Ain Jos
He knew meetings with his war chiefs, were a necessity—but that didn't make them any less tedious.
Two hours had gone by, yet all they'd managed, was to bicker with each other, every other word, and their king was immensely weary of it.
Of course, the issue of whether or not Skaikru remained worthy of their position as Thirteenth Clan, was perpetually at the center of every argument, and frankly, Roan was just about ready to say, 'to hell with you all' and toss them allout; let Azgeda take the bunker for themselves, and just be done with it all.
Praimfaya was months away—no, Roan was not under the illusion that they had 'time to waste'—and it seemed nearly every clan was under the delusion that 'months' equated, 'let's all just sit on our asses and quarrel like little brats; no need to actually work together so we can survive the end of the world, oh no! Let our beloved king carry the full weight of that burden, all by himself.'
Another argument broke out just then, and voices raised to near-shouts that could escalate to blows, "Enough!"
Thunderedthe Azgedan king; glacial orbs were sharp, piercing each member present at the war council.
"Skaikru's science says 'months' but Wanheda has told us, that time frame isn't certain. Our time can shorten in the blink of an eye; we cannot afford to waste it with senseless fighting! You are not alone in your apprehension regarding the coalition; I share in your concerns, but this is about our survival. Feuds and jealousies cannot have place right now. Too much is at stake." With one hand poised on the armrest, Roan leaned forward in his throne as he addressed each member of his council, with an earnest tone and steady gaze.
His words seemed to quiet them, and at last, the meeting was drawing to a close.
Suddenly, the doors to the throne room, burst open, and Roan's captain, Tarik (Echo's second) appeared, winded, and the look of dread was upon his countenance. "Haihefa, forgive me, but Skaikru has just arrived unexpectedly; Lincoln and Indra of Trikru are with them—they were attacked, Sire, andWanheda is badly injured."
The sounds of the throne room were deafened by the sudden roaring of blood in his ears; he'd heard his captain's words clearly, and while Roan's brain had processed them, his body seemed frozen in a virtual limbo.
Skaikru was attacked.
Wanheda was injured…no. Wanheda was badly injured…
SClarke was injured.
Roan's skin prickled with the sensation of ice racing through his veins and suddenly, the king of Azgeda was on his feet and descending hurriedly from the dais.
"This meeting is dismissed." He basely declared, following Tarik out into the hall.
"Echo. With me." He rumbled as he briskly passed the blonde, who quickly fell instep with a crisp, "Yes, sire." Murmured at his back.
Roan could barely feel his legs—it was a strange sensation, knowing you were walking, yet unable to feel the limbs that carried you; he ignored it in favor of curling his fingers into tight fists until the blunt nails carved crescents into his palms.
It stung. He focused on that feeling, and directed his attention to Tarik. "Explain." He ordered sharply.
"Splita, Sire. We don't know of what clan, but they cut off Wanheda's party, at Moon Crescent pass; at this point, I believe Wanheda was alone; one of her company fell ill and the others returned her to camp Arkadia. When they returned—Wanheda was already-"
Roan couldn't stand the next words and cut him off, "Who found her? Who is with her?"
"Lincoln was out hunting, and came upon her; he sent for help, but they were too far from Arkadia; we were closer. Octavia of Trikru and Bellamy of Skaikru are also with them. In here."
It was only a few minutes walk from the throne room to the infirmary, but it had felt like an eternity, when the doors opened, and Tarik stepped aside to allow his king to enter.
He was met with Clarke's tiny frame laid out on a makeshift gurney, and the entire left side of her torso, drenched in blood.
It had already begun to pool on the floor.
Roan had witnessed much death and brutality in his thirty winters; he was no stranger to blood, torn flesh and bone. Yet the sight of Clarke's blood, sickened him to his core and the urge to wretch, was violent.
Forcing it back with every shred of will, he steeled himself and stepped up to where Indra, Lincoln and Octavia were muttering earnestly amongst themselves.
"... she's lost a lot of blood,"
"- couldn't have been there any sooner,"
"—pretty deep; Lincoln, was it-"
"Indra." Roan's graveled rumble, drew the others' attention, and Indra stepped to his side, her voice low and gesturing for him to remain calm.
"Lincoln found her as soon as he could, Haihefa, but she had already been wounded—we don't know how deep it is; the healer says there's too much blood. But there's a bitter smell to the wound—which suggests poison-" the word elicited a physical jarring recoil in Roan's body, that did not go unnoticed, but he ignored the wary glances, and turning, gripped the healer's arm, forcing her eyes to meet his over her shoulder.
"Can you fix her?" it was phrased as a question, but forced through clenched teeth and with strong threatening undertones.
The middle-aged Grounder shook her head, bracing for his wrath, "I'm sorry, Haihefa, but with the probability of poison and the amount of blood she's lost-" a painful squeeze of his hand around her arm, cut her words off on a hiss.
His jaw worked till it ached, and pale blue eyes were icy and murderous, when Octavia cut in. "Okay. This threatening bravado of yours, isn't gonna help Clarke. We need a solution." She cast her eyes to Lincoln then, "If it's poison, we need Nyko."
Lincoln nodded his agreement, but didn't even get out the words 'with your permission', before Roan's eyes darted to him with a fierce, "Go."
Lincoln was gone in the space of a breath.
And then, Clarke regained consciousness, and let out an agonizing scream.
The pain was excrutiating. It seared through her left side like fire, and she began to thrash.
"hold her down! The more she thrashes, the faster her blood flows and the faster the toxin will flood her system!"
Octavia and Indra leapt instantaneously, pinning Clarke's lower body to the table, as the healer worked tirelessly to staunch the bleeding.
"Haihefa. I need you. Go to where she can see you. Keep her arms and head, steady—as still as possible, do you understand?"
Wordlessly, Roan took his place above Clarke's head, and braced both his hands on her shoulders, pinning her upper body as much as he could, without further injuring her side.
She appeared delirious; oblivious to anyone in the room, she continued to struggle and cry out in pain.
A spray of blood stained the healer's cloak.
"You have to try harder, Haihefa; bruise her if you have to! Try—Try to get her attention. Make her see you, and talk to her." The small group fought valiantly; each praying that Lincoln would return soon, with Nyko in tow.
But until then, they could only wait.
"Clarke, Clarke!"
Clarke half-thrashed, then froze when she was met with piercing glacial orbs hovering above her.
The sight of her Bird-blue orbs, sent a tidal wave of relief washing through him, and Roan barely contained his composure.
His hands put pressure on her shoulders as he leaned over her and muttered directly against the shell of her ear, "Clarke, it's Roan. I know you're in a lot of pain right now. But you can't move. You have to stay still for me, Clarke,"
Her eyes welled with silent tears, and he felt them as they spilled over and streaked down her temples.
Indra's dark hand appeared, placing a knotted rag between Clarke's lips, to bite down, when the pain became unbearable.
Clarke offered the weakest nod of thanks before her eyes rolled back up to stare at the Azgedan king.
His hands slid inward on her shoulders, towards her neck, and he began to stroke her tear-stained cheeks with his thumbs, as he spoke strongly yet softly into her ear.
"Just listen to the sound of my voice, Clarke. I don't want you to talk, just listen and blink once, if you understand, and twice, if you can't think beyond the pain. Do you understand?"
One blink.
"That's it. Good, Clarke."
His gaze flickered momentarily up to the healer, and she gave him a reassuring almost-smile, "Good, Haihefa. Keep talking to her; your voice is calming her and that's what we want. Don't stop."
He nodded, eyes falling back to Clarke's face, where he nearly laughed at the clear-as-day smile reflected in her watery eyes.
"Of all the times to finally show me your smile; you choose the moment of excruciating agony." He scoffed dubiously.
"Distract her from the pain, not mention it; idiot!" Octavia hissed venomous. Roan discarded her treacherous tone, and simply drew his face closer to Clarke's.
"What were you thinking, being out there all alone?" He scolded softly, but Clarke could see the anger simmering in the depths of his eyes, and she rolled her eyes, half-grunting in irritation.
Roan grit his teeth; his hands marginally tightening their hold on her. "Don't, Clarke. You can't even argue with me, if you wanted to. You know how many seek the life and power of Wanheda. Why would you take such a risk?"
Clarke's eyes watered, shifted back and forth between his, and then dropped down towards Octavia and Indra.
She locked eyes with the youngest Blake, a silent plea exchanged.
But Octavia shook her head, and a look of distress passed over the blonde's features.
"What?"
Octavia eyed Roan hesitantly.
His eyes snapped between her and Clarke, before Indra stepped forth and spoke, "Wanheda was targeted for different reasons, Roan."
His eyes met the dark warrior's grim expression and something akin to poisonous dread, tightened in his gut.
"The Splita were among those from Trikru, Podakru and Trishanakru, who were adamantly against you taking up the crown. They separated from their clans willingly, and formed a renegade group of extremists…they challenged Wanheda because of her loyalty to you."
By this point, Clarke was blinking rapidly, and earnestly shaking her head 'no' attempting to dissuade Indra from speaking any further. But the Azgedan king shot a pointed look at the blonde; he would not yield until he heard the rest.
Learning forward, his one hand had an iron grip on the edge of the gurney, and his eyes cut to slits as he commanded, "Tell me. How do you know this?"
Indra pressed her lips together, her eyes searching the floor, before she met her king's embroiling stare. "Octavia and I managed to track the small party of renegades who were responsible for Clarke's attack. One of them—Octavia kept him alive long enough until he broke with the truth; they—they tried to force Clarke's hand; they wanted her to renounce her loyalty to you. To denounce you as not a king, but a traitor and a coward. She refused. Even when they cut her and threatened her people…she would not forswear fealty to the King of Azgeda…not even if it cost her, her life…" The dark skinned warrior finished the account solemnly, just as the doors opened and Tarik ushered in Lincoln who was followed by Nyko.
"Lincoln and Nyko." With a measured touch to his arm, Octavia drew Roan's eyes towards the approaching Trikru.
They were three steps away, when suddenly Roan stepped into their path, blocking Clarke from their view.
His eyes were narrow and distrustful as he appraised the Trikru warrior he did not recognize.
"I don't know your face—therefore, I don't trust you." He said gravely, his head tilted in suspicion.
"Clarke trusts him, Haihefa." Lincolndeclaredrespectfully, butearnestly.
"Even if she didn't, we don't have any other choice!" Bellamy spoke up for the first time, since this all had started; he inserted himself between the men and directed his gaze towards Roan. Despite being a good 5 inches shorter than the ice nation king, Bellamy's posture was steadfast and his eyes hardened in resolve. "You might be willing to risk her life on the basis of your mistrust; I'm not. Nyko," Bellamy gestured for Trikru's healer to continue.
Nyko stepped forward, only for Roan to grasp his arm firmly, icy orbs piercing him squarely. "Is there more than one dose of antivenom?"
Nyko hesitated only for a moment, then procured a second vial of blood red liquid and held it up for the king to see, "...Sha, Haihefa."
"Then dose me first." He commanded.
All eyes turned to Roan - Bellamy's expression the most inscrutable of all.
Lincoln pressed a careful hand to Roan's shoulder, drawing those piercing blue eyes to settle upon him with keen sharpness. "The antidote is made from the source of the poison; if you take it without having been affected, you could fall dangerously sick…" The Handsome Trikru's wizenedgaze was overshadowed in concern, but Roan ignored him, settling his eyes upon Bellamy instead, who still regarded the Azgedan with an inscrutable stare.
"I'm aware. No risk is too great in this circumstance." He declared strongly, and the words dropped solidly, hanging like a silent challenge between Himself and Bellamy; he was no fool. Bellamy's feelings towards Clarke, had never been hidden from his eyes…and Roan was never a man to back down from an ambiguous, yet calculated challenge.
…Perhapstakingtheantidote, leaned a bit more towards the extreme, in his show of acceptance to Bellamy's remonstrance, but there was no need for the Azgedan king to openly admit it.
"Dose me first." He repeated, his eyes never breaking contact with Bellamy.
The others moved around them, preparing Clarke for the antidote.
As Nyko dropped the second vial into Roan's outstretched hand, the ice nation king leaned an inch closer to Clarke's partner, and uttered valiantly, "Despite what you think of me, Bellamy of Skaikru, there is nothing I won't risk, for her sake." With that, he brushed passed him, uncorked the vial and knocked it back in one go.
Seconds went by, until at last he addressed the two healers. "Do it." Even as the words left his mouth, he caught Nyko'a arm a final time and his eyes cut into threatening slits, "If she dies…it's your life, Trikru."
Nyko nodded fearlessly, and as Clarke slipped into unconsciousness, he set to work.
/
It felt as though eternity lapsed, only to cycle back and begin again, as Clarke drifted in and out of consciousness.
She felt the heavy weight of delirium each time she was pulled back from the darkness; she could only make out distant hums, distorted sounds and blurry images at best.
Once or twice, she managed to fight the darkness long enough to snatch a few words,
"-been out for this long?"
"-t—il take time to-"
"-must be patient."
Again, she would slip away, only to be dragged back by an intense, sharpened pain that radiated through her side and drilled into her skull.
It felt like the world's worst hangover, hand-in-hand with the sensation of fire burning her from the inside out; she wished for death for only a flicker of a moment, before the hazed veil lifted from her eyes, and she heard a deep, husky voice speaking directly into her ear,
"Stay with me, Clarke; remember the river? When I bound your hands after you'd attempted to drown me, you stabbed me with your dagger, in retaliation,"
The voice sounded so distant, yet felt so near; she instinctively turned towards it, latching onto the softly spoken words that breathed a caress against her cheek.
"You were so defiant, Wanheda; I found myself utterly amazed by the fire in your eyes, as you fought me…I should have told you, long ago; though I loathed your naïveté—your arrogance…you gained my respect that day..."
The voice faded as another wave of intense pain seared through her, and Clarke was thrust violently into full consciousness as her back bowed off the table and another piercing scream tore from her lips.
"Clarke!" Roan roared in alarm.
"Hold her down!" Nyko commanded; the antidote had been administered, but he was only partially through with stitching up the eight-inch long gash, in her side; the wound still bled and the surrounding flesh was tender and inflamed—Nyko had hoped she would remain unconscious, long enough to be spared the excruciating pain, but now, he would have to work faster in order to spare her what little discomfort he could.
"This is insane." Bellamy cursed, dragging shaking fingers through matted curls, as he paced the room like a caged animal.
The Azgedan healer grit her teeth, as she fought to hold the gash pinched together, as Nyko stitched.
"Your anxiety is not helping; Nyko and I need to concentrate. If you cannot keep your head and keep silent, leave the room so we can heal Wanheda." She spared a thinly-veiled glower over her shoulder, and Bellamy stalked from the room with Octavia at his heels; she needed to keep an eye on him, lest her brother tear the whole place apart.
Indra followed to support her Second, which left only Lincoln and Roan remaining.
By now, Clarke's cries of agony, had heightened to drawn out echoes of suffering that filled the room, filling Roan with a sense of despair, like he had never known in his life.
The weight of her suffering, was a crippling burden that fell upon his shoulders, imbuing him with a measure of the unbearable agony Clarke was forced to endure, and his own endurance, was put to an end.
Gripping the gurney on either side of her mildly-thrashing head, his eyes burned with thinly-tethered fury, "She can't endure this any longer; do something. Now!" He hissed through clenched teeth.
Nyko's steady gaze locked with the maddened gaze of the King, "I am nearly finished; but I need her still, Haihefa. Talk to her, she will listen to your voice."
Roan bit back his fury and again, bowed over Clarke's face and spoke earnestly; this time, his voice was unsteady and tinged with desperation. "…Clarke."
Red rimmed eyes dragged to his face and held there by a thread, as tears rolled continuously down her cheeks.
"…Clarke. You have to keep still."
She whimpered, her face screwing up in a way that let him know, 'I can't!' As she blinked furiously; the pain was beyond what she could bear.
"You can do this, Clarke," he encouraged, moving one hand down to grasp her shaking fingers, tightly. "You are strong, Wanheda; you've made it this far, you can't give up now."
In an unexpected turn, Clarke rallied enough strength to part her lips and speak through the pain, "…R-Roan, I don-"
He had not been prepared for the sound of her voice, let alone the tone of resignation; the broken rasp of his name, felt far too much like a goodbye…
"Don't. Don't you dare finish that sentence…Clarke,"
Suddenly, the Azgedan King's guarded temper, shifted.
Impervious to the presence of Lincoln, Nyko and the Azgedan healer, Roan grasped Clarke's hand fully within his own, and tenderly swept the unruly hair back from her tear-stricken face.
Bowing over her, he dipped his head until they were nearly nose-to-nose, and whispered gruffly, "You are not allowed to give up, Clarke kom Skaikru. You will fight with every last shred of your stubborn will; no, open your eyes, Clarke. Open your eyes, and fight!"
Turbulent ocean blue, clashed with unforgiving glacial winter.
"…Fight, Clarke…please…" He pleaded. And then, Roan dropped his walls, letting her glimpse the full extent of his fear, as he dropped his forehead to hers. "You haveto stay alive, …stay alive, so you can stay with me."
And there it was. The words he'd buried so far beneath the surface, were clawing their way and spilling forth from his lips, even as he felt the long-forgotten burn of tears choking his voice.
But her eyes were now fully cemented within his, and Nyko's final nod of assurance, proved that not only had Roan's words reached her, but Clarke had succeeded and fought through the most difficult part of her ordeal.
"The wound is closed." Nyko sagged, and a collective sigh of relief, echoed amongst the occupants. "Yu don dula ena, Wanheda." [You did well, Wanheda] Nyko murmured softly to Clarke; the blonde let out a trembling breath and closed her eyes, spent.
"Ena don dula, Haihefa." [well done, Sire] Nyko respectfully inclined his head to the ice nation king as a small smile touched his lips. "She hears your voice, and trusts you completely; that is why Death could not claim her; she draws her greatest strength when you are at her side."
Perhaps it was presumptuous of Nyko, but the Trikru healer was perceptive and esteemed as the wisest of his clan. His sharp eyes had not missed the look of terror in the king's gaze, as Wanheda's blood stained the floor, nor the way in which Roan's voice held her in a protective embrace when his arms could not; it was clear, the heart of the Ice Nation's monarch, was far from 'cold', and Skaikru's hainofi held it in her hands.
His suspicions were only confirmed, when the flicker of a cognizant smile passed through Roan's eyes, as he uttered stolidly, "En Wanheda ste hart kom Azgeda."
/
When Clarke awoke, it was to a throbbing ache down the left side of her body, and a dull headache behind her eyes.
She blinked as muted light filtered into her vision, causing the dull ache to peak momentarily, before it subsided once again.
Testing her eyes again, she deemed the muted lighting bearable, and scanned her immediate surroundings.
She felt incredibly warm, and upon clenching her fingers, she discovered she was lying upon a thick bed of the most exquisitely softest firs, in all creation.
She would have stretched languidly, before sinking further into the opulent paradise, were it not for the throbbing ache in her side that reminded her to keep as still as possible.
She could tell she was not in the same clothes she had been in, and a cursory glance downward, revealed a deep emerald sleeping gown, donned her form. The material was a gauzy fabric—thicker than the night robes Lexa had worn—and the neckline was a plunging narrow V that ended just above her navel. The bodice was fitted to her torso, by two cords comprised of muted earth-toned linen, twisted together; one fastened just beneath her breasts, and the other, cinched securely around her waist.
The rest of the gown was simple; long, flowing sleeves that reached just passed her wrists, and split at the shoulder, to enable free range of movement, while the skirt just barely hinted at the wide flare of her hips, before dropping away in a gauzy waterfall of fabric that would doubtlessly sweep the floor, were she standing on her own.
Another thought danced through her mind, 'where am I?' before a dark thunderous voice, broke the silence. "You're awake."
The bass undertones vibrated through her, and her eyes eagerly slid to the left.
Roan sat in the window seat, silhouetted against the moonlight, and leaning heavily against the frame. One knee was drawn up to his chest, propping his elbow, while his free leg was carelessly stretched out before him; even haplessly sprawled as he was, Roan's aura was regal and graceful—the picture he made, was striking, and Clarke felt her throat tighten and her heart simultaneously constricting.
Roan was beautiful.
Achingly so.
Suddenly, his piercing glacial orbs were upon her, "You're staring, Clarke." He said lowly.
She blinked owlishly. "S-Sorry," and promptly tore her eyes away.
There was a beat of silence, then rustling and movement, as the king—dressed in a grey tunic, loose trousers and boots—stood to his feet and moved towards her.
He scooped up a trey of something, on his way to the bed, then carefully shifted her legs over, before seating himself atop the furs, beside her.
"Here," he set the tray gingerly in her lap. "You need to eat something."
Clarke gingerly dragged herself to sit up—she made it to her elbows, before hissing sharply, and Roan sat forward and wrapped a careful arm around and under her waist. "Learn most of your weight against me; I'll lift you to sit against the pillows.
She nodded wordlessly, and braced both hands on his broad shoulders, surrendering her weight as he lifted her up and settled her gently into a seated position.
She prayed he wouldn't notice her heartbeat that raced thunderously in her chest.
Roan settled her against the pillows, and her lower back pressed fully against his forearm, as she allowed him to bear her weight.
He went to slide his arm from beneath her, but halted when Clarke's steady breathing suddenly hitched sharply.
He felt the fingers of her left hand, clench into his shoulder and suddenly, her whole body went rigid.
His brows drew together in a frown, "Is sitting up, causing you pain?" he asked, concern tinging his voice.
"N-No, it's not that."
Unconvinced, the Azgedan warrior slipped his arm from beneath her, and instead, settled both hands at her waist, fingers spanning her ribs.
He regarded her closely, his eyes narrowed and intensive as they searched her face in an attempt to unfetter the truth.
His face was inches from hers, and while he appeared nonplussed by the proximity, Clarke's every nerve was wound tight like a spring.
"Wanheda, if you are in pain, you need to tell me, now. Nyko left a tea to brew for you, that is meant to ease it."
"Really, I'm fine; the pain's just a dull throbbing, I can manage-"
She came up short, when Roan's calloused fingers were curling around her chin, and firmly drawing her face forward.
They were definitely nose-to-nose now, and Clarke's eyes rounded in abject horror, when red flooded her face.
Panicked, she tried to tug free of his hold, but her efforts died when Roan recognized her expression, and stared, awestruck.
Several moments of pregnant silence, hung between them - Roan's hold upon her, frozen, and Clarke rigidly helpless within his grasp.
"…Ro-Roan-"
Something flashed within his eyes, but was gone before she could name it. In place of it however, Clarke recognized Roan's indisputable resolve take root, and that scared her more than anything.
"Roan, we s-should really talk about the-"
But the dark Prince-turned-King of Azgeda was nearly upon her, when he muttered thickly, "The last thing I want in this moment, is your 'talk', Wanheda." His mouth lightly feathered over hers, and she gasped as her body rippled in a strong shudder.
It was all the answer he needed, and Roan gathered the blonde against him, ever mindful of her wounds.
Snaking his arm around and under her back, he cradled her in his lap, like a small child, while his free hand spanned the width of her neck with the pad of his thumb tucked under her chin to draw her face upwards and closer to his own. His eyelashes feathered against hers as he deliberately traced the delicate curve of her jawline.
Pale orbs filled with eternal winter, searched hers, and at length, she couldn't bear their intensity, and broke the silence, "What…what is this, Roan?"
"Isn't it obvious?" he murmured thickly.
Her response was a half-deprecating smile that did little to quell the uncertainty in her eyes, "Considering I've—misread situations like this, in the past, I'm going to say no. No, it's not obvious." Her tone was a bit scornful, but she couldn't bring herself to regret it; she knew how she felt about Roan, and if she was being brutally honest, she'd felt this since the very moment he'd captured her at that outpost, all those months ago.
They'd been through so much since then; he'd saved her life countless times, and risked himself for the sake of her people; falling in love with Roan, had been a losing battle from the start, and now, loving him was as easy as breathing, to her.
Regardless of this fact, Clarke was still fiercely protective of her heart, and she refused to read falsely into another situation, if only heartache and disappointment awaited her, yet again.
Roan witnessed every ounce of indecision and apprehension, pass through her eyes, before the stress of the last five days, culminated to a bitter taste that settled on his tongue;
The king was thoroughly fed up.
"...You took down the Maun hef, without even flinching, yet cower before a naked truth that stares you in the face; my foolish Wanheda," he mocked her, exasperated. But there was a look in his eyes and a heat in his voice, that rooted Clarke to the spot and left her breathless with anticipation,
"…Yu don drop of…" he murmured darkly, and then he claimed her mouth, his tongue stroking persistently at the seam of her lips, until they fell open in a gasp.
He wasted no time, and though his arms were gentle as he cradled her against him, his lips were eager, and his hands persistent; one twined in her hair, while the other skated up her ribs and teasingly stirred the underside of her breast, before vigorously kneading the flesh in his palm.
This elicited a drawn out moan of pleasure from the flaxen-haired beauty, and Roan's passion was spurred into a smoldering flame as he lashed his tongue against hers, stoking her desire further.
He knew with her healing injuries, they could only go so far, but that didn't matter to him. The rest of it could wait, and until then, he would be more than content to hold her in his arms and feel her body as it responded to his.
"Uhhn…Roan…" She sighed against his mouth.
The Azgedan king felt sharp desire rock through his body, and he broke the kiss, hardening his grip upon her, as he screwed his eyes shut, and placed a strong tether upon his carnal impulses.
"Regardless of how—painful my desires become, I will not risk causing you pain, Clarke…"
He spoke in a measured tone; a testament to the great discipline he exercised above his passions, and the effort, warmed her heart to its core.
Breathing out a soft laugh, she gingerly turned towards him as much as she could without straining her stitches.
"I know," She breathed softly as she touched her forehead to his. Her hands still rested on his shoulders, and his own hands returned to encircle her waist, and he held her gently, but solidly against him.
"Don't think for one second, that I don't burn for every inch of you, Wanheda," He declared hotly,
"I just-"
But her lips upon his, silenced further explanation, and he only vaguely came back to himself, when Clarke withdrew and whispered heatedly, "Just shut up and kiss me, Roan. And for gods' sake, don't stop touching me…" She begged him, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she raised besotted eyes to lock with his own lust-filled gaze, "…the rest can wait, ai Haihefa…"
His eyes darkened, heavily infused with lust, passion and traces of fragile blossoming love. "Sha." He assented, before losing himself to endless passionate kisses, mixed with heated caresses; "Yu belon gon ai," [you belong to me] he muttered earnestly between kisses.
Then, his lips peppered every inch of her face—lingering at every turn—as he murmured just loud enough for her to hear, "Ain jos…Ain. Ain. …Jos Ain [Mine only…mine. Mine. Only mine.]."
/
A/N: This was so grossly overdue, I'm so sorry, guys! Don't worry, there are more drabbles to come, and hopefully shorter than this; gosh! I set out with an idea, but then I just keep going and can't stop! I get caught up in laying the foundation for each scene, to the point there's little dialogue between my characters.
Gotta work on that!
Anywho, R&R!