A/N: Chapter 9 was rather short, so this is a double update, but don't miss the previous chapter- you might be a little lost if you skip it.
Her attendants had braided blue ribbons into her hair and slipped silver onto her wrist. There was a rope of bells around her ankle and a line of kohl from the corner of her eyes to her temple. She wore blue silk, with a gray sash held in place by a silver halfmoon. All of it made Clarke feel otherworldly, and it was a relief to not be herself.
Indra arrived to escort her to the feast just as the stones were beginning to glow with the sun's descent through the sky. Clarke wondered if from now on she would always tell time in shades of red. The general led her down streets that were slowly becoming familiar to Clarke, all the way to the center square in front of the goddess' temple.
The square had been cleared of vendors and the space was now dominated by an enormous table, all of one long seamless piece of wood that must have come from a tree so large it was beyond imagining, set to overflowing with steaming food and wide bowls of wine. To one side of the table was a stack of logs piled to a height easily twice as tall as Clarke.
There were groups of grounders talking, milling about the square or sitting at the table, picking at food before the meal began in earnest. It was a diverse group, now that Clarke knew what to look for in differentiating the tribes; the subtle differences in the color and texture of their clothing, the way they wore their hair, the style of their tattoos.
At the head of the table stood Lexa, who turned at Clarke's approach, warpaint making her green eyes sharper.
The Commander wore a red sash, longer and wider than her war kind, fastened at her shoulder with a silver sun device. The fabric twisted across her chest, looping beneath her opposite arm and falling behind her in a bloody river of folds, open across the front where Lexa was bound in black, the skin and scars of her stomach exposed, collarbone and shoulder amber in the failing light. Clarke wondered if her skin still tasted like lemongrass and was immediately enraged at herself and Lexa for the thought.
The Commander acknowledged her with a nod, eyes flicking down Clarke only once before looking away. Clarke could see her jaw tick and wondered if Lexa shared her thoughts. The possibility of Lexa's weakness strengthened her own resolve and anger- if this was a way to make the Commander suffer, she would take it.
Lexa glanced at her again, mouth opening as if she might say something before she caught sight of the fire in Clarke's eyes and gestured simply to the chair next to hers instead.
Clarke set her jaw stubbornly and took her seat; if the Commander meant to suffer this event in stoic silence, she would oblige her.
Clarke tried to keep the names straight as they introduced themselves; Ada of the Drikru, Orlan of the Braknkru, Rora of the Winakru, and on and on, more people and tribes than she had thought possible. All showed a special interest in Clarke, but her taciturn silence and Lexa's dismissals were enough to keep most from interrogating her.
Clarke sighed as yet another chieftain moved away from them after paying her respects, and Lexa's fingers tapped irritably on the arms of her chair. Clarke wondered how much patience it had taken to bring together the coalition and where Lexa had learned diplomacy from- neither Anya nor Indra seemed to have the gift for it.
Clarke was weighing the cost of asking; wondering if the question was worth breaking her silence for in order to relieve some of the tedium, when Lexa stood up abruptly. A party was approaching them, a woman flanked by two others, and Indra stared at Clarke until she too stood.
The woman at the center was tall and very old, her hair a loose hanging silver, and Clarke could tell by the spidering film over her gray eyes that she had been blind for many years.
"Luna," Lexa said, and there was the sound of a smile in her voice as she took the old woman's hand and kissed her wrinkled palm.
Luna ran her other hand across Lexa's face, fingers ghosting over the Commander's warpaint to avoid smudging it.
"Lexa," Luna said, "You have been away too long."
It was the first time Clarke had heard anyone refer to Lexa by her name, and she studied the woman, wondering what connection she could have to the Commander that could make them so informal with each other.
"Luna, this is Clarke," Lexa said, placing the old woman's hand on Clarke's forearm, "Heda kom Skaikru."
Clarke tensed at the title.
"I'm not their commander," she said with a glare towards Lexa. The Commander ignored her stare at Luna smiled at her, gray eyes focused beyond them.
"May I?" Luna asked, her hands at Clarke's shoulders. Clarke looked away from Lexa with a sigh of exasperation and nodded.
"Yes," she said.
Luna ran her hands across Clarke's face, thumbs running across her eyelids, fingers parsing the crinkle in her brow, the frown at the corners of her mouth. Clarke felt both comforted and exposed.
"I hope Polis gives you rest, Heda," Luna said, and before Clarke could argue at the name Luna's attendants led her away.
Lexa looked after Luna's departure with an expression that seemed almost wistful and Clarke considered asking Indra about the Commander's connection to Luna- wondering if it was possible to prise any actually useful information from the tight lipped general- when they were interrupted.
"Heda," a voice spoke behind them.
Clarke turned with Lexa and there was the Ice Queen.
"Nova," Lexa nodded, the movement stilted, and her green eyes had that distant, indiscernible look that Clarke could not read.
The Ice Queen smiled and bowed, managing to make the show of subservience crackle with animosity.
Nova was dressed in white, the color making her skin paler, almost translucent, and the fire of her hair and the ice in her eyes was a shocking contrast. The wrist of her missing right hand was still wrapped in red. Her left hand clenched and unclenched, like she itched to claw at something. Lexa grew even more still beside Clarke, expression flat and eyes stone.
"This is Clarke of the Sky People," Lexa said, her introduction low. Clarke wondered why she was not "Heda" this time, but decided it was not the moment to ask.
"We have met," the Ice Queen said, eyes shifting to transfix Clarke like she was a butterfly on a board. "What a different introduction it would have been had I stopped my horse last night."
Lexa's eyes flicked to Clarke curiously, but she said nothing.
Clarke narrowed her eyes, "How so?"
"We are most ourselves when we are alone," Nova said, gesturing to the grounders around them and Lexa by Clarke's side, "It is a passion of mine to find the true self. Strip away the comfort of the day, the armor of our friends, and the presence of the one's we love, and you expose the real heart of the warrior." Nova smiled again, "Wouldn't you agree, Commander?"
For a moment Clarke could see Lexa's mask flicker and something that looked like madness in her eyes- like tearing apart skin and snapping bones- but then it was gone and Lexa looked away with a bored sigh.
"Ah, well," Nova said finally, "We all live with regret."
"Can you pet do tricks, Commander?" Orlan asked, loud voice carrying over the merriment. Clarke could feel Lexa tense beside her, fist clenching on the table. The feast had begun in earnest but there were many who were quicker to drink than eat. Orlan raised his arms, looking around the table with a drunken grin, "Can she breath fire fog like the Mountain Men? Will our skin crack open and bleed if she touches us?"
Several warriors from the Braknkru near him let out raucous laughter, but many others looked uncomfortable, their gazes flickering between Orlan and the Commander. Few beyond the Trikru had encountered the Mountain Men, and Clarke realized that much of what they'd experienced must have been lost in translation.
Orlan stood on unsteady legs, taking a jerking step towards the head of the table, "Show us your death magic sky-girl!"
Before Clarke could react or Lexa could stand, the Ice Queen swept to her feet, knocking her chair back and hurling her goblet at the drunken Orlan, silver striking his temple and wine spilling down his neck and chest.
"Guard your tongue, Orlan," she snarled, and the long table silenced at her words, "You disrespect the Heda at her celebration."
Orlan narrowed his eyes and swayed a moment, blinking away blood from where the metal had cut his eyebrow. Tentatively he brought his fingers to brush at the blood, staring at the stain on his hand with confusion before looking between Nova and Lexa. Clarke felt the moment balance perfectly between violence and merriment, waiting for a weight to roll it one way or another. Clarke thought of the serrated dagger slid into her boot. The Commander stood, red sash sliding across her, regal and in control.
"You are lucky there are no weapons at the feast, Orlan," Lexa said slowly, eyebrow raising slightly, "Imagine if she still had her axe."
Orlan's face split into a slow smile and he rubbed his head, staining ashy hair with blood and laughing, his companion's laughter following. He inclined his head slightly to Lexa, "My apologies, Heda-"
"Give your words to Heda kom Skaikru," Nova spat, pulling the moment back towards tension with her snarl, "She is the Mountain Killer, and the One Who Did Not Run."
Clarke felt as though her ribs had collapsed in on her heart, at once pressure and sharp pain at the title Nova gave her. She felt the hazy sense of premonition that came with times of unwanted fate; knew that the name would stay with her and that she would hear it far too many times. Clarke felt a thick anger in her throat at the One Who Ran beside her, wishing Lexa had traded the weight of their names, certain that hers was heavier to bear.
Orlan looked to Lexa, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
His eyes caught Clarke's and she could see the apology there- he had not meant to make the night so heavy on her shoulders, "I did not mean to mock your death magic, Heda."
Nova slammed her palm on the table, "A warrior knows there is no magic to death! She kills as anyone else does," the Ice Queen's eyes slid to Clarke, blue eyes still cold even in the warmth of torchlight, "With whatever weapon she is given."
Clarke flinched inside at her words but refused to look away. Nova smiled, sharp toothed and wild.
"We drink," Lexa said, voice cutting through the silent tension, "To the death of the Mountain."
Lexa handed Clarke her glass, pressing the cup into her hand and Clarke could not decide whether the look Lexa gave her was solidarity or warning. A warrior fetched Nova her glass, but she shoved him away, pulling a tankard of wine from the table with her good hand and lifting it high. Lexa looked down the table and nodded once before drinking deeply, grounders following her lead. Clarke raised her glass and drank, the wine hot and thick on her tongue, her stomach twisting around it as it settled heavy inside her.
The second glass was easier to get down, and the third effortless.
Clarke was grateful for the alcohol's edge-softening. Though Polis was a peaceful city and it's people unwarlike, Clarke was learning that gatherings of grounder warriors never quite lost their tension, the air heavy with promised blood, even during celebration. Clarke's shoulders felt tight with the strain and Lexa's solemn silence to her right and Indra's ever shifting eyes at her left did not help.
Clarke and the Commander ate little, Clarke tearing a piece of flatbread to pieces between her fingers, Lexa pressing the tines of a makeshift fork into her thumb. Nova's eyes found them often, licking grease from her fingers like something feral, lips red with wine, and the sweep of her icy stare made them both tense. Lexa drained her cup, and filled her own and Clarke's again.
As dusk deepened, performers entertained the feasting grounders. Music- high, reed-like flutes and thundering drum circles filled the air, and fire breathers sent bursts of brilliant light through the dark. When the musicians stopped, a woman with dark hair braided down to her waist stepped forward with a long black box and pulled a gleaming sword from it.
"I thought only the city guards had weapons," Clarke leaned over to Indra.
Indra shook her head, fingers picking at the white flesh between fishbones before her.
"She is a sword dancer, not a warrior," Indra said with a snort. "It is a traditional performance in times of peace- turning a weapon to something beautiful," Indra finished with a roll of her eyes.
"You don't like these performances?"
"She would serve better on the battlefield," Indra replied, snapping a bone between her fingers, "Our times of peace do not last long enough for dancing."
The dancer approached the head of the table and held the sword out to Lexa. The Commander ran her thumb along the edge of the blade, slicing it across the point in a vicious motion that made Clarke wince. Lexa held her hand up, showing the blood that ran down her thumb and wrist and nodded to the dancer.
Clarke turned to Indra and the woman sighed, "To prove the blade is sharp and she dances with death."
Clarke nodded at the explanation, her attention back on Lexa and the dancer. The woman drew a wide circle in the dusty stone with her swordpoint, stepping into the center and falling into a warrior's stance. Lexa pressed her thumb to her mouth, blood staining her lips a deeper red and Clarke pulled her eyes away with an effort of will.
The dancer began to move; slow, sinuous movements that brought the blade against her skin as she twisted around it, working the blade and her body into every quickening circles. The sword flashed as she released it into the air, wrapping her body around it as it fell, pressing it against the stone as she tumbled over it, arching as she brought the point against her chest.
She wheeled and spun, flipped and balanced, sword singing through the air and running across her skin and not a single drop of blood falling.
With a tumble into a pointed pose that wrapped her leg high around the blade the dance ended, and her grounder audience cheered and beat their hands on the table. Lexa was pensive and still beside her, thumb still pressed against her lips.
The dancer caught Lexa's stare and approached the head of the table.
"Heda knows the steps to the dance?" she asked. Clarke watched the Commander curiously, Lexa's eyes darting to Clarke for only a moment before she nodded once to the dancer.
"Would the Heda honor me?" she held the blade out to Lexa.
Lexa looked as though she was engaged in some inner debate, jaw tensing before she sighed and stood, taking the blade and stalking to the sword ring. She unfastened her sash as she went, the fabric falling heavily on red stone, leaving Lexa looking bare and small. The dancer retrieved a second sword from her box and stood opposite the Commander, both of them falling into a low stance with an almost unnerving synchronicity.
"Is this part of a Commander's training?" Clarke asked Indra.
Indra's eyes flicked to Clarke briefly before going back to the Commander, "No."
Clarke knew better than to ask more.
The dancer reached a hand out to Lexa's face, and Lexa mimicked her, their palms resting against each other's necks and Clarke realized with a sudden startle that they were measuring each other's pulse, syncing their heartbeats in the stillness before the fight. With a swiftness that made Clarke grit her teeth, their swords swept together, a single metallic chime before they spun away from each other in a whirl of movement.
It was as much a dance as a fight, their hands running across each other as often as their blades did, their arms linking to twist each other around, backs arching. The steps were rehearsed, but the immediacy of their movements and the sharpness of the swords made their dance seem intimate and hungry.
As the dance became more intricate, Clarke could see the strain in Lexa's stance and knew that the long wound on her back was still troubling her. Despite the injury Lexa moved with a sort of hypnotic concentration, as if all of her senses had narrowed to this dance and she could not see beyond the circle of their movements. It made Clarke feel lonely to watch her so held apart, Clarke's foreignness at this feast crashing back on her as her only link to this world disappeared into rapid steps and twists and flashing swords. The girl who danced with her had darker hair and skin, was smaller and more fluid, but her eyes were a mirror of Lexa's own, holding the same focused intensity, their gaze refusing to break except when they spun past each other, swords singing, shoulders brushing.
The dance moved quicker, sparks striking at their blows, the strength behind their swings reminding the watchers that blood was only a misstep or hesitation away. Lexa crouched, swinging her blade in an arc at the dancer's feet, her partner leaping up and rolling over Lexa's back to land behind her. Clarke flinched at the move and the way Lexa's teeth grit against the pressure on her back, but she did not slow, straightening and spinning to parry a blow. Lexa mimicked the slide of her partner's blade along hers until their swords ghosted across the skin of their collarbones, each pressing the edge up against the other's throat. Clarke could see how the rise and fall of Lexa's breath pressed her skin against the blade and she realized her fingers were curled into such tight fists that they were going numb. The two stared into each other's eyes for another interminable beat before dropping their blades, the dancer bowing and Lexa turning swiftly away.
As grounders cheered and beat their fists on the table, Clarke unclenched her fingers and stared at Lexa. She looked unsettled, her eyes not quite in the present, breath heavy and knuckles still tight around the hilt of her blade. As she knelt to retrieve her sash a voice carried over the tumult.
"The Commander moves well," Nova said, speaking to her followers loud enough to be heard, "She had a good teacher- though she did not dance so well without her feet."
Lexa gave a wild roar, lunging out of the dance circle, blade held high. Grounders scattered away from her and Nova's guards jumped to their feet, but the Ice Queen sat still with a half-smile. Clarke made to step forward and Indra grabbed her arm in a vice-like grip. With a hiss through bared teeth, Lexa sank her blade into the table, the metal burying itself deep in the wood with a splintering sound. The grounders were silent. Lexa's shoulders heaved and Nova licked her lips.
Lexa's hands slid off the handle of the blade, and as she straightened all of her poise returned to her, rage buried deep beneath the glittering impassivity of her gaze.
"It is time to light the fire," the Commander said, chin lifting, "The dead must be appeased."
Lexa stood before the pyre, torch in hand and sash returned to her shoulder, all emotion bled from her expression, once again the eternal Commander. Darkness had finally truly fallen, torchlight illuminating only flashes of bright eyes and blood red stones in the blackness.
"In fire, we cleanse the pain of the past," Lexa began the familiar words. "In fire, we are released." Lexa's eyes found Clarke's for a moment before they swept away, "By the Goddess' will we have no warriors to lay on the pyre. Our enemies rot in their mountain," Clarke swallowed heavily as Lexa threw a fist in the air, "May their bodies never burn!"
"Burn," the grounders echoed, voices overlapping, beginning a low chant that spread through the group, the heavy tone resonating in Clarke's chest, "Burn. Burn. Burn."
At the height of their call, Lexa thrust the torch into the center of the pyre, stepping back as the primed wood rushed into a towering flame. Lexa screamed- half warcry, half howl, and the grounder's voices lifted with hers, a wild cacophony of sound as warriors began to leap and spin around the fire. As their cries died out, fast tempoed drum beats took their place, urging the pace of the dancers around the flames and Clarke felt drunk on sound and wine and fire. Lexa stalked towards her, silhouetted by flame, her path sure through the revelers, warpaint running and eyes bright. She took Clarke's arm, and there was a moment of perfect stillness at the grip of Lexa's fingers against her skin, and then suddenly they were moving; careening through dancers and whirling around the fire, following a dance without steps by instinct and the flow of their bodies together.
Clarke was breathless, lungs burning from movement and the heat of the fire, her skin burning wherever Lexa touched her, Lexa's green eyes the only steady thing in the dance. Clarke grabbed Lexa's sash, pulling them to an abrupt stop as she shifted her hands upwards, fingers interlocking at the nape of Lexa's neck, the skin there damp with sweat.
Lexa's chest heaved, equally breathless, her lips parted and red, and Clarke wanted her with an angry aching longing, knowing with that same hopeless sense that told her she would forever be the Mountain Killer, that she would also always want the One Who Ran with a desperation that ran deeper than her sense of betrayal, a desire more sure than her anger, a terrible need warring with her bitter mistrust.
Clarke pulled her eyes from Lexa's lips to her eyes. They had lost all the wildness of the dance and all the flat dismissal of the earlier evening and now they were just dark and damp and in pain. Lexa sighed, wrapping her fingers in Clarke's braids, fingers tangling tight as she pulled Clarke forward, pressing her forehead to Clarke's own.
"Weakness," Clarke breathed.
Lexa nodded against her, "Yes."
The fire snapped and sparked, the drums rumbled, and the dancing grounders howled, but Clarke and Lexa stood unmoving. They were not safe here, could not stay still forever, but for this moment they could be close and quiet. Lexa's fingers curled and uncurled in her hair, and Clarke traced lines down Lexa's neck.
The howling screams of the Ice Queen were in their ears as Lexa closed her eyes tight and pulled Clarke closer to her, smelling of anger and despair, wine and smoke.