Eighteen Months Earlier
Lexa drifted in a sea of darkness, peaceful and quiet. There was no light, and no sound, but it didn't alarm her. Nothing alarmed her, actually. She was content just to drift.
Later, what could have been infinity or an instant, faint noises made their way into her awareness. They were muffled and indiscernible so Lexa ignored them, letting the drift consume her.
A shock of cold, all over her, yanked her from the darkness. The cold was in her mouth, in her throat, she couldn't breathe, why couldn't she breathe-
She was yanked bodily upwards and something struck her between the shoulder blades, forcing a gasp from her mouth. She immediately doubled over in a coughing fit, trying to clear her lungs – water, her mind whispered, cold water thrown while you slept.
Cracking her eyelids tentatively, she was met with brightness, but not so much that it was intolerable. Blinking to clear her vision, she surveyed her surroundings.
The overwhelming impression she got was 'bleak'. Stone walls, dirt floors, and chains bolted into every available surface. The man standing above her only furthered that impression, dirt covering every inch of his massive frame. Dark eyes twinkled at her from under a fringe of filthy braids, the merriment in them only serving to unnerve her more.
A sharp throbbing in her skull chose that moment to make itself known. Reflexively she clutched the back of her head, hand making it there successfully but taking with it a length of dull chain attached to a manacle around her wrist. Lexa blinked dumbly at it, brain not fully comprehending what her eyes were telling her.
The giant man barked out a laugh, startling Lexa into jumping. This only exacerbated the pounding in her head, and she glared at the giant. He chuckled again. "Oh, you've got some fight in you, do you? That's good."
Lexa furrowed her brow, completely confused and getting more alarmed by the minute. "Where-" A harsh coughing fit cut her off. Her throat was on fire.
A cup of water was thrust under her nose, grimy hand dwarfing it. She grabbed it and drank greedily, pausing for another, lesser fit before draining it. The man snatched the cup back and grabbed her wrist, dragging her to her feet.
Standing, Lexa could see that the man had at least a foot of height on her. He looked her over, eyeing her critically before spinning her roughly. Normally Lexa would have protested such rough treatment, probably by means of a blow to the nose, but she was aching, scared, and off-balance. Besides that, she had no idea where she was or what the man wanted; he could likely kill her with one hand if she drove him to it. No, better to wait and observe. For now, at least.
The man grunted dismissively and released her. Lexa turned back around, rubbing her wrist where he had gripped her. He gave her one more appraising look before clapping his hands. "Congratulations, little lamb. You have been selected to compete for fame and glory in the Arena of Arcam! Your new life begins today. You have been given the opportunity to fight for the amusement of the Chancellor himself, so fight well and he may spare your life." The door to the room – cell, Lexa realized – opened to admit another man, carrying what looked like leather armor with a sword laid on top.
Lexa went cold. She had heard of Arcam's famed Arena, everyone in the Twelve Territories had. They were just horror stories, though, tales told to children over a roaring fire to make them jump. They weren't supposed to be true.
Unbidden, her mind turned to her memories of what had occurred before she had been so abruptly roused. It had been a normal day, Lexa, Anya, and Costia in the marketplace. They had talked and laughed as they strolled down the wide street, calling greetings to merchants they recognized and Anya teasing the two of them gently whenever they would trade kisses, but then-
Her eyes widened.
Then there had been chaos, sudden and terrifying. Armed men came out of nowhere, brandishing swords and whips and nets, and oh how the people had screamed. Lexa had grabbed onto both Anya and Costia and dragged them away, running from the barbarians that were butchering her people. It had been futile, though. They had run directly into a knot of the bastards and had been captured with ease.
The three of them had been grabbed, and Anya and Costia had been chained up quickly. Anya had been murderous but hadn't tried to resist, and Costia? Costia had just looked terrified. It had been when one of the men had groped her crudely through her dress that Lexa had exploded.
She couldn't remember much of the several minutes following, but once the red haze had receded from her vision she was in chains and the brute who had touched Costia was nursing a broken nose. He had struck her, then grabbed Costia and-
Lexa's eyes slammed shut and she moaned, low and agonized. He had violated her, grinning as she screamed, taking pleasure in Costia's agony and Lexa's anguish. Lexa had struggled, she had fought her hardest to escape her chains and destroy the man on top of her beloved, but in vain. He had finished quickly, rutting like an animal, and after he was done he had severed her head like it was nothing.
The anguish Lexa felt at that memory was sudden and overwhelming. It rushed through her like a storm, sending bolts of lightning sizzling through her veins.
Anya had been next. They hadn't raped her, they had played with her, slowly beating her to death while Lexa struggled and screamed. She fought and fought, tearing her wrists to the bone beneath the shackles, but Anya had died in agony nonetheless. The last thing she remembered was one of the men spitting on her before striking her with his sword hilt before waking up in the cell.
The giant was still observing her. "Ah, you've heard of the Arena then? Good. That saves me time. You get the idea, then. Fight. Try not to die. You start in an hour. Any questions?" He shoved the armor into her shocked arms, forcing her to fumble with the sword before it fell and severed one of her toes.
She blinked. "Will there be no training?" She looked over the sword in her arms. It was… sharp. Sharp and silver. That was the extent of her knowledge on the subject, however.
"Training's for gladiators, lamb. You're just the warm-up act." He turned on his heel, final words trailing behind him as he headed for the door. "Get dressed. Someone will collect you when it's your turn to fight."
Lexa looked back to the sword. It was still sharp. It was also still silver.
Clarke leaned forward in her seat, eyes trained eagerly on the fighters below. One of them, the one armed with the short sword, had stumbled and fallen, sword lost in his fall. The other was closing fast, net lost early in the fight and trident held ready. Clarke could read the currents of the fight and knew that the end was near. The swordsman scrambled backwards, crabwalking as fast as he could from the other, but to no avail. The trident raised, Clarke's breath quickened, and crimson sprayed across the sand, causing her hands to clench in excitement as her heart raced.
Clarke loved the Arena. The feeling of urgency, the rawness of the fights where the only goal was survival at any cost, the inevitable end to each bout – all of it excited Clarke, set her heart beating triple time and lit her blood on fire. It was rare that she got the opportunity to attend, as her mother was often busy with her spot on the Council and refused to let Clarke attend on her own, but when she did it left her in a good mood for weeks.
From Clarke's right she heard the Chancellor's voice, displeasure evident in his tone. "She should have waited for my judgment. Impressive though she is, she does not have the authority to decide who lives and who dies." Clarke raised an eyebrow and reevaluated the survivor, mistaken in her assumption that she was a man. How… delicious.
A glance at Jaha derailed her thoughts from the lecherous path they were turning to. The dark-skinned man's face was stormy, his displeasure obvious for all to see.
Internally Clarke rolled her eyes. No leader should be that affected by minor mistakes, and should especially never show how it affected him. In public, no less. She really had no idea how Jaha had ever managed to get himself elected. He had no understanding of how a leader should act, much less about proper behavior. It had been a minor miracle that the Ambassador of Fluvia hadn't declared war after the Saturnalia the year before.
She watched impassively as her mother soothed him, murmuring what Clarke was sure were little words meant to soothe his wounded pride into his ear. Her eyes narrowed minutely. Her father had only been in the ground six months and already Abby was hanging all over the Chancellor. I shouldn't be surprised, really.
The clank of the gate being raised drew her attention back to the Arena. Most of the capitol preferred the professional fights, the ones where trained gladiators battled for fame and favor, but she enjoyed these days far more. Untrained, desperate slaves hacking away at each other with sword, spear, sometimes even their bare hands. It was intoxicating, watching them struggle to survive, brutal and vicious as they did everything they could to snuff the life from their opponent.
Frankly, it was arousing, and on more than one occasion Clarke had snuck down to the barracks to rent one of the slaves for the night. She hoped to find one that caught her eye in the pit today. She glanced at her mother, still draped over Jaha. Maybe she would find two. Maybe she would even buy one. Wouldn't that be something, getting herself a pleasure slave without her mother even knowing.
Arena slaves scurried onto the hot sands and dragged the body away, tossing a water skin to the victor. The game today was a particularly brutal one, a round robin of sorts where the winner just kept going from one match to the next. They were forced to defend themselves without pause, fighting until they died for the amusement of the ruthless crowd.
Clarke loved it.
The winner drained the skin, tossing it aside contemptuously as a tiny figure, a girl from what Clarke could see, stumbled out onto the sand. From the glare she tossed back towards the passage it was fairly easy to figure that she had been pushed. Clarke looked the new fighter over, noticing the tentative way she was moving and the awkward way she handled her sword. It was obvious that she had no training whatsoever, and Clarke would wager that she was injured on top of that. Still, there was spirit there, under the dirt and that god-awful armor.
She leaned towards Jaha. "Ten denarii says she makes it three bouts before dying." The two of them had made a habit of betting on the outcomes of slave fights, and Jaha had lost a significant amount of gold to her.
His eyes lit up. "Done."
He never learns. Clarke settled back in her seat to watch, Jaha's raised hand signaling the beginning of the match.
It was everything Clarke had hoped it to be, brutal and barbaric and harsh. At first the previous victor and her long trident seemed to have the clear advantage, the swordswoman expending all her energy merely avoiding its sharp thrusts. The tables turned when the swordswoman managed to dive closer, effectively neutralizing the trident's advantage. Before the other fighter could react, the swordswoman had charged straight into her, toppling her and placing her sword to her throat.
The fighter looked up at Jaha, seeking his decision on the fight's outcome. Clarke could see the residue of his previous insult in the slow way he tilted his thumb down, dragging out the torment for the doomed woman. The new victor didn't hesitate, and was not kind. She ended the bout with a vicious slash that very nearly cut the other woman in half.
Clarke said nothing as blood pooled on the sand, but the smugness radiating from her did not need words. She liked this little fighter, who had a warrior's spirit contained in her small, beaten body. She truly hoped that the woman would survive the day. Who knows, if she kept up a showing like the last, Clarke might even go through with her half-formed ideas of buying herself a slave.
Lexa panted harshly, each breath burning her lungs, sweat stinging as it dripped into the myriad of wounds she'd picked up over the last who-knew-how-many fights. She had lost count after the fourth, when her opponent had managed to score a long line across her ribs. It was fortunately shallow, but it pulled with every movement and sent a burst of pain through her. After that it had just been a blur of pain and steel and sand, and she was honestly shocked that she was still alive.
The gate rattled once more and she moaned lowly, uncertain of how much longer she could keep going. She wasn't even sure why she was still fighting, why she hadn't just cast her sword away and allowed one of the others to send her off to see her family again. Costia… The thought of her fate sent despair shooting through her, but still she straightened to meet the oncoming fighter.
Her eyes widened at the sight of him. Utterly massive, leather straps wrapping around his bare chest, he was terrifying. Oh gods, they're making me fight a bear. I thought that slaves weren't a part of animal fights? The nonsensical thought drifted through her mind right before he roared and charged her, axe raised.
The next several moments were a blur before a starburst of pain exploded in her chest and she was lifted from her feet and flung through the air. She landed with a crash, stars swimming in her eyes, but was conscious enough to realize that this was the end. Costia, Anya, I'll see you soon.
There was no immediate end to her life, she could hear the giant calling to the crowd, trying to curry their favor in the hopes of… Lexa honestly had no idea. Maybe he was hoping to be bought, maybe get picked up by a gladiatorial school, maybe he was just hoping that when his turn came to be under the axe, Jaha would spare him. Whatever his reasoning, it was giving her time to think, and Lexa really didn't appreciate it.
Images flashed across her eyes, visions of Costia and her mother and Anya and their father and happier days gone by. These were soon replaced by the memory of that final day, the one that had begun with such joy but ended in devastation. The faces of the men who had murdered her sister, had raped her lover, swam before her, interspersed with Costia's severed head and Anya's broken body, thrown away like so much offal as soon as it was of no more amusement.
Rage began to pool in her gut, fury at the world that had taken so much from her. She wanted to make them suffer, the men who had laughed as she screamed. They needed to suffer.
I'm sorry, my love. We will be together again, but not on this day.
She clawed her way off the ground, swaying on her feet, and searched for her sword. It was in front of her, in front of the giant, utterly unreachable unless she wanted to give up the element of surprise. With a shrug, she ran forward silently, hoping against hope that the giant wouldn't turn around before she reached him.
The gods were on his side, and with a shriek she launched herself at him, legs wrapping around his waist as she clung to his back. Her arms went around his throat and tightened, every ounce of strength she had left going into her stranglehold. He choked and flailed, reaching around in an attempt to unseat her, but in vain. His muscles worked against him, limiting his range of motion and allowing Lexa to maintain her chokehold.
All of a sudden Lexa was airborne once more, but this time when she landed she had three hundred pounds of musclebound slave on top of her. The breath was driven from her lungs and her vision dimmed, blackness threatening to creep in.
She wheezed, trying to regain her breath, and saw the furious face of the man above her, axe poised to decapitate her as soon as the Chancellor gave the signal. Turning her head as far as she could, she searched for the box once more, morbidly curious to see the face of the man who would order her death.
She had seen him before, of course, as he condemned slave after slave to death, not sparing a single one. Lexa expected to see the same look of boredom on his face now, thumb pointing to the ground before she saw nothing at all. It came as a surprise to her to see a blonde girl leaning towards him, speaking quickly into his ear. The man listened for a few moments before nodding, smiling at the girl and grasping her outstretched hand. He didn't shake it as he would a man's, instead turning it over and kissing the back of it. Lexa was vaguely intrigued by the faint grimace that crossed the blonde's face before it was hidden behind a mask of serenity.
The Chancellor returned his attention to the Arena, hand extending and staying level for a moment before miraculously tipping upwards. Lexa gaped, disbelieving. She was going to live? She had expected death, had anticipated entering the void without being able to uphold her incredibly recent vow of vengeance. This was… There were no words, but she sent a prayer of gratitude to the gods for protecting her.
The giant glared at her, lowering the axe with great reluctance. She dragged herself to her feet, gingerly pressing a hand to her side, feeling for broken ribs. A stab of pain informed her that yes, she did indeed have several. An arena slave exited the gate, tossing a water skin to the giant and motioning her back through the gate. She followed obediently, unsure of what awaited her now that she had survived the day.
Would she be expected to continue fighting? Would they train her, now that she had proven herself? Or would she be sold at the auction block, meat that would go to the highest bidder. She knew there was no chance of her gaining her freedom. That would be a waste of money, and by all accounts the nobles of Arcam cared about nothing so much as money.
The slave gestured her into a room she hadn't seen before. It was large and well-furnished, rugs and tapestries concealing the crude nature of the building.
Footsteps from behind her caught her attention. The doors swung open once more, and through them her fate entered the room.
Clarke had watched the small woman fight with utter fascination. There was such potential there, both for battle and… other things as well. After the woman's fifth fight, where she ripped her opponent's throat out with her teeth after losing her sword, she was almost convinced. Her last fight, her eighth, cemented Clarke's decision.
The woman had been beaten. Her giant of an opponent had smashed her full force in the chest with the flat of his axe. Clarke had seen her feet leave the ground, and she knew that there was no way the woman would get back up, not with the injuries she had already received. For a moment it seemed that that was to be the end of it. A flicker of emotions Clarke couldn't make out had passed over the woman's face, but then…
Then. Then she had done the impossible and stood up. Then she had attacked the other man, the man who stood over a foot above her and weighed easily two hundred pounds more, attacked him with nothing but her spirit and her bare hands.
Clarke had known that she would lose. There was simply no way around it, and the thought of that fierce, determined spirit being snuffed out without ever having a chance to truly shine gave her a strange feeling in her stomach. A sudden image filled her mind, the woman wearing true armor, the kind that only the elites of the army wore, war paint smeared across her face, naked sword in one hand dripping blood. Clarke could see this woman fighting for her, and abruptly she was filled with want. She wanted this woman, as a soldier and as a lover.
Leaning over to Jaha, she had offered to forgive the debt he owed her in return for mercy. The gold was trivial, really, just a formality. She knew Jaha would grant her her wish. He had never been able to truly deny her anything.
He had proved her right only moments later, and she had offered her hand to clasp. It had been difficult to hide the disgust she felt when he kissed it instead of shaking it, but she had long ago learned to ignore small slights like that. She added it to the ledger in her head, one more tally against Jaha among hundreds.
Rising, Clarke assured her mother that she was fine, there was nothing wrong, she was merely taking a walk to shake off the lethargy that came from sitting in one place for too long. Reassured, Abby let her go, and Clarke made a beeline for the barracks.
A slave met her at the entrance, bowing low and escorting her to the master of the facility. It had been remarkably easy to hammer out a deal for the slave – Lexa, Clarke had learned, her name is Lexa – and within ten minutes she was being escorted to the meeting room they kept for exactly this purpose, two hundred denarii poorer but filled with a strange excitement.
Two slaves swung open the doors as she approached, and she strode through them quickly, eager to meet the woman who filled her with such unusual hope with her fighting.
Green eyes met her, filled with fire. Clarke could read so many things in those eyes, but chief among them was uncertainty. She could understand that. It must be unnerving, knowing that your future was not in your own hands.
She waved a hand absently, dismissing the slave who had brought her. He bowed, and with a soft murmur of 'domina' backed out of the room. The doors swung closed, and she was alone with her new slave – her new Lexa.
Looking at the woman, Clarke frowned. It was apparent that she had been dragged straight from the sand without even the chance to have her wounds looked at. Clarke made a mental note to have a talk with the manager about proper treatment of the slaves. From what she could see under the blood and dirt, though, the woman – Lexa, she had to remember that – was stunning. Dark, lean, and utterly enchanting, even down to the wary set of her shoulders. Clarke was entranced.
Lexa shifted on her feet, grimacing slightly as she put pressure on one foot. Clarke frowned again and gestured at a chair, pulling another one up for herself. When the woman didn't move, she rolled her eyes and shoved her gently, the slight force enough to send her toppling. Clearing her throat, she spoke. "My name is Clarke Griffin. You are Lexa, correct?" The woman nodded slowly, never looking away from Clarke's face.
Well. That kind of intensity could be very distracting. She really is delicious, in every way so far.
"Let me be blunt. You are a slave, and I have bought you. As such, I am your mistress and what I say, you do. Are you following me so far?" Lexa nodded once more, grudgingly. Clarke could read resentment in her eyes, and it only served to heighten her belief that she had chosen well. "Excellent. As such, I order you to speak freely and without fear when we are in private."
Lexa's eyes widened, the order taking her off guard. Her mouth opened, then snapped shut again.
Clarke smiled. "That includes now, you know. I have no use for a simpering fool who will only tell me what I want to hear. I have things I want to do, and you, my dear, might just help me do them."
Carefully, Lexa spoke. "Domina-"
Clarke cut her off before she could continue. "My name is Clarke. When we're alone, just the two of us, I ask that you use it."
Lexa's eyes narrowed, obviously suspecting a trap. "…Clarke, then. Why did you choose me?" Clarke tilted her head, silently gesturing for her to elaborate. "Out of all the others who fought in the Arena today, you chose me specifically. Why? There were many others who were far more skilled."
The blonde grinned at her, wide and happy. "Why, Lexa, I chose you because you were the one who got back up. You faced your death, faced impossible odds, and yet you still chose to get up and fight back. That kind of spirit is rare, and I would be a fool to pass it up."
Lexa stared at her, seemingly speechless. Clarke smiled once more. "If that's all, we should go. You need a bath desperately, and I would like to get you cleaned up before Abby gets home. She's going to throw a fit as it is, we might as well avert as much of it as possible." Lexa didn't move, still stunned. "What are you waiting for? The future awaits!"
This woman would be the death of her. This beautiful, baffling blonde, who told Lexa to speak freely and asked that she call her by name, would be the absolute ruin of her.
Lexa didn't know how she knew that, but she did. There was something about the other woman, about Clarke, that called to her. She wasn't sure exactly what was going to happen from here on out, but she was with someone who seemed to respect her as a person. At the very least, Clarke had saved her from joining the legions whose blood stained the sand of the Arena. That was enough for Lexa. She had nothing left in the world, after all. Costia was dead, Anya was dead, her home was likely razed to the ground – maybe she could find something new here, in her new puzzle of a mistress.
Maybe Clarke would ask her to fight again. Lexa thought that if it were for Clarke she may enjoy fighting very much indeed.