You'd forgotten how cold the dungeons this far down could be, how the stale stench of the air clings to your clothes, how it makes you want to retreat back into the light, where the air you breathe doesn't fill your lungs with a darkness that weighs heavy within you. And for a moment you wish that you had accompanied Clarke when she had asked to explore Polis. But you are Heda, and your duties come first and so your feet carry you forward, and you hold yourself tightly, you let your thoughts fade back into your mind, Heda taking place. You pass guards at each door that is unlocked for you, their heads bowing slightly, a soft murmur of greeting sent your way. Titus follows behind you, steadfast in his presence, lingering close enough that you can feel the air his robes push around him and it comforts you, if only slightly at what you will face once again.
You greet the last guard, her hand already firmly closed around the blade at her hip, half drawn and her stance poised to strike. She relaxes when she recognises the paint that drips from your eyes, the symbol that sits between your brows and releases her hold on the blade.
"He is well, Heda," she speaks softly, "as well as last you were here," and you nod your head, "he again asked to be allowed to see the light of the sun for more than a candle mark each day," and that you are not surprised by either. But no one knows he still lives, no one must know he still lives, and so you already know you will not grant him the request.
"Does he still train?" you ask and the guard nods,
"He still maintains skill with the sword and he still eats well to maintain his strength," You motion the guard to open the last door before you and she retrieves the key from around her neck. Stepping inside you see three other guards, two already turned to the door, blades again already drawn before their eyes meet yours and then they are bowing their heads and returning the blades to their sheaths. The third stands before the prisoner, swords in both their hands as they circle each other, eyes constantly darting around, looking for an opening.
The prisoner darts forward then, using your entrance as a distraction, slices the blade towards the guards torso, but the guard merely spins, slides on her knees, the damp of the tiled floor carrying her around the prisoner, before she is again on her feet, her blade already in motion to attack his exposed back but he turns too, lets his feet slip from under him and roll just out of reach before he is again standing, slashing the blade behind him to give room.
"Enough," your voice carries out, echoing out through the circular tunnel that you stand in, the fires burning brightly where they sit against the wall. The guard lowers her sword, bows her head to you, before she moves towards the prisoner, locking shackles around his arms and feet before she returns to stand by the wall with the other two guards, all the while keeping her eyes trained on the prisoner.
You look at him now, his face weathered from a harshness lived, his hair long and matted, a sadness you think you see in his eyes. But above all else he looks healthy, his body strong — even if you think his mind lonely and abandoned.
"I did not expect you again so soon, Heda," he says in greeting, motioning towards the bench that sits close, soft fur covering a lining to fight against the cold that wraps itself around you. He moves to it then, and you follow if only to maintain eye contact so that you may see into his eyes, and you feel the guards move quietly behind you, Titus, ever silent also a steady presence behind you, "And Fleimkepa," the prisoner bows his head, "I have not seen you for many moons," Titus nods once.
"Prince Roan," you say then, letting the timber of your voice carry out through the quiet of the dungeon,
"I expect that I am not much of a prince anymore," he says then, a gravel to his voice, "not since…" he trails off then, gesturing between you both at what led him to you almost three years prior.
"You have been informed of what happens at the border," you say then, letting your eyes bore into his and he grimaces softly, nodding once,
"Yes, Heda. The guards bring me news when there is any," and you see the despair in his eyes, you think you feel a sadness too in how he sits, in how the words weigh heavy on his tongue,
"You do not agree with what Nia does," you finish, stepping closer to him again and you feel your guards move with you, you hear the leather creek softly as they ready their swords.
"I do not," Roan replies, "I have only ever wanted what is best for Azgeda. The coalition has brought my people good trade, and they have prospered," he finishes,
"Do you know why Nia would break with the Coalition now?"
"No, Heda." he pauses, casts his eyes upwards in search of an answer, "the coalition supplies Azgeda with wood to construct buildings, wool from animals so that we not rely so heavily on the furs of the pauna we hunt so dangerously, and food - meats, grains, and roots that do not live and grow where Azgeda sits," he pauses again, you see his thoughts as they travel across his face, "Nia would not be able to break from the Coalition, not now, unless she thought she could survive on her own," he finishes.
"She has attempted to kill Wanheda," you say then, and you watch him carefully. You see his eyes widen a moment before he looks to you and Titus,
"Taking the power of Wanheda would give her the power to survive a war against the 11 clans," he says then and you had come to the same conclusion, that Nia wishes to kill Clarke and use what she gains to her advantage in a war against the Coalition forces, and you feel a warm anger that builds slowly within you at the thought. Roan watches you carefully throughout the silence that lingers, but you are careful to keep what lives within your mind hidden from all that look upon you.
"The Coalition will march on Azgeda soon," you say then, and you see his eyes downcast once more, "I do not wish for the people of Azgeda to suffer. For your people to suffer in a war that can be avoided," and you see his eyes narrow, you see him tense for a moment as he studies you.
"You need me," it's simple, a statement, a conclusion he comes to after a moment's thought,
"Challenge Nia, defeat her and take the throne,"
"What makes you think I can defeat her in combat," he says then, before spreading his arms wide, "you have left me to squander my years in these dungeons," you look carefully at him then, study him, compare him with what you remember.
"You have been training with the Order of Heda," you say then and you see his eyes widen as he looks to the guards that stand behind you, "you will defeat her,"
"And," you continue eyes hard and piercing, "you are no fool, Roan, despite your parentage, you know that the Coalition is good for your people," and he returns your gaze, holds it steady and you think you see a small simmering spark ignite within, you think you see his eyes harden just a slight bit and then he smiles, it's small but it graces his lips, the scars on his face contorting with the unfamiliarity of the motion.
"Ok," and he stands slowly, holds his arms out in front of him, one hand outstretched, palm up. You look at it for a short moment before you bring your knife forward, slice open your own palm before doing the same to his, "What else do I have to live for?"
"If you break this blood oath, I will have you killed," and you see him shrug, the blood of both your cuts meeting in a firm grasp,
"I would expect nothing less,"
You turn then, your palm a faint stinging that you ignore and you walk quietly to the exit, and you reach the door, a guard already opening it when you hear Roan call out softly,
"I am sorry, Heda," and you turn to meet his eyes and you think you see the pain, the regret and the sadness that lies within them, "I never knew," he finishes, and you briefly think of whispered words and promises and the blackness of her blood,
"I know," you say then before you leave.
But as you walk away you hear the faint whispered words in the corner of your mind, foreboding, a warning and a reminder,
Love is weakness.
"You think Prince Roan will honour the oath," Titus says then as he walks besides you through the halls of the Tower, "that he will not continue to wage conflict with the clans," and you know Titus has already come to the same conclusions as you, that he merely wishes for you to weigh all the alternatives,
"Yes, Fleimkepa," you look carefully at him as you enter the lift, "he is no fool. I saw it in his eyes when I first saw him, he truly believed that the Coalition would be good for his people," Titus nods, "that is why Nia sacrificed him, she did not believe he could rule Azgeda," you finish, a grimace in your voice.
"And how will you ensure that he can challenge Nia?" Titus pushes lowly, "she resides in her capital, she will not let your forces come to her without bloodshed."
"I will take Roan and a small force through Azgeda," you say in reply, "most of my forces will attack at the border, to keep them occupied,"
"And if you are caught? You will be slaughtered," Titus says then, his brows furrowed in thought.
"Roan will show us the way through with the least amount of danger," you turn to look at Titus now, to ensure he sees the confidence you feel, "I will not sacrifice so many on a war that does not need to be waged. Not if I have an opportunity to take a small force to Nia," and you see his eyes narrow a fraction,
"And if she kills you immediately?" he questions again
"She will not, She knows not that Roan still lives. That is an advantage in itself, and that will give any who confront us pause," and you lift your chin then, to show that you will not be dissuaded.
"You still do not know why Azgeda wishes to break from the Coalition,"
"It does not matter anymore. It is long past containment. Open conflict will be upon us and so I must act swiftly," Titus nods then, an acceptance in his posture now that he is satisfied you have thought through what you will next do.
You're tired you realise as you walk to your chambers, the mask of Heda slowly falling away as you step closer and closer to the only refuge you think you have left. You pass guards that bow their heads softly and you murmur words of greeting before you're pushing open the doors to your chamber. You can already hear one of your handmaidens in your washroom, the crackle of a soft fire warming your bath, and you call out a soft greeting to her also, and you're met by a quiet Heda and you think you smile only briefly as you recognise Shana's voice. Though still young, you think she will make good addition to the Order of Heda when she comes of age, her skills with the blade already considerably advanced despite her youthfulness, but it is to be expected, all who serve Heda must be.
You shrug off your coat, and place it softly on its stand before you begin to remove your outer clothes, the flexible armour that wraps your chest easing off, a lifting of the weight that holds you steady through your days. You begin removing the weapons you have strapped to your body, placing them carefully across your desk. Your boots are next, the laces too numerous for you to completely unlace before you twist your feet determinedly from them. You're to you pants then, and you roll them off your legs, the weighted leather armour making you feels years lighter once you stand in your undergarments. You sit quietly on your bed, careful as you unwrap the knot around your thigh to release the blade from where it sits against your skin, and you do the same for your chest binding, leaving both blades carefully hidden within the furs of your bed.
It's a soft, quiet walk to the washroom, and you open the door to be greeted by the warming steam of a too hot bath, soft scents of the soaps used trickle into your nose and you breathe in deeply, feeling the last of Heda slip away. Shana looks to you then, her hair tied back in the braids only to be worn by those that serve Heda and she smiles softly, the youthfulness of her face having left her behind since last you saw her. She sits at the head of the bath, small jars of soaps and ointments by her hands. You step softly to the bath, letting your feet sink into the heat slowly, a soft hum in your throat as you imagine it burn away the troubles of your day and then you sit fully, your back to Shana your head resting against the bath edge and you arms slung comfortably over the edges of the bath.
"You still wear your paint," she murmurs softly, her fingers slowly moving to unfurl the curls of your braids, "Do you wish for me to not remove your braids, Heda?" she questions then, her fingers stilling for a moment,
"No, it is alright Shana," you think you have always enjoyed the company of your handmaidens. The only ones to have ever really seen you as more than just Heda, if only because you allow these small moments of tiredness to be seen, if only to let yourself live for a few moments at a time, away from the burdens of Heda, aways from the whispered tingle that itches the back of your neck. "You look well," you say then, thinking of the armour that sits comfortably across her chest, "You have new armour," you continue and you think you feel her smile in the movements of her fingers as they slowly pull a knot from your hair,
"Yes, Heda. I grew out of the previous armour in the season that you were away,"
You think you smile at that, and you remember when she entered your services, her limbs much too long for her, a toothy smile and bright eyed. You lean back into her hands then when you feel the warm water she pours over your hair, and you relax further when you feel the lotions she rubs softly into your scalp, "I wish for you to be appointed a first," it comes out soft, more request than order despite your standing within the hierarchy that is the Commander and those that serve, and you think you feel her fingers falter for only a moment,
"You do not wish for me to continue as one of your handmaidens?" you think you hear a small amount of disappointment at what you have said, at her not satisfying her duties and so you quickly allay her fears,
"No, Shana. You have served me well," you feel her fingers begin to move once more, "I wish for you to be appointed a first from the Order of Heda," and you think you feel her mouth open in shock, merely by the stilling of her fingers and the way they dig just slightly into your scalp at your proclamation, "but not until you are of age," you finish softly.
"You honour me," it's quiet and bashful but you hear the pride in her voice,
"You honour yourself, Shana. You are much more skilled than the others with a blade, your skills would be wasted if you were to continue to be a handmaiden," She murmurs a soft word of thanks before you continue, "It would be hard, the training is brutal and you must push yourself more than you already have in the service to Heda," and again you hear a soft thanks before you finish, "I wish to see you in the trials, perhaps in the next winter,"
"I will," she says then, and you can hear the smile in her voice.
Conversation quiets between you both then, and you are happy to lose yourself for a moment in the steady rhythm of the pulling of your hair, the soft scarping of her fingers against your scalp and you let your thoughts wander. You think of Roan, of Azgeda and the challenges you will face. It is something you feel will perhaps be the last that you do in service to your people, you know that Commanders do not live long and you think you feel a soothing acceptance deep within you when you think that perhaps one day soon you will not feel so tired anymore, not feel tired of the death that seems to linger, draped across your body, twisting within you. And you think you may not feel so tired of the life that is a constant game that revolves around your decisions, that is a gamble for those that serve you — of whether they may win the chance to live to see another sunrise, or whether their eyes fall to the setting sun for one last time. But then your mind turns to Clarke, of the progress you feel she has made, of her words she whispered to you and you think you smile softly, it warms your heart if only for a moment. But you hear it softly, a faint warning, a solidifying of the softness that you think could never exist within you
To be commander is to be alone.
In everything.
You can't remember the last time you hadn't heard those words, and you think that even in success you would hear them — that you have already heard them in success.
And you think that your life is not that of Lexa's anymore. You think that you have not lived as yourself — for yourself — in a very long time. You live for your people, you live as Heda, and one day you will continue as Heda through the eyes of another natblida, one less tired of death, less tired of living. But not yet, you think, you have one last task you must complete before Lexa is allowed to rest.
You feel the brush as it pulls through your hair now, Shana humming a quiet tune as she continues to work through the knots that have formed and you reach out, taking a rough cloth and dip it into the warming water around you before you begin to wipe away the paint that drips from your eyes. It's soothing, you think, it's rough and you think it fitting that the mask of Heda is painless and easy to apply, but to remove it you must suffer, if only for a moment, if only slightly —and it's a warning you think, to not be comfortable in its removal, that you will always have to be Commander.
You sit in silence for almost half a candle mark, your hair slowly being braided once again, Shana's soft fingers running carefully through them, checking her work with a careful eye. You hear it then, a faint thumping as feet hit stone and you feel Shana's hands still in your hair before she is spinning around, a knife already in her hand as she turns to face the door to your washroom, her free hand reaching behind her, a second knife offered to you hilt first. You in turn quickly exit the bath, the cold air prickling your skin and you take the offered knife and then Shana is moving to the door, body tensed and then she slips out, closing the door behind her. You hear her call out, you hear the commotion of Guards outside your door before it quiets and then Shana knocks, a quick 2 taps and then a louder third — all clear. You dress yourself quickly, ignoring the dampness that still clings to you.
You exit your washroom to see a guard, chest heaving, sweat clinging to his face, Shana standing before him, a vision of unimpressed annoyance on her face at the sudden intrusion to Heda's time. The two guards stationed outside your room also stand by the door to the main entrance, clearly the ones that intercepted the lone guard.
"Moba, Heda," he wheezes out then, through lungfuls of air, and you feel the hair on the back of your neck raise in warning, the back of your neck tingle, "Wanheda has been attack,"
You exit your chambers with a speed borne from weakness, your knives already strapped to yourself hastily, Shana and the guard that informed you of the attack close behind you. You're stomach twists itself at the images your mind conjures, of a bloodied and bruised Clarke, of her face beaten and broken and you fight back the urge to lash out and strike the nearest object.
"What happened?" you bark out, your teeth grinding painfully,
"She was in the markets, Heda, the rangers you assigned to her were there, following her as you instructed," and you roll your eyes, of course they would be there, you had ordered her protection, "there was a flash of light, Heda, bright and sharp, not of a flame,"and you hear Shana growl Mountain Tech before the guard continues, "it distracted the rangers and then a man tried to stab Wanheda," your blood curdles, "she defended herself though Heda, I do not think the assassin knew she could fight,"
"Is. She Hurt." you grind out, frustration hanging heavy over your shoulders.
"Not seriously, Heda, but we have her at the healers at the base of the tower, for her Protection,"
"And the assassin, where is he?" you question, anger beginning to truly take hold. You exit the lift then, moving down the hallway to where the healers are.
"We have him in the guardhouse, he tried to destroy the tech he had with him, but we caught him before he could destroy it and flee," the guard continues.
As you walk down the halls servants and warriors move aside, sensing the anger that radiates from you as you push forward. You push open the doors to the healers, Shana taking place by the door, barring the entrance to anyone else. You see Clarke then, sitting bashfully on the edge of a bed a bag at her feet, and a healer kneeling before her as he cleans a cut across her chin. And for a heavy moment you don't see the red of her blood, you don't see the colour of her skin and the life that still lives within her. You see the black of blood oozing from her neck, you see a broken face, twisted in pain and you feel the raging storm that pierces your heart and you snarl a vicious sound before you're moving forward, pushing the healer aside and taking Clarke's face in your hands, turning it to the side so you can inspect the wound for yourself. You turn her face left and right, a frantic beat to the way your hands cling to her as you look closer and closer, trying to find any other wounds and you don't realise the questions you're voicing, don't realise you're speaking until soft hands close around yours, pulling them from her face.
"Lexa," it comes out stern, but you look into her eyes then, see the humour that lives within them, "I'm ok, really, I'm fine,"
"Are you sure," you don't realise how hard you're breathing, how hard you must be holding her hands until she winces and so you force yourself to let her hands go, to lean back and regain a modicum of what Heda should embody.
"I'm fine, really," Clarke says again, "I managed to block it in time," she says then, before ruefully rubbing at the cut across her chin, and your eyes narrow just slightly, at how close the blade came to her throat.
"Where was your guard," you hiss out then, "they did not protect you," and you're about to have someone go to them, to bring them to you so that you may question them personally, but Clarke cuts off your rambling thoughts,
"Tobias and Dala did their job, they were only startled for a moment before they tackled the assassin," she's looking at you now, a stern look in her eyes, "you won't do anything to them," and she stares at you, defiance in her eyes and so you acquiesce — for now. And so you lower your chin, acceptance clear for Clarke to see, and you think she looks smug, if only for a moment before her gaze turns quizzical, head tilting to the side, "You're wet," she says then and you're eyes widen, before looking down at yourself, water still clinging to your body, clothes damp and a small puddle of water pooling where you kneel.
"Yes," is all you say as you quickly stand, putting distance between Clarke and yourself,
"You weren't… in the middle of something?" she asks then, laughter clear in her eyes,
"No," it's a lie, but she shrugs, accepts your answer before standing.
"Ok,"
You pace back in forth in front of Clarke now, the healer finishing the last inspection of her wound before he leaves. Your thoughts turn dark once again, and you glance at Shana where she stands by the door, her hand lingering on the hilt of her blade that rests against her thigh, "Kwin Nia grows more bold," you say to Clarke then and she sighs, "She has mountain tech, Clarke," and you pause, mulling over the new development,
"I don't think the torch came from the Mountain," that surprises you, and you look up, eyes narrowing at Clarke, "I recognise it, I've used one just like it before, back on the Ark," Clarke says then, and her eyes dart back and forth as she thinks the problem over, but you feel an anger burning stronger within you, and your own hand clenches painfully around the hilt of your knife,
"Your own people would have you killed?!" you growl out, your teeth clenching hard, and you think your cordon a necessary precaution, you think you will enjoy ordering those warriors to attack Arkadia, you think you will enjoy destroying them, you think you will gloat in the—
"No," it comes out quick and harsh, cutting your spiralling thoughts off, "I don't think my own people would want me killed. When I was there they agreed that this was for the best, if we helped you,"
"You said it yourself that your people were not so easily convinced," and you begin analysing the ways in which a member of Skaikru could have slipped through your cordon, could have made it to Arkadia,
"No, Lexa, it wasn't one of Skaikru," and you look back in time to see Clarke roll her eyes, "the person had Azgeda markings, okay?" and she draws her fingers across her forehead, "scars are Azgeda, not Skaikru," and that gives you pause, but it does nothing to soothe the anger, the frustration… the worry that burns within you at the thought that Clarke was attacked. But yet again she cuts off your worrying thoughts,
"When the Ark came down there were different stations," and she must see your puzzled look, "different ships," she amends, "some landed near enough that we could reach each other, some didn't make it," and you see the small breath she takes before continuing, "but maybe one survived, maybe one landed in Azgeda lands?" she finishes, a question to her voice, "would Nia keep something like that from you?" yes.
"Yes, she would if it would give her power," Nia, the traitorous, poisonous, deceitful, evil—
"If you let me look at the torch I might be able to tell you which station it came from," Clarke cuts in once again, and so you turn quickly, catch Shana's eye before she ducks out, and calls for a guard to bring the piece of tech. You know it will take a few moments for the guard to return so you sit on the bed opposite Clarke, one of many that line the long room that is the healers. You close yours eyes and take a steadying breath then, force your breathing to steady and to still your frantic heart, and when you open your eyes again you feel calmer, more at peace with the happenings of the day. You eye catches the way the light filters in from the open window, of the sounds of Polis that wend their way through the halls of the Tower, and you look at Clarke, see the life that stills sits comfortably where it should.
"Polis is beautiful," it's whispered, quiet and drifting on the back of the steady noise from those that move outside the healers room, and you look to meet Clarke's gaze from where she sits opposite you, "I've never seen anything like it," she finishes, a smile resting comfortably on her lips, and you can't help but to admire the way the afternoon sun shines softly against her hair from where it streams through the open window, how it makes her eyes dance with a brilliance you would lose yourself in, if only you had the opportunity, and you whisper back to her,
"Yes," and you think her beautiful in the dancing of the light, "it is beautiful,"
"Can you tell where this tech came from?" you question as Clarke turns it around, looking for something to tell her the answer that she searches for. She twists one end firmly, it coming free with an easy pop before she upends the device, a small cylinder shape falling free,
"Batteries," she says as she notices the furrow in your brow, "we use them to power this thing," and you incline your head in understanding. You continue to watch as she inspects the inside of the device for a moment longer before Clarke lets out a triumphant sound, before looking up at you, a smile again on her face, a stark contrast to the slowly bruising cut that sits on her chin, "I've found what we need, see here? Those numbers? They're serial numbers that tell us where this came from — which station it was used on," and you nod your head only in half understanding, before she continues, "we needed to keep track of everything on the Ark, to make sure nothing was lost, so we marked everything with serial numbers — with names," she adds for your benefit, "so all I need to do is radio Arkadia, ask them to run the numbers and it'll tell us what station the torch came from," she finishes as she starts to rummage through the bag that rests at her feet, "they gave me a radio to use if I needed to contact them," she says as she holds up a small black box. And you recognise it from the similar devices the Mountain Men had used.
You see Clarke operate the device, pushing a button, turning another before there's a faint hiss and then a crackle, she holds it up to her mouth,
"Raven, you there? It's Clarke," you hear the hiss again, a faint crackling and then the sounds of things moving, being fumbled with—
"Go for Raven," you see Clarke smile then, for a moment, before she quickly continues
"I need you to run a serial number for me, Raven,"
"Oh, yeah, nice to see you again, it's been ages, how's the kids? Yeah they're great! Thanks for asking, Clarke!" Your eyes narrow then, and you think that the device speaks too much, if only because Clarke now has her head slapped firmly in her hand,
"Look, I know this is sudden, but I really need your help. It's serious, Raven," and you hear the Wanheda that Clarke lets creep into her voice, and Raven must hear it too,
"Oh, ok, sounds serious," you think you hear a faint clicking from the device in Clarke's hands, then Raven speaks again, "What's this all about anyway? That's if I'm allowed to know," and again you see Clarke roll her eyes,
"We found an Azgeda warrior with a torch," and you smile grimly at the way Clarke leaves out who his target was and how close she came to losing her head.
"Oh," Raven pauses then, "…OH… shit,"
"Yeah,"
"You think a station fell into their lands?"
"I don't know, that's why I want you to run the serial for me," Clarke says then, exasperation colouring her tone,
"Yeah, ok, give it to me," Raven, you think, is perhaps too talkative, but Clarke answers her with a string of letters and words before she goes silent, worry in her eyes and her brow furrowed as she waits for Raven to respond, "Hey, you still there?"
"Yeah, I'm here. Tell me you've got something,"
"Farmstation, Clarke," and you see Clarke bite her lip then, her brow furrowing even more, she sits in silence for a moment longer, before she sends a thanks to Raven, telling her that she should inform the Council at Arkadia of the situation before turning the radio off.
You pace back and forth in Clarke's chambers, you think you worry a steady trail in front of Clarke, herself seated on her bed. Your thoughts turn over all that you know of Farmstation, Clarke had told you as much as she could remember and you think it makes sense that Azgeda now thinks that they can break from the Coalition. If they can grow food, can plant seeds that can thrive with the aid of Farmstation and its advanced farming they would not need to rely on Coalition for trade. The only thing stopping all out conflict is Wanheda, is Clarke, and the thought makes your blood seethe and your jaw tense, you feel the muscles around your eyes tighten, and you are sure a headache will soon follow.
"Stop," she says it firmly, a soft rasp to her voice, and you turn to her, an eye brow raised in question, "pacing, moving about, just stop for a moment," and she leans back, so that she rests fully on the bed, her gaze focused somewhere above her, into the latticework of the bed frame.
You still your pacing, turn to look out the open window and allow the breeze to wash over you, and you imagine it as a soothing caress, a warm embrace that quiets the turmoil that exists within your mind. You stay quiet for a moment, look out at the setting sun. And you see the way the orange glow dances steadily with the greying blue of the soon to be night of the sky.
"Your second, she is well?" you ask then, and you hear a muffled Yeah in response, and you look over your shoulder to see Clarke stifling a tired yawn.
"I left her with Dala for the afternoon, I didn't want her worrying about me," Clarke adds before sitting up again and looking your way, her nose crinkled and her brow worried, "you can sit, you know?" and she waves to the couches that sit by your side, but you merely straighten your back, level your chin,
"I am fine, Clarke," you see her roll her eyes briefly and again you feel a slight pull in your belly, and then she holds your gaze, her eyes steady and firm,
"Look, you should relax," and she stands now, before gesturing around her face, "you're tired, I can see it in your eyes, Lexa. You need to rest and sitting isn't going to kill you," she finishes as she comes to a stop before you, but you merely narrow your eyes, lift your chin even more, but now her words come out quiet, softer, her eyes becoming pleading, "You aren't going to die Lexa, not from just resting for a moment," and you open your mouth then to respond but she cuts you off, killing the words in your mouth, "No, I know you said you're almost 21, and you believe the crap about Commanders not living long," she pauses, takes a breath, "But you've done more than they've ever done. You built this Coalition, and it won't die. You won't die," she finishes.
You feel the back of your neck tingle softly at her words, you think you hear the faint whispered prose that has etched into your vey being, echoes of love and of weakness ringing through your mind softly,
And you think it would be nice to believe in what she says, to be able to live in a world in which what Clarke says is truth,
But aren't you the commander?
and isn't it that to be commander to be alone?
In everything?
You don't think Clarke believes it, you know she doesn't, you know she thinks life should be about more than just surviving, and you think back to the tent, of her fiery gaze, you remember the whispered not yet that still lingers between you both, a thought, an idea, a dream that you thought would never gain life, would never be allowed to live and so you close your eyes for a brief moment, take a calming breath and hold it for a long steady beat of your heart, and you think you feel it then, the steady rhythm in your chest, you think you feel it beat and you think you sense the moment between beats, and so you open your eyes, look into the blue,
"What would you have me do, Clarke?"
"Just live,"