Title: "My Tears are Becoming a Sea"
Author: Lila
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: Clarke, most of Camp Jaha in supporting roles
Spoiler: "Spacewalker"
Length: II of III
Summary: In the aftermath of Finn's death, Clarke confronts her monster.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs.
Author's Note: Thanks for the support for this fic. I'm enjoying writing it and I'm glad you're enjoying reading it. All Grounder words are mine and feel free to borrow them because they are totally made up and meaningless in real life. Title courtesy of M83. Enjoy.
Raven's anger becomes a living thing.
It grows arms and legs, it breathes fire and screams pain, and it seethes and rages and spews wrath every time she's in Clarke's space.
Clarke just bows her head and takes it. She already knows what happens when she lets her monster out.
There's a head injury to consider as well.
Clarke doesn't have a concussion, but there's a lingering pounding in her head that only intensifies when she passes out in Bellamy's arms. She sleeps away most of the afternoon but he's still there when she opens her eyes.
He's watching her intently, like that night at the campfire, and the furrow in his brow is exactly the same. "Welcome back."
"What happened?" she asks and rubs at her forehead.
"You passed out. Something to do with that blow you took at the dropship."
Clarke sits up and regrets it. Her head only hurts more, but it's a good distraction from thinking about the dropship. "There's no such thing as a delayed concussion." She starts to get out of bed, but Bellamy's faster, and his hand is gentle but firm as it comes to rest on her shoulder. Clarke ignores the pain in her head and pushes back. "I need – "
"You need to take a minute," Bellamy interrupts. He's using that voice, the one from whatever the hell we want and Clarke knows better than to keep fighting.
"Our people – " she tries again.
"Our people are safe because of you."
There's a challenging tilt to his chin, but Clarke doesn't back down. She needs him to understand even if he can never support the choices she's made. "Not all of them."
For the first time in maybe ever, Bellamy is at a loss for words. "Clarke…" he starts, but she cuts him off.
"I killed him, Bellamy. I told him that I loved him and stuck a knife into his heart." Bellamy's jaw ticks, but he doesn't respond and Clarke doesn't stop.. "Yes, our people are safe. Yes, the alliance will help us get the rest of the hundred out of Mount Weather." She pauses, gathers her courage. "But I killed Finn. I killed one of us."
Bellamy moves his hand, slides it across the ratty sheet so his pinky finger brushes against her thumb. "What can I do?"
"I can't be here," she says and finishes getting out of bed. She needs to be useful.
Bellamy's brow furrows again. "You have a head injury, Clarke – "
"Just the med-bay," she says and bends to tie her boots. It proves to be too much and she can't hide the rush of pain to the space behind her eyes.
He doesn't ask if she's okay, just hops off the cot and expertly knots her laces. "Just the med-bay, and someone walks you home."
"Fine," she agrees even though she's perfectly capable of getting back to her tent by herself. But her body is humming with the need to do something, anything but sit in this bed and talk with a handsome boy.
Bellamy rises to his feet and extends a hand. "Ready?"
Clarke takes his hand, lets him pull her weight. When he leaves her at the med-bay, she doesn't want to let him go.
She hides from Abby.
Medical has its usual stream of minor injuries, and a few serious ones, as they add roofs to the cabins. The staff is swamped and Clarke is grateful. The worried sweep of her mother's eyes makes her skin crawl and her head hurt even worse. She's never been a normal kid and now there's nothing left of the girl she once was. She can't stomach Abby trying to put her back in that box.
Her mother is with a patient when Clarke steps quietly into the med-bay, so she sneaks into the supply closet with her map. She traces the routes with fingers and eyes, labels air ducts and heating vents and preps for the next day's meeting. They start formal training in the morning and knowledge is her weapon.
She needs her sacrifice to be worth something.
"I like to scream," Wick tells her.
Clarke looks up from the diagram she's examining. Raven has devised some kind of silencer for their rifles and since they're not speaking, Wick's delivering the specs. "What?"
"Keep clenching your jaw like that and you won't have any teeth. Which'll be rough since all we eat is overcooked deer." There's a pause. "I hope it's deer."
"What do you want, Wick?" There's still a mission plan to review; she doesn't have time for his games.
"They floated my dad," Wick says. His voice is solid and firm but the revelation is enough for Clarke to push aside the drawing.
"I'm sorry for your loss. They floated my dad too. I know how much it sucks."
"I didn't know how to handle it. I was afraid that if I talked about it, they'd float me too." Clarke nods, remembers the long year she spent in a sky cell for the crime of knowing a secret. "Screaming helped. For that one moment, I was in control. It was something the Ark couldn't take from me." He picks up the report with Clarke's notes and skips out the door before she can respond. "Later, warrior."
Clarke shakes him off and turns back to her work. There are maps to draw and medical supplies to inventory, but a tickle bubbles into her mouth. She clears her throat and returns to her list, but she can't catch her breath. Her chest burns and her lungs ache and there's too much noise in her head.
She bolts from the tent and quickly scans the camp. There's a water barrel ten feet away and she pries the lid off before she can blink. The water is cool against her cheeks but it's even better when she opens her mouth and screams.
She screams and screams until her throat is raw and there's water in her nose and black spots spin before her eyes. She screams because it's all she has, because Finn killed eighteen people and she killed him and there's nowhere else for her to go.
Strong hands grip her shoulders and a guard is pulling her back, flinging water everywhere as her hair whips around her face. In the distance, she can hear someone calling for her mother. "Are you okay?"
She almost laughs, because the question is absurd, but she also dunked her head into a barrel of drinking water. "I'm fine," she says and shrugs off his hands before Abby can push through the crowd, turns a corner and disappears behind the electrical shed.
Later that day, when her hair is dry and neatly pulled back from her face, she catches Wick's eye across camp. He nods his head and she nods back.
For one moment, she had something that was just hers.
That night, a harvest moon rises red and bleeding in the inky sky.
Her people stand in awe at its feet, marvel at the richness of its colors, the brilliance of its light. One little girl stretches her fingers high and tries to feel it against her skin.
Clarke's seen these moons before, through the dirty plastic windows of the Ark, and she thinks it would be beautiful if not for how it reminds her of Finn on the post, the torchlight glowing red and warm around him.
She storms away from the crowd and heads for Raven's gate, slips easily through the bent wires. She's not sure what she's looking for, only that she needs to get away. There are too many voices in the camp, too many eyes, and her mother is never more than a step away.
Clarke's careful as she treads to the peak of a high hill that overlooks the Grounder camp: the place where Finn died, the place where she took his life. She's surprised to find Octavia sitting in the dirt, knees tucked under her chin while she watches the sway of the torches. "Hey, Clarke."
Clarke slumps onto the ground beside her and stretches her legs. "I haven't seen you out of the med-bay in days."
Octavia tilts her head back so the night wind washes over her cheeks. "Lincoln's people call it a blood moon. He wanted me to see one for myself."
It's a fitting name. There's blood on Clarke's hands and blood on her clothes and blood staining the rich, dark earth. It's no surprise when a living reminder arcs through the inky blue sky. "How apropos," Clarke says and digs at loose rock poking her thigh. She doesn't check to see how Octavia's reacted to the bite of her words.
A minute passes and all Clarke hears is the rustle of the wind and an owl's distant call. The earth remains the same even as it takes, takes, takes the things she loves away.
"It's okay to hate him."
Clarke's head whips around, but Octavia's still got her chin titled towards the sky. Her skin is bathed in red, a ghostly film painting her cheeks. "What?"
"It's okay to hate him," Octavia repeats. "I did."
Clarke keeps staring at Octavia and tries to put the pieces together. Octavia's never killed anyone, only fought tooth and nail for the people she loves. Clarke's seen firsthand how she's been loved in return, the bruising power of a brother's love, and then it clicks into place. "You're talking about Bellamy."
"I was so angry at him for getting our mom floated, for getting me locked up. It's why I hadn't seen him in a year when the dropship landed. He wanted to visit but I kept sending him away. Eventually he stopped trying."
Clarke remembers a night of storytelling and girl by the fire looking impossibly young. They'd been trading tales of how they ended up on the ground, and some were funny while others were horrifying, but Clarke remembers Octavia's story as particularly sad. Bellamy did something good and it blew their lives apart. "He brought you to that dance, right?"
There's a long pause and Octavia's voice shakes when she speaks again. "For a long time, I blamed him. He told me about the dance, he brought me the mask, he promised to keep me safe. Maybe he shouldn't have done those things, but I chose to go." She turns to Clarke, her blue eyes blazing and bold in the moonlight. "It took me a year in that cell to realize it wasn't Bell that I hated. It was me."
"And now?"
"Some days are better than others."
There's another long pause and Clarke's voice is very small when she speaks again. "He loved me. He did it because he loves me."
Octavia's expression is fierce and Clarke sees nothing of that girl by the fire. She grabs Clarke's wrist, digs in her nails deep enough to draw blood. "If he truly loved you, he wouldn't have put those things on you. You don't owe him anything."
Clarke stays on the hill long after Octavia returns to the man she loves, eyes fixed on the blurry line of the post. Even if she forgives Finn, she's not sure that she'll ever forgive herself.
"You can talk to me," Bellamy says the next morning while they review the agenda for Clarke's meeting with the Grounders.
Clarke can feel his eyes on her face but she keeps hers focused on the active guard roster. "I don't think you want to hear anything I have to say."
"You deserve to grieve."
She finally looks up, grasps his chin tightly between her fingers and turns his face towards hers. He's a hair's breadth away, so close she can see the rings of gold in his irises and every freckle dotting his cheeks. He's so close that he's breathing her air. "We're at war, Bellamy. That's all there is."
Bellamy's jaw tightens again but his expression remains calm. Slowly, he pries each finger from his chin and twists their hands so they lock together. "I'm here. I just wanted you to know."
He drops her hand and turns back to the map, and when their shoulders brush, neither moves away. Clarke lets herself lean on him just the tiniest bit.
They call her the Angel of Death.
She hears the murmurs as she treads through the Grounder camp for another meeting with Lexa. Her knowledge of their language is still a work in progress, and she doesn't know what they're saying.
Mallo Coni they whisper as Indra nods to her outside Lexa's tent, opens the flap and follows her inside. Mallo Coni, the guards say and bow their heads.
Lexa's brow furrows as she directs Clarke to her seat. "Thank you for coming," Lexa says like Clarke has a choice, like she hasn't been sitting in this tent every morning for the past week.
Clarke nods. "Let's get down to business."
They've already worked out their strategy and Kane and Bellamy are currently training their combined army with Lexa's generals, so they discuss the final details of the plan: Clarke explains the hand-held radios Raven and Wick are making and Lexa confirms that all Ark fighters will have Grounder uniforms. In just a few days, they'll be ready to attack.
Nyko steps inside to share a medical update and greets Lexa and Indra. He glances at Clarke, mutters Mallo Coni under his breath. Clarke listens to him rattle off the herbs they'll need for mobile med-kits, waits for him to leave before asking for clarification.
"Mallo Coni ," she asks. "What does it mean?"
Indra and Lexa share a look, and it's the second-in-command who provides the answer. Her face is haughty beneath the tattoos, but there's admiration in her eyes. She doesn't break Clarke's gaze as she explains. "Our people call you "Angel of Death" as a sign of respect."
Lexa clarifies. "It's a great honor."
Clarke swallows hard, tries to keep the horror from showing on her face. She knows that name; in her history books, he helped murder thirteen million people. She's only killed one boy but she's not sure that she doesn't deserve it. "There's nothing honorable about what I did."
Again, Lexa and Indra exchange a look. "You're of the sky," Indra says. "You don't know the earth, the things it requires of us."
Clarke shakes her head and stands up, effectively ending the meeting. She remembers Bellamy in the tent, the hope in his voice when he talked of a better world, glances at the determined women at the table.
She knows better than to dream.
She checks on Lincoln en route to medical for her afternoon rounds. He's no longer restrained, but still contained in the med-bay until his detox is complete. Clarke checks his temperature and tests his reflexes, asks questions about the nausea and shakes.
Abby stops by once and presses a gentle kiss to the crown of her daughter's head. "I love you, honey," she says and Clarke does her best not to flinch. No matter how hard Abby tries, she can't make this better. She can't love away what her daughter's done.
Lincoln is watching Clarke when Abby leaves and she feels the pressure of his scrutiny. "What?" she asks and glances down. Octavia's got most of the blood out of her shirt and repaired the rip. She doesn't know what's caught his attention.
"Come with me," he says and pushes to his feet. He's a bit unsteady but Clarke doesn't offer her help. She can still feel the press of Abby's kiss; she knows what it's like to be coddled.
Clarke also knows it's a bad idea. She likes Lincoln, but trust is a different story. He advocated for Finn's execution and he doesn't carry her guilt. But she's made few choices in the last week that were right, or good, or made it easier to breathe. Lincoln's eyes are kind even if his expression is blank and she decides to take a chance. Maybe she'll be wrong and he'll kill her, take away this pain the way she stole Finn's life.
He doesn't kill her. Instead, he leads her to the perimeter of camp and hands her a wooden staff. "What are we doing?" she asks, watches him shakily pick up his own stick.
A hint of a smile curves his mouth. "You're going to learn to fight."
Clarke's grip tightens around her makeshift bō. "You're on."
As it turns out, her fight with Anya was a fluke. Clark chalks it up to survival instinct because Lincoln can barely stand and he has her flat on her back the first time she swings the bō.
"Get up," he says and rests heavily on one foot. He's also sweating more than necessary, but he doesn't give up. "Try again."
Lincoln demonstrates the move and Clarke imitates it once, twice, so many times that her muscles burn and she wonders if she'll be able to hold a fork the next day. But she doesn't stop, doesn't quit. She pushes and pushes until they're both standing on wobbly legs and Lincoln's clinging to a sapling for support.
"You fought well," he says and Clarke shrugs but accepts the bottle of water he offers. "Thank you for sparring with me."
A hint of a smile curves Clarke's mouth. "I should be thanking you."
It's Lincoln's turn to shrug. "I need to regain my strength."
"You could have asked Octavia. I don't know how you managed this when she doesn't let you out of her sight." She pauses, screws the cap back on the water bottle. "You knew I needed to get away. That's why you did it."
"Do you feel better?"
The sweat is drying on her skin and she's found her breath, the raspy rush of adrenaline easing out of her lungs. It's getting dark and she's skipped her rounds. She knows better than to try outrunning her responsibilities. "I wish that I did."
Lincoln takes her hand in his and looks at her with eyes that hold only understanding. "For what it's worth, Finn was my friend."
His words bring her no comfort and she tears her hands away, picks up the bō and knocks out his legs, knocks him flat on his back and slams it into to his throat. "Don't say his name."
Lincoln watches her calmly, too calmly with the bō pressed to his windpipe and cutting off his air, but he doesn't push back. "Mallo Bahl," he whispers, keeps watching her with those calm, dark eyes. "Angel of Mercy."
Clarke drops the bō and staggers through the grass, falls back on her hands and stares at Lincoln with wide eyes. "Oh my god."
Lincoln sits beside her to catch his breath. "You gave him peace." His voice is hoarse and it makes her wince.
"I still killed him."
"You knew what would have happened if you hadn't."
Clarke feels the shudder all the way to her toes: hands, tongue, eyes, knives, swords, fire. She knows she did right by Finn, but there should have been another way. "He killed eighteen people, but he didn't have to die too." She sucks in a breath and it gives her strength. "When will there stop being so much death?"
"If death has no coast, life has no worth. It's how we live." There's no pride in his voice, but rather a hollow defeat. It's all he knows, all they both know, but Clarke thinks they can do better.
"We need to be different," Clarke says. She doesn't know how, but she knows it all the same.
"My people believe in you," Lincoln tells her. "What you did has never been done before."
"Murdered my friend?"
"Took his life by your own hand." His voice is firm and his eyes are steady. "Mallo Bahl," he says again. "May you bring mercy to us all."
Clarke blinks back tears. Once she was death, destroyer of worlds, but now she thinks she can be something new. Something worth fighting for; something worth living for.
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