Of Inconsequential Titles (And Broken Commanders) - AU where Lexa Lives.

Alternate Titles Include: Bullets and Bones, Two Names (Two Lives)

"A fall from power and regaining it." Alycia Debnam-Carey on what she would have liked to happen with Lexa.


I was once the Commander.

I was once Heda. The Commander of the Twelve Clans. The One that United Them All. Their Savior; their leader; their Heda.

But now my tales will only be told in legends and stories. None more will exist. None new will be weaved. All of I that is left is in their memory.

Disgraced. They never verbalize it; at least, Anya nor Indra nor Titus never do. But I see it in their eyes.

All of it spiralled from control once the bullet lodged itself in my stomach. Clarke managed to perform surgery; and no thanks to the lessons she learned whilst with her Mother, saved my life. But she couldn't pick up all the pieces.

Scars were left. When I had woken up, I found I could not move my legs. Clarke, exhausted of her tears and wretchedness etched on her face, had explained it with tiredness: the bullet had damaged the nerves surrounding my spine. It had shattered my spinal cord.

I could not walk.

I had screamed Clarke out, then. Told her to shut the tent's doors; to inform my guards to let no one in. Left myself to the peace of quiet; without the war raging outside, to think and contemplate and to force feeling in my unresponding legs.

I could not walk; I could not fight; I could not do anything but wait my days out on a bed.

I was unfit to command.

I was no longer Heda. I was only Lexa. Broken, crippled, depressed.

And the Coalition didn't need Lexa. They needed their Heda. Their steadfast; strong-willed; undefeated Commander. Not some tired echo of what she used to be.

There was nothing I could give them, then.

They are hosting another Conclave.

By all means, I should have known. There was no way they'd put me on the throne in my current condition—what use is of a Commander who cannot fight? But the news still surprises me; I had never worried to see my Natblida fight in the Conclave, for by then I'd be dead.

Perhaps I should've thought about the unforeseen circumstances, then.

The rumours and news travel fast; quicker than I'd expected. From what Anya had told me; the people worry for my survival, and what the future holds for them. Some believe I'm dead; others believe I'd return; and some still hoped there would be no need for a Conclave, for I were still alive. They uttered prayers; wished me well, gave their thoughts and future harvests in my name.

They wish for me to lead.

How could I, like this?

I am paralysed. I could not walk; I could not fight; I could not do anything but wait my days out on a bed.

Breathe, Lexa. Just breathe.

Perhaps Commanders should not hold favouritism for their Natblida; but I hope Aden wins. Clarke does too, for she entered my tent with no short of nervousness, and casually asked of Aden's odds in the Conclave.

She protects her people.

Shy of a laugh, relieved for a distraction, I told her that all my Natblida promised to take care of the Skaikru as the 13th Clan.

Despite starting off the wrong foot, Skaikru is my people. Though they killed so many of mine; under the Coalition's rules, we shall treat them all as our own, and I would ask no less, no more.

Clarke is my people, and thus, her people are mine to protect as well. My people see it as weakness; as a sign that I should command no more. For if I, their Heda, their ruler, their Commander, am protecting their enemy, then what does that make of them?

Their wish is granted. And I can only hope they are right; that I was wrong; that Skaikru does not deserve saving and that it was love that blinded me all along.

(For if not, I fear for my people; and their brewing war.)

I have no wish to watch the Conclave.

I cannot present myself as Heda in my current state. Aside from the abject humiliation of being there, as the former Commander, watching the Conclave that successes her; disgraced and dethroned, dying but not dead; there was my people to consider as well, or at least, the impact my situation would have on them.

Anya and Indra agree with my decision; with ever so much reluctance; reluctance that show it was what they wanted all along. Clarke does not want me to stay in my tent; she wants me to face my people, dispel the rumours that I am dead, and save the Coalition with my command.

It's funny. When will Clarke realise I am no longer Commander?

I was still, in name. But I no longer will be, once I show myself; the image of their godlike Heda that joined the twelve Clans together will be wiped away; replaced with this echo of what I used to be—no longer the hero of their tales, broken, crippled, better off dead.

My people need their Heda; they need their holy Commander, the figure of authority, the one to silence the chaos ravaging through their conflicted hearts; the one to bring peace and worshippers with her reign. They do not need Lexa. They do not need to see a broken, disgraced Commander, to further shatter their desperate hopes and fragile morales still. Anya and Indra understand that; and I do not hold it against them either, despite my heart telling otherwise.

The Conclave is an opportunity; one for them to see a new, worthy Heda rise, without tarnishing the reputation I had maintained before. They will remember me as the Heda who united the 12 Clans; that had died in a fateful accident; that willingly passed her rule to the next.

But is that what I truly want?

(Is that truly what my people need?)

If it were, then I'd gladly shrivel and die—if it brings a better Commander, one's rule which succeeds mine far beyond imagination.

Ontari, what are you doing here?

Anya tells me Ontari plans to kill my Natblida at night.

Ontari wants to murder them, while they are immersed in their dreams in bed. Ontari, the despicable Natblida from Azgeda, wants to kill them all a night before the Conclave, so she'd win automatically by rule.

I have to do something.

Anya tells me no; that warning them any sort would break the rules of the Conclave; that it'd out their spy in Azgeda and their mission still wasn't done.

I need to do something.

Roan can help me. He owes me his life; and Ontari was under his command. Even Azgeda have a sense of shame; and Ontari's dishonourable murder of twelve children before the Conclave would surely pipe his interest.

I have to warn them.

How?

I cannot move. I cannot find him. I cannot stop her.

Clarke. I need Clarke's help. She would do anything for her people; and outing Ontari's plan to the public would surely increase the Skaikru's odds of survival, and disqualify Ontari's rightful spot in the Conclave. Doing so would ensure the survival of at least one of my Natblidas; and my Natblida would do anything to protect Skaikru, at all costs.

But she's not here. Clarke is not here. She cannot help me; no more than I can help myself. Anya will not help me. Indra does not believe in me; she wonders why I haven't commenced my suicide rituals to die in honour yet. Titus will want me to stay—to heal, to recover— anywhere far away from the chaos in Polis.

I have never felt so useless. Unable. Broken.

I am nothing but a crippled Commander in bed.

She killed my Natblidas.

Ontari killed my Natblidas.

Clarke holds me, while I sob over their deaths.

I should not do this. I am Heda. I am the Commander. And love is rightfully weakness; and it was weakness I was displaying now.

But I am not the Commander anymore. I'm not Heda. I am Lexa.

And so, I cry, freely, mourning each and every one of their names, reciting and remembering and chanting their prayers under my breath; and I wonder when it'll ever end.

The Skaikru dies tonight.

I should not care for the Skaikru. They burned 300 of my warriors alive; slaughtered another 300; and had weapons that made even the best fighter wary. But they were part of my Coalition; and in the Coalition, we are Wonkru. Stronger together. We cannot fight each other; but we work together to win our fights, win our wars. And furthermore, despite their crimes, they are Clarke's people. And I have no wish for her people to suffer; for Clarke to die.

Ontari wants to kill them all. Starting with Clarke. Then, to anyone who threatens her command. Anyone who disobeys. Till all that is left is no-one but her.

They've warned of Commanders like her in stories before. Megalomaniac, power-hungry rulers. Tyrants that were corrupt to the core; desired not money nor fame but the everlasting thirst for more rule; more command; more power.

I had never imagined I would see a day, where our would-be ruler was entranced by the hunger for megalomania.

The Conclave were supposed to root them out; kill those too corrupt or power-hungry or maniacal. Shame that Ontari ignored its rules and murdered my proteges and basked in her dishonour and glory.

She would never do that; no one would, if they thought I was alive. But I am not dead; I am burning alive, screaming as the flames lick and consume me, paralysed and confined in the pyre because my advisor thought he was doing what he must for our people; and as my own people try to douse the flames, pandemonium reigns on.

The chaos my ''death'' upset. My people, chaotic, bloodthirsty, confused, wanting a war for it was the only way they knew. My people dying in the war Ontari ignited once she murdered my proteges; once she takes my title; once she kills Clarke—and declaring war to Skaikru along with it.

Ontari can do anything she wants with me. She can kill me; strip me of my titles, and proclaim herself the slayer of Lexa kom Triku, former Commander of the 12 Clans. She can humiliate, torture, or vivisect me for all she wants. But not my people. I will not let her kill my people.

She can kill me for all she wants, but I will never let her commit self-serving genocide to my people. Our people. I cannot let her trap ourselves in a bitter war; cannot let her send my people to their deaths left and right. She can try to take my title—but she will never take my name, never take my people with her. I don't care less for what they remember me as—they need a Commander. Someone to row them out of the chaos. I can't care less if they see me as broken, crippled, or better off dead. They need a Heda. Perhaps I am not what they want, but I am what they need.

I am Lexa kom Trikru, Commander of the 12 Clans. And I will not let Ontari of Azgeda inspire a war.

They need my Flame.

They want the Commander's Spirits, passed into Ontari. They want my knowledge; my tactics; my skills; all put into a megalomaniac that knows only of power, and desires none more.

They want to cut me open. Titus is already on his way to retrieve me; a wheelchair in one hand and a knife in another, ready to take my Flame and to thrust it into the new Heda's skin.

Like hell I'd let them.

I made a plan.

Perhaps I could not walk; I could not move; I could not do anything but wait my days out on a bed.

But I can fight. It wouldn't be as simple as glaring my Ambassadors into silence; or easily taking the lives of those whom actively disrespected and opposed my rule; for now in my current state I am no longer Heda but in name. It will be no easier than battling the vote of No-Confidence to a standstill; it will be painstakingly harder than fighting for my title by force, like when I was challenged to a fight; as Roan and Nia were; but I can fight. I need to fight. I have to.

I will fight.

I will do this for the good of our people. I will do this for my Natblida. For the 12 Clans; For the Skaikru, and my people alike. For Clarke.

For the quelling of a war.

For our lives, I will fight.

I hold my Flame ransom. Sat myself on the throne; resumed my Commander's attire; and delighted in seeing the lividity in Ontari's face, with an ounce too much pleasure.

I told her the only way she was taking my Flame was in direct combat with me. I issued a challenge—to fight at the brink of dusk, a final Conclave to end it all. For the Natblidas she slaughtered, I said. For the good of our people.

They looked at me as if I were insane. Skaikru, Trikru—Anya and Indra and Titus all alike, save for Clarke, who stared at me with an emotion I couldn't decipher.

(Perhaps we both understood the magnitude of which we would go for our people.)

Ontari accepted. I could see it on her face; an easy challenge, too easy for the likes of her. She didn't try to question her luck; just accepted it, as she went with the flow. Didn't ask whether if I wanted to choose someone to fight for me — even though we both knew neither of us would've trusted anyone but ourselves.

I nod along, even as Titus stares at me in horror and Anya's eyes fear for me and Clarke looks the slightest on edge, for a smirk would give it away far too soon.

The Commander is dead.

I killed her.

Wheeled myself into her chambers. Brandished the bloody knife which she paraded round like a trophy, when she won the Conclave. Slit her throat in her night's sleep, like she'd done to my proteges, one too many nights ago.

Clarke's stunned. Indra's stunned. Anya's mouth is contorted into a scowl; but a ghost of a smile graces her eyes. Titus didn't respond to my gaze; but I know he wouldn't've let me into Ontari's chambers if he didn't approve.

And I laugh.

I am the last Natblida.

Chaos will erupt, once the Coalition realises it too.

I am the last Natblida.

They are stunned; awed; angry. My eyes scan past the scowling Ambassadors; through the pride from Clarke, Anya, Indra and Titus; to the crowd beneath the tower, a disorderly mess, confusion written in their faces, as they scramble to find what had transpired within the corroded gates.

The people will finally receive their Heda.

I smile, even as they drag me and my unfeeling legs into the very cell I've acted in so many times before. I laugh, even as they thrust me into the hay and slam the metal doors. Their masks are stoic; but I've seen those faces too many times before, when we put on a play for our prisoners. The roughness was a facade; the crest on their chests hid their true loyalties; their scowls are smiles.

I am their last Natblida.

The people know. My people know. I am the one true Commander.

(And that there will be none of Ontari's vengeful war, not if I can help it.)

I am Lexa kom Trikru. Commander of the 13 Clans. Wanheda bows to me; and I am your Heda.

They can say I'm broken, crippled, and better off dead. They can say whatever they want about me; but none shall be enough to question my rule. None will stop me from doing what is the best for my people. They can cast a vote of No-Confidence, they can try to kill me in my sleep, they can disgrace me for all I care. I have fallen once, and I can fall again, but you will never stop me from returning to power.

I am Lexa kom Trikru. You may strip my titles and honour; call me the improper Heda or the false Commander; say the Commander's titles do not deserve to be bound to a paraplegic; but you will never rid her name.

I am Lexa kom Trikru. And I will stop this brewing war. I have to.