A/N: Hello everybody! I'm back after a long wait. Thank you for all of the favourites, follows, and reviews. Your support has been fantastic and I love hearing from all of you. I'm not going to get into why it took so long, but I will say that I'm not going to make any more promises when it comes to this fic because inspiration for it comes very sporadically, among other reasons. I'll update when I can, but that's all I'm going to hold myself to from here on out for the sake of my own state of mind.
I hope you enjoy the chapter! Please keep letting me know what you think :-)
Disclaimer: I do not own The 100. It belongs to Jason Rothenberg and the CW. No copyright infringement is intended.
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Clarke POV
Empty. I feel empty.
As I walk back towards the tent past wide eyes and hushed voices, everything fades into the background until it's just me and the buzzing, deafening silence in my ears. My body moves without conscious guidance on my part and I stare forwards without seeing.
The pressure of Lexa's hand in mine is the only thing that registers.
All of a sudden, we're back in my tent and I'm sitting down on the bed. Lexa's hand slips from mine and my chin lifts up in protest, eyes seeking her out at last. She turns to face me, a canteen in hand.
"Drink," she implores, her voice soft, holding it out to me.
Silently, I accept the canteen and take a cautious sip. It's alcohol, but it's nowhere near as strong as the moonshine that Monty distills.
Monty. I wonder what he would think of me if he saw me now. I suppose I'll find out soon enough.
"Clarke," Lexa says quietly, sitting down beside me on the bed, "You did what you needed to do. Do not dwell on it; it will only drive you mad."
I nod once, but I'm only partly listening to her.
The Azripa's screams are playing on a loop in my mind. I can still smell the sickly sweet stench of burning flesh, but whether it's on my clothes or just in my head, I can't tell.
Fingers, timid and gentle, touch my cheek. I glance up to meet somber, empathetic green eyes. Lexa gently pulls my face towards hers and our lips meet.
My mind finally goes quiet.
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A little while later, after having drunk a bit more than I should, I'm sitting cross-legged on the bed, leaning back into Lexa's embrace.
"I'm going to miss you," I murmur, my fingertips stroking one of the arms wrapped around me. As I watch, goosebumps rise on Lexa's skin.
She nuzzles my hair. "And I you," Lexa replies, also a little less than sober. "I don't want to let you go after everything that's happened; I think I'm starting to understand your mother more and more," she adds, and I can hear the wry smile on her lips.
I scrunch my nose. "Let's not talk about my mother," I mutter, which earns me a small chuckle. Lexa laughs so sparingly, I think to myself, that every single bit of laughter I can wring from her is precious.
"Ait," she replies, her tone softened by lingering mirth. Alright. "But Clarke, you must promise me that you'll be careful on the way back to the camp." Anxiety was slowly creeping into her voice. "You are not fully recovered, and if we weren't so pressed for time, I would insist upon you and the others staying until that was the case."
"I'll be careful, Lexa," I promise her. "We'll move fast, but we'll stop to rest when we need to, and someone - multiple someones, even - will be on the lookout 24/7. We'll have some of our best fighters with us, too. It'll be fine."
Lexa sighs, her breath warm on my neck as her hands toy with a pair of my braids; the anxious noise seems louder than it is thanks to the quiet of the night. "I hope you're right, Clarke," she replies quietly. I lay my hands on her arms and lean my head back onto her shoulder, and together, we sit in silence, trying not to think about my impending departure.
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When I wake up the next morning, it's with groggy reluctance and squinting eyes. The sunlight seems determined to greet me, filtering through the fabric of the tent in wispy, shimmering tendrils to prod my eyelids open. I notice the presence of a warm, soft surface pressing against my brow and, looking up, I realize that Lexa and I had fallen asleep facing one another, foreheads touching and legs interwoven.
I take a moment to just look at her. Even in sleep, she's uneasy; her lips are pursed, her brow gently furrowed, and her body tense. I feel a pang in my chest, and without thinking, I tilt my chin upwards, touching my lips to her forehead softly.
Lexa's eyes snap open to meet my gaze as I lower my head back down, so that we're once again touching foreheads. She stares at me for a moment and, slowly but surely, a serene, close-lipped smile adorns her face.
Her eyes are so breathtakingly open to me in that moment that any quip that I'd intended to make evaporates, and instead I simply whisper, "Good morning." My voice comes out as a rasp, my throat scratchy with sleep.
"Good morning," she responds, leaning forward to give me a light peck on the lips. She moves to withdraw, but I reach up a hand to the nape of her neck to keep her where she is and gently coax her mouth open with my tongue. She makes a noise halfway between a hum and a moan and eagerly acquiesces.
We spend the next few minutes like that, sharing leisurely kisses as we bask in each other's company. Eventually, though, I become aware of the brightening light and my empty stomach, and with a great deal of reluctance, I pull away from Lexa's lips. When my eyes flutter open, the green ones in front of them are entirely knowing and faintly melancholic.
"Let's get ready," is Lexa's quiet suggestion. A nod and a sad, little grin are my answer.
We get up out of bed, shivering slightly in our thin tunics and cotton leggings. The morning air is cool and fresh and determined in the absence of the warmth of the torches and the fire pit, whose flames had burnt out at some point during the night. Lexa and I walk over to the dresser and, together, choose our clothing. Once we both have what we need, she moves behind the dressing screen at the far end of the room and I strip and dress by the bed. I pull the items on one-by-one; a sturdy, comfortable pair of olive-coloured leggings, an unassuming brown tunic, a leather jacket in such a dark shade of brown that in the right lighting, it could easily be mistaken for black, a pair of thick, woolen socks, and a set of sturdy, black, leather boots. When finished, I move to the corner of the room where a new mirror has been placed, and with some difficulty thanks to my injured hand, I begin to braid my hair back.
A minute or so into my embarrassingly futile attempt to arrange my hair, I catch a flicker of movement in the reflective glass and watch Lexa approach me, clad in her typical black and red. Once immediately behind me, she gently removes my hands from my tresses and her own take up their efforts much more efficiently. I don't protest; instead, I focus on enjoying the feeling of her fingers weaving through my hair, knowing that this will be the last time that I'll have the opportunity to do so for awhile.
She finishes quickly - maybe even more quickly than I'd prefer - and as she goes to move away, I catch her by surprise for the second time that morning by tugging her down to sit next to me on the padded bench. I grab a paintbrush with my good hand and dip it into a pot of black paint.
"May I?" I ask, holding the brush aloft. She nods, her eyes warm, and satisfied with her enthusiasm, I begin to paint the appropriate markings on her skin, adding my own stylistic flair. Despite trying to draw out the process, I make short work of the face-painting and after a couple of minutes, I set the brush down on the table. Lexa turns to face the mirror and smiles as she inspects her face.
"Perfect," she comments, her gaze following the lines that I've drawn across her cheeks.
"Good," I reply, and I can't help but give her a small smirk in the mirror, which she rewards with a short laugh. She asks me if I'd like the favour reciprocated, but I decline, explaining that it would likely not be received well back at Camp Jaha.
"Octavia always talks about feeling like an outsider there because of the choices she's made - because of her connections to the Trikru," I tell Lexa. "I have to start out on the right foot with the Arkers if I want to get them to listen to me."
Lexa, although clearly disheartened by the revelation, easily agrees and tells me that I "know best when it comes to the Skaikru." I get up from the bench as she begins to braid her own hair, and once my back is turned, I frown.
Do I really know best anymore when it comes to them? I think to myself, shaken. Can I really do this?
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The time for goodbyes has finally arrived. I stand at the bottom of the steps of the Polishoum with everyone from the Skaikru delegation, a contingent of Trikru guards tasked with seeing us safely to Camp Jaha (Aliya among them), Lexa, and Indra. I can barely pry my eyes away from my counterpart, but remembering where we are and that we have a potential audience, I finally manage to turn my attention to Indra, who is wishing us well.
"... safe journey back to Camp Jaha," she finishes.
"Thank you, Indra," my mother answers for us, "and thank you for the escort, Commander," she says to Lexa. The two of them exchange a measuring look and both seem assuaged by what they find in the other.
"Of course," Lexa replies, gracious and stoic as ever in her role as Heda. "As Indra has said, I wish you a safe and easy journey, as well as the best of luck for your efforts on your return."
My mother gives Lexa a commiserating grimace and nods her thanks. Then, she declares, "Alright, everyone; time to get moving."
With one last lingering look at Lexa - who returns it with unmistakable sadness - I turn to follow my old friends to the city limits.
It seems to take no time at all to reach the boundary, and once we're there, the guards on patrol stop us briefly to return a crate of weapons, the majority of them guns. Bellamy hands them back out to their respective owners, and then we move on, wasting no time.
We trek through the forest, steering clear of the major trails whenever possible. We pass the time chatting, Bellamy, Octavia, Lincoln, Raven, Aliya, and I; my mother stays up ahead, talking to some of the Ark guards. A water canteen gets passed back and forth along with a bag of trail mix and some jerky as the hours stretch on and it gets closer to midday. The sun beats down on us from overhead, and soon we're stripping off unneeded layers and stowing them away in our packs for the evening. Regardless of that, it's not long before we're sweating buckets.
When the sun reaches its peak and we're only a mile or so from a massive, treacherous slope that will surely prove a grueling climb, a unanimous decision is made to break for lunch. We find a clearing with a good deal of shade and settle down to eat while the Trikru gona spread out in pairs to stand watch and simultaneously refuel.
I'm asking Bellamy about the new training regiments he's created for what's left of the 100 when we all hear a commotion in the woods and jump to our feet, weapons drawn. Aliya moves directly to my side and the others form a loose circle around me, bodies tense with anticipation and adrenaline.
Close by in the forest, voices call out angrily in unintelligible Trigedasleng, and then all of a sudden, three gona emerge from the woods, dragging a small, writhing figure with them into the clearing that I can't quite make out through the glare of the sun.
A fourth gona follows behind them and then jogs around the group to approach us, meeting my eyes.
"Heda," he addresses me somberly, "this yongon has been trailing us for hours - likely since we left Polis. We thought that stopping might trick her into making a move, and we were correct; otherwise, I doubt we would have been able to catch her. She seems to be skilled in stealth; every time we thought we had her, she would disappear into the forest, only to crop up again a half hour later."
"Bring her to me, beja," I say and the three other gona, hearing the order, pull the now unresistant figure towards me. As they get closer, despite the fact that the girl is hiding her face with her long, dark hair, something clicks in my brain, and I tell the people circled around me to stand down.
"Clarke," Aliya protests, but I cut her off.
"Do as I say, Aliya. It's okay. Trust me. That goes for all of you," I add, shooting quelling looks at Bellamy and Octavia in particular. They glare back at me worriedly, but apart from shifting their weight uneasily from one foot to another, the two siblings make no attempt to stop me as I move past them.
I step out of the circle and approach the girl being restrained. "Chek ai au, goufa," I say to her, my tone cautious but soft. Look at me, kiddo. The girl's head rises slowly and all I can do is stare.
"Onya?" I ask, stunned in spite of the confirmation of my suspicions. I wave off the guards holding the girl's arm with a firm "Chil yu daun!" and walk up to stand right in front of her before bending down to be on her eye level. "Goufa, chit yu dula op, mafta osir op laik disha? En's nou klir. Yu na don bilaik laksen foto, ou ..." I trail off, letting the silence speak for itself, and finding myself unwilling to finish the thought, regardless. Kiddo, what are you doing, following us like this? You could have been badly hurt, or ...
"Ai don get daun gon yu, Heda Klark," the young girl replies quietly, her demeanor solemn but not at all abashed. I was worried for you, Heda Clarke.
"Worried for me?" I repeat in Gonasleng. "Oh, Onya." I open my arms and she immediately burrows herself in my embrace.
I feel her chest shaking and gently, I brush aside her dark, wild hair from her ear so that, without being overheard, I can murmur to her, "Oso gaf chic op in, nou sha?" We need to talk, don't we?
I feel her nod her head against my sweat-soaked tunic and I tighten my grip on her just enough to provide some comfort.
"Ait, yongon," I tell her softly, "teik oso gyon au en chich op." Alright, little one. Let's go and talk.
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