Clarke lurched to her feet, head still a spinning ache from the attack she'd endured. She did her best to shake the sparks and nausea off, stumbling towards the fallen Commander.
Lexa was breathing, but blood was pooling from the wound on her back, the material of her coat sodden as Clarke pulled it away. Clarke quickly recovered her knife and cut the rest of the coat off her, reaching beneath Lexa to unclasp her torn cloak and pauldron, the blood making her hands slick and shaky as she threw it aside.
She pulled the final remnants of cloth away and surveyed the wound. It was deep, but the cloak and thick leather of Lexa's armor had prevented the dagger from biting too far into the muscle. She could fix this. She could. She tore apart Lexa's cloak, pressing the fabric to her back.
"Lexa," Clarke said, putting her face near the girl's, trying to get Lexa's eyes to focus on her, "Lexa, I need something to close the wound."
"Vara," Lexa growled and Clarke shook her head, not following what she assumed was trigedeslang. Lexa gasped and pointed towards the fallen grounder with the arrow in her neck.
"She carried," Lexa grimaced with the effort of speaking, "the field kit."
Clarke stumbled to the dead grounder, half on her knees and panting with panic, tearing at the woman's armor. She finally found the pack buckled to her waist and ripped it open, eyes scanning for what she needed.
Dashing back to Lexa she reapplied pressure to her wound, blood still seeping from beneath Clarke's palms.
"Damnit," Clarke hissed. She tore more strips from Lexa's cloak and pressed them against the Commander's back, the fabric immediately staining a deeper red.
Lexa was muttering something softly in trigedaslang, her eyes open but staring blankly ahead.
"I swear Lexa, if you're saying your last rites or some bullshit about death not being the end, I'll track down your spirit myself and make sure you don't come back." Clarke snapped, pressing harder to staunch the blood.
Lexa made a sound that might have been some version of a laugh and closed her eyes.
"I stay at your will, Clarke."
Clarke shook her head, biting back the fear in her throat and forcing herself to calm down. The bleeding was slowing, and after several tense minutes she trusted the wound long enough to dash to the creek, soaking the bloodstained rags that were left of Lexa's cloak in the cool water and bringing them back to carefully clean the edges of the cut, rationing the vial of antiseptic in the field kit as best she could.
There was a bone needle in the kit, larger than Clarke would have liked, and thin cord. Lexa had lain silent while Clarke cleaned her injury, and now she watched Clarke thread the needle, green eyes tracking the movement of her fingers impassively.
"Is there anything in the kit for the pain?" Clarke asked.
Lexa frowned.
"Of course not," Clarke muttered, pushing the needle through the Commander's skin.
As expected, Lexa refused to flinch or make a sound. The wound was long though, and before long Clarke was wiping the sweat from her eyes with the heel of her hand and Lexa's shoulders had begun to tremble, fingers grasping the loamy earth tighter.
Clarke tyed off the last stitch with a shaky sigh of relief, hanging her head back to stretch an aching neck. Lexa sighed as well, her white knuckled grip finally releasing. Clarke hung her head, hand finding her way to Lexa's back again, tracing the many scars she found there; the even notches from kills and the sporadic lines of injury twining across her skin like a root system nourished by blood.
"You'll have an impressive scar from this," Clarke said, palm still pressed against Lexa's skin for reasons she could not begin to explain, "Too bad it isn't a victory scar."
Lexa huffed, "My people will think I have killed a giant."
Clarke raised an eyebrow and shook her head, "You must have lost more blood than I thought."
Lexa levered herself up on her elbows.
"What are you doing?"
"We cannot stay here, Clarke," Lexa said, teeth gritted in determination, "It isn't safe."
Clarke shook her head incredulously, pressing a hand to Lexa's shoulder to forestall more argument, "You can't move."
Lexa frowned and looked into Clarke's eyes, the smallest edge of uncertainty and vulnerability in her gaze, "I can if you help me."
Clarke met her gaze, mistrust making her want to look away, bitterness making her want to bare her teeth. But Clarke was trying to find the healer inside herself again. She stood and looked into the forest.
"I'll get the horses."
"Clarke," Lexa said.
"What?" Clarke demanded. The Commander below her looked exhausted and sad. She gestured to Clarke's feet.
"Your boots."
Clarke looked down. She had left her boots by the river, the solitude of the creek and the feel of the water against her feet feeling a million miles away. Her feet were now caked with dirt and covered in scratches, her mind working too rapidly to have acknowledged them earlier.
Clarke shook her head, "First I'll get my shoes. Then I'll get the horses."
