing her nerve. Wondering whether coming to Polis was foolish. The war was over. The danger was gone. And her people were safe. That should have been enough. Enough to leave her mind at easy, despite everything. But she couldn't let this one go. It all felt so unfinished. Like a melody cut short.

"Stupid," Clarke muttered to herself, tossing the cloth back into the water.

After she'd dressed in a rough leather jacket and dark pants, and a simple grey t-shirt, she slipped her own boots back on, and exited her room. A guard was waiting patiently outside her door. His weapon was sheathed, and his shoulders were relaxed. A guide. Not a guard. She had to believe that was true.

He wordlessly lead her back through the throne room, Clarke looking up at an iron chandelier that was chained to the tall ceiling, decorated with candles who's tiny flames licked light over the cold stone walls. Their orange glow cast shadows over the trees that framed the large chamber, their roots breaking through the tiled floor.

Everything about Polis was picturesque. Everything seemed to hold a level of beauty. A wonder Clarke had never seen before.

She shuffled to catch up as they crossed through one of the many doors into a long dining hall. A wooden table stretched the length of the room, covered in fruits and meats and dry breads.

But as Clarke surveyed the hall her skin went cold, and she faltered just inside the door.

Lexa was standing silently in a chair close to the Queen, her face fresh and her body stripped of armour. She was as breathtaking as Clarke remembered her. But Lexa didn't seem shocked by her presence, looking at her the way she always had, with a silent and stoic reverence.

Clarke's heart hammered beneath her jacket, feeling small under that gaze, another part of her flaring with an anger that she'd expected at finally seeing her again. It was maddening. Like her heart was waging war with her head.

"Please, sit," Dontania instructed, as Clarke approached them both. There were nearly a dozen grounders at the table, each seemingly more important than the next.

She took a seat opposite Lexa; the only one left.

As she sat, Clarke gazed around the room, trying her best to keep her eyes from the haunting green ones not three feet away. The ceiling in the hall was as high as the one in the throne room. The paint was long gone from the fixtures, replaced by a builded up of dust and grime that seemed to go synonymously with this new world. But it seemed the Trigeda welcomed it. Like they embraced the trees and vines that crept up the walls, bringing nature into their homes.

"The Commander tells me you knew my daughter." Dontania took a sip of local wine, gaining Clarke's attention from the ceiling. "That you fought by her side against the Mountain. And that I owe you her life."

Clarke's brow furrowed, her eyes darting to Lexa, uncertain. Lexa must have seen the confusion touching her features. "Anya," she provided, before taking a bite of her food.

Lexa's voice had the same affect that her gaze did, and a part of Clarke hated it. It sent her skin alight with fresh nerves. But she also welcomed it.

It was always both.

"Oh, yes," Clarke stammered, only now seeing the resemblance in the two women. In the high cheekbones and almond eyes. "I did, not well. But I did. We escaped the Mountain together before she died." Sadness seeped into her tone. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"I'm told she died well," Dontania intoned. "Which is all I can ask of my warriors."

Clarke was taken aback. She was still getting used to the detachment all grounders seemed to have toward their children, finding pride in them giving their lives for their people. It seemed so primitive, Clarke remembering the sentiment from history books, of stories told thousands of years before the bombs.

"She died trying to get a message to your Commander, which ultimately lead to the fall of Mount Weather, as you put it."

The truth of her words hit her full force. Of the lies. And the betrayal. Clarke took an uneasy breath, looking to Lexa. Her eyes were hard, but Clarke could see the telling emotions behind them. Like she always could. She could see the pain she had seen the night she walked away. From her people. From Clarke. And that thought alone almost made it hard for Clarke to keep herself even, her breath coming harder.

Dontania nodded in understanding, going back to her meal. Thoughtful and composed. Clarke took a sip of her own wine, keeping her eyes on her food. There were quiet conversations around the table between the other grounder leaders and dignitaries as they ate, reminding Clarke of the Council on the Ark.

Jaha, and Kane, and her mother had always dined in the mess hall together, away from prying eyes and sensitive ears. They always seemed so untouchable to Clarke as she was growing up. Like they knew all the world's secrets. Not knowing at the time that this was probably closer to the truth that she could have conceived. And now she was a part of it.

We really aren't so different.

Her eyes moved back to Lexa. She was speaking softly with the man next to her. A man Clarke recognised from the war council. She didn't mean to stare. In fact she made a conscious effort not to, but Lexa must have felt Clarke's gaze. She paused her conversation, her eyes catching Clarke's and holding her there, like she always could.

Clarke refused to turn away; those eyes making her feel weak. Everything around her dimmed and disappeared from view. And if Clarke was honest with herself, it was what made her leave Lincoln's burrow. Those eyes had the ability to make her forget. Better than any cure of time.

"Clarke."

Dontania was watching her, her eyes switching between her Commander and Clarke, a cautious set to her mouth. "We have many proud traditions among my people. Festivals and mournings. After war, such as the one of Mount Weather, once our warriors return home, they receive a mark to their bodies, symbolising their bravery. Their fearlessness is inked onto their flesh for all their people to see.

"It also serves as a remembrance to those that were lost. A healing." Dontania was matter-of-fact, her voice sure and unwavering. "One such ceremony is in a few days time, a celebration of sorts. A time for warriors of war to show their marks. Everyone is welcome to attend. You of course, as our guest, would be no exception."

Clarke looked to Lexa on reflex. Even though she wasn't asking permission, the Commander gave her a tight nod. "You should come."

"It's settled then," Dontania remarked smoothly, not waiting for any inclination from Clarke.

Clarke was suddenly drawn to Dontania's hands, and the thin vine tattoos that snaked up her arms, wondering if she was ever a warrior before she became Queen. She caught her eyes. The look in them told Clarke the Queen knew what her mind was thinking.

"Not all our marks are of war, Clarke." She held up one of her hands, turning her wrist to show the extent of her ink. "Some are given when we ascend to a throne. To mark who we are to our people." Dontania's eyes strayed to Lexa, who was watching Clarke carefully. But Lexa's eyes turned away, an almost proud smile on the Queen's lips.

Clarke knew Lexa would be marked. Being the Commander. Though she had never seen them herself. The thought sent a shiver down her back, and a flush to her cheeks.

Stupid.

So so stupid.

After she'd finished eating, Clarke excused herself. She could see in Dontania's eyes, the want to touch on the subject of Mount Weather. But the Queen held her tongue. Another time, perhaps.

Clarke thanked her for her hospitality, turning in for the night, wanting to be alone. To close her bedroom door, and shut everything else out. But whether that alone included Lexa, she wasn't sure yet. She wasn't certain she was ready to face her. Even though that's what she came for. But she also wasn't sure she wanted to leave without saying something to her, the girl standing in her chair as Clarke moved to leave the room.

"You are welcome to stay in Polis as long as you desire," Dontania murmured. "A guard will see you back to your room."

"Thank you, Dontania."

The Queen nodded curtly, going back to her drink.

Clarke eyed her guard, her shadow, feeling like a prisoner, even though her better judgement told her it is just the way of the grounders. Protection for her while she was in the capital. But he didn't falter, moving swiftly from the hall, Clarke in tow.

She was crossing back through the throne room when she felt the familiar presence. Clarke turned to see those eyes. Lexa approached her guard, leaning in close and muttering something in Trigedasleng. He nodded stiffly before making his leave through the main doors, leaving the pair alone.

"This way." Her tone was clipped, her hands behind her back. Clarke watched her a moment before following.

The air was thick around them, Clarke hating the silence that now shadowed the pair. She took at a quick step to catch up to her, "Why did you never tell me about Dontania?"

"Would it have made a difference to the way you see us?" Lexa questioned, without moving her gaze from the dimly lit hall. "To the way you see me?"

"No, I..." Clarke stuttered, hating how her voice shook. "I just always assumed you were the leader of the Trigeda, is all." Clarke bit her lip, falling a step behind. She smiled against her better judgement. "Heda."

Lexa's back stiffened at the word, if only for a moment. "Like all the clans, we have a queen, or in some cases a king." They wandered further down the lit hall, turning a corner, torches guiding their way. "I am the Commander of her army, charged with keeping her people, my people, safe. It's my duty."

It was said almost as a bitter afterthought. Clarke's heart sank at her words, having the urge to reach out and touch her. The urge outweighed any residual anger she felt toward the girl. But she suppressed it, keeping her hands linked in front of her. The almost movement burning her.

They were outside her room now. Clarke opened the door, debating with herself. But she left it wide, giving the wordless invitation, suddenly not wanting her to leave just yet. Lexa took the hint and followed her in, shutting the door gently behind her.

Clarke sat on the edge of her bed, Lexa wandering further into the room, nearing the mirror and the dresser, her eyes roaming over everything but Clarke.

It was infuriating.

Clarke wanted to say something, anything to kill the silence. Now finding herself in front of her again, alone, she wasn't sure if she wanted to scream at her or breakdown. To ask for some kind of higher forgiveness. Or demand for her to seek her own. Or tell her she understood her choice all too well. To tell Lexa all she did to get here. All those lives, now nothing but a haunted memory.

But Lexa broke the silence before she could find the words. "Have you thought about how you wish to spend your time in Polis?"

"Umm, no," Clarke breathed, startled by the calm of her voice. "I-" She opened her mouth again to try and explain, something, anything.

But Lexa cut her off, her voice still just as calm. "I can show you the rest of capital in the morning, if you like?" She was formal, a Commander, her back to Clarke and her eyes avoiding her in the shadowed reflection of the mirror.

"Sure," Clarke trailed off.

Lexa nodded and turned to leave, passing her on the way. She paused only a few feet from her, pain etched on her beautiful features. "Clarke, I'm-" Lexa hesitated then, her words strained. "I'm glad you're safe." She looked like she wanted to say more, but she held her tongue, those eyes now trained on Clarke for the first time since she's entered the room. It was all Clarke could do not to breakdown, holding back her tears.

"Goodnight, Clarke."

"…goodnight."

It was said as a whisper that Lexa would never hear, the door closing with a gentle click before she could find her voice.