Lexa wasn't so sure what woke her. She didn't know whether it was the harsh bite of the throne, or whether it was the cold that permeated through her body. But she woke to a chill that seemed to embrace her, and she woke to an ache that seemed to splinter through her hip, that seemed to make her joints ache to any slight movement. Her eyes blinked open after a moment, and it took her just a second longer to grasp where she was, where she had found herself.
Lexa found herself leaning back in her throne, a hand on each armrest where she had fallen asleep. She couldn't even quite remember when she had decided to remain in her throne, she couldn't remember the moment she had given in to simply resting where she had been seated.
And perhaps she found it just a little sad, perhaps she found it just a little detached, pathetic even, that she seemed to embrace the solitude of her tent in such moments.
Lexa sat up then, she winced just slightly to the cold and she cast her gaze to the war table that remained in the centre of her tent, to the map and the models that lay atop the hard surface.
And she wasn't quite sure what triggered her memories, she wasn't sure what made them seem to flow to the forefront of her mind, but she found herself remembering times she had shared with Clarke, she found herself remembering the nights of quiet conversation, of war meetings, of stress and annoyances, of waiting and anticipating.
And perhaps what made her think of such things was simply the fact that her mind seemed to not know what to do now that Clarke had been found, that Clarke had seemed to spring to life before her very eyes, who had seemed to have lived a life full of love, of cherished moments. Of times not for her to know.
And so Lexa looked away from the war table, she looked away from the memories, and she found herself trying to cling to whatever presence seemed to stand just past her gaze, that seemed to drift in and out of her consciousness, that seemed to exist beyond conscious thought, beyond waking recognition.
And she felt the pressure and the tingle at the base of her neck, she felt the murmurings and the faintest of dronings that seemed to fill every little quiet moment her mind let her have.
But not for the first time she tried embracing the presence, she tried letting in whatever seemed to exist, whatever seemed to shadow her. If only so that she would have another that would understand and share in the solitude and the cold that seemed to have become her life.
And so the presence seemed to shift, it seemed to fade out from the shadows, it seemed to morph and bleed and take form in the very corner of her eye, it seemed to take residence where he once had stood, where he had once watched and guarded, cautioned and breathed.
"I have missed you," Lexa breathed quietly lest her voice carry further than it should, lest her voice give way to weakness, lest it break whatever resolve she told herself she still had.
"Titus would not approve of such sentiment," he said softly, and Lexa found herself looking for his presence, she found herself searching for the warmth he had once brought her.
"Titus would not approve of many things I have done," Lexa countered, and she blinked back whatever hurt seemed to exist within her thoughts.
And so Gustus stepped out from the corners of her mind, he let his steps take him into the centre of the tent, and he turned to face her with the usual keen glint that had always shone in his gaze.
"You do not know what to do," he said, and Lexa found herself smiling just barely at the way his voice seemed so real, seemed so full of whatever warmth it had once held.
But, she also found herself frowning just a little at the way his words took hold within her mind, she found herself grimacing to the realisations, to the truths of his words.
"I do not," and Lexa didn't quite know how to say what she felt beating within her heart with each passing day.
"You care for her," he said.
And she knew she did. She knew she cared for Clarke more than she would ever voice to the world, more than she should, more than she could.
"I—" but perhaps she couldn't let herself truly speak her mind.
And perhaps it was because she thought to do so would be to admit weakness, would be to admit that she had lost whatever game it was that her life had begun to play. But most of all? Perhaps it was because she could never admit the truth for she felt a fear at the very thought. "What am I to do, Gustus?" and perhaps Lexa couldn't remember the last time her voice had seemed so pathetic, had seemed so weak.
"I do not know," Gustus replied, and Lexa looked him in the eyes as he simply shrugged just once.
Lexa thought that answer not so helpful, she thought that answer not too useful. If only because she truly knew not what to do.
Her gaze turned back to her war table then, and she found that her gaze landed upon the space where the Mountain was marked, where battles had been fought, lives had been lost and taken, and where promises and trusts had been shattered.
And for perhaps the first time in a long time, Lexa let herself truly remember the hurt in Clarke's eyes, she let herself remember the confusion, the anger, and the realisation.
She even found herself remembering the offer for Clarke to see Polis, to see how it thrived, how it was home to thousands, how it fed and sheltered and cared for all those within its walls.
But Lexa was not so foolish as to hope for a future where Clarke would ever let anything exist that had once been a possibility.
And so she discarded whatever thoughts had taken place in her mind, she discarded whatever longings she had been entertaining, and she discarded weakness.
If only because she thought she would drown.
Lexa stood, she ignored whatever pained her and she let her hands run over the creases in her clothes as she began moving to her tent's exit without worry for the presence that seemed to fade back into her mind's shadows.
And, with each step that took her closer and closer to her tent's exit, Lexa told herself that she wasn't running, that she wasn't retreating from her truths.
But, as Lexa's feet reached the threshold of her tent she heard it ever so quietly, she heard it whispered somewhere in the back of her mind.
Do what you think is right.
Clarke woke to the quiet of a waking camp, of warriors preparing for another day of journey, to horses being fed, being readied. Jessa lay beside her in the small tent they shared, the girl's face buried in warm furs as the cold seemed to brush the tips of her ears and whatever small part of her face remained exposed to the chill.
Clarke lay where she found herself for a moment longer, she let her mind wake fully and she let her breath ease into a rhythm that she found helped to settle her for the day to come.
She knew the camp would break soon, that the warriors would wish to begin their travels and not linger for longer than they needed. So, with just a little wince, Clarke pulled the furs from her body and she sat, she stretched and she groaned to the slightest of pops she felt in her back as she let the cold morning air prickle at her exposed body.
Clarke stood, she cast her gaze downwards and onto Jessa who grumbled in sleep as she rolled into the spot Clarke had left, and not for the first time Clarke found her lips pulling up at the corners as she knelt down and squeezed Jessa's shoulder.
And so Clarke whispered out the girl's name softly, she let the warmth of her touch bring the girl closer to consciousness and she let her eyes take in the mess of twisted and knotted fiery hair that adorned Jessa's head. The girl's eyes cracked open with a sleepy reluctance that made Clarke smile a little more widely.
But, as Jessa yawned, as she whimpered to the cold and as she whispered out her own quiet greeting, Clarke found a realisation beginning to take hold within her mind.
And it wasn't something life altering, nor was it something drastic, something deathly important. But Clarke couldn't help but to think that perhaps she would get Jessa her own tent soon, that the girl deserved some space, some privacy, some more responsibility. And hadn't Jessa earned that? After all the years they had spent together?
And maybe it was simply Clarke's realisation that now, as she made her way back to Camp Jaha, and as she prepared to face the last of what had been plaguing her mind, she had been relying on Jessa as much as the girl had relied on her.
And so Clarke apologised with a laugh as she pulled the furs from Jessa and pulled her from the bed lest the girl fall back to sleep before even fully waking.
Clarke and Jessa ducked out of their tent not soon after Clarke managed to tame Jessa's wild hair into a somewhat presentable braid. The sun still hung low in the sky, and it shone its light upon the lands, but Clarke thought it seemed a little less like the light of the plains, a little less like the red and oranges, yellows and browns that would fill her vision.
Mist seemed to just barely cling to the lands, too, it seemed to weave between tent and person, burning flame and shivering horse. But as Clarke took a step further from the tent, as she let her lungs fill with the cool chill of the morning, she was certain she felt a prickle on the back of her neck, she was sure she sensed the eyes of someone who watched in the distance, who seemed to linger without worry and concern for being found.
She turned, and she searched face and body, it didn't quite surprise her when her gaze settled upon the Commander's tent that stood in the distance, whose size dwarfed those near it, and whose shadow seemed to cut a swatch of emptiness through the mist as it parted in its journeys across the land.
And so it didn't surprise Clarke to find the person standing before the tent, gaze ever quiet, ever guarded in the morning mist.
The lands flashed past, they bled from the reds and oranges of the morning sun, from the yellows and browns of the fleeting lands, and to the blues of a cloudless sky. the sun shone down on the lands, its rays seemed to shine with an intensity and a want that seemed renewed, hopeful, eager for change and carefree.
Clarke rode atop her horse, Jessa on her own, both beasts galloping over the lands as easily as a bird soared through the open skies. Clarke and Jessa rode ahead of the Trikru warriors, and if Clarke was completely honest with herself she would admit that she felt just a little pride at the fact that their horses were stronger, larger, faster than those the Trikru rode.
And so Clarke found herself falling into a rhythm, into a pattern, where she would look over her shoulder once or twice just to check that they were still followed, that they kept pace just a little ahead of the galloping warriors to their back. And Clarke did so for she wished for some semblance of privacy from the eyes that seemed to watch every move she made, every step she took, and she did so because she still didn't quite know just how to feel about the company she kept.
But most of all, Clarke used the time to think over her actions. And she found herself thinking of Ten and Jorda who must have begun to return to Raska by now, whose scouting of the borders must have come to an end. Clarke also found herself thinking of Jessa, of what the girl would do once they reached Trikru lands, and Clarke thought she would let Jessa bring up the topic of Ton DC if she wished, and Clarke thought that she wouldn't quite push for Jessa to visit if she didn't wish to.
Clarke also found herself thinking, contemplating, perhaps even worrying just a little of what she would do when she reached Camp Jaha. But as she thought of the future conversations and apologies she knew she would have to make, she didn't quite think it felt real, she didn't quite think it had truly settled within her for she found herself numbed to whatever pains had once lingered in her mind.
Or maybe the realisation that she no longer felt the pain so stingingly, so searingly, meant she had made progress in whatever journey she had taken, that she had used whatever time she had stolen to heal, that she had overcome whatever burdens, whatever demons had lingered upon her shoulders. Or perhaps that emptiness, that uncertainty was simply a reminder that her journey was unfinished, that she still needed to make amends, that she still needed to lay to rest the last of her actions. And perhaps Clarke wished things were simpler, were less confusing, less troublesome.
And so Clarke pushed those thoughts aside, she turned her gaze outwards, and she let the flashing of the lands pass her by. And as she turned her face to the sun, as she let the heat of the day's light and as she let the wind take hold around her, she could be forgiven for wanting to ignore the shadows that seemed to appear at the edges of her vision, that seemed to want to take hold somewhere in the corners of her mind, and that seemed to want to bring forth memories she had let herself dwell upon for longer than a few short seconds.
Clarke knew the warriors, even the Commander, were eager to return home after such a long journey so the group of warriors began to slow their pace and search for a suitable place to make camp only when the sun began to touch the horizon. Clarke had begun to se the difference in the lands they had travelled, too, the grasses seemed less yellow and red, the gravel seemed more grey, less full of the richness of the plains, and even the few trees that had begun to appear more frequently seemed wider, broader, taller than those of the plains.
But perhaps what struck Clarke the most was the way the grasses seemed to shift into the greens of the forests she had once been familiar with, whose blades seemed to dance just a little differently in the wind.
She thought that Jessa had begun to recognise the difference and feel the familiarity, for the girl had begun to take in the lands around her, she had begun to eye each piece of bark, leaf and stone with a glint in her eye that told Clarke that the girl recalled memories from her past.
And it was with the those thoughts that Clarke found herself pulling her horse to a stop by the side of a flowing river, whose surface rippled to the barely there wind, and whose water seemed to trickle and ebb and flow over the lands with ease.
Warriors pulled their horses up behind her, they dismounted and they begun to make camp for the night with a speed born from years of repetition. Clarke and Jessa found themselves dismounting, too, they found themselves erecting their own small tent, and they found themselves falling into a rhythm as they prepared for the night.
And so Clarke turned her mind to the task at hand, to unravelling their tent and to sorting through their bedding, and though it all, she tried to discard the fact that she felt a familiar gaze upon her, that she felt a presence watch her and study every move she made from the distance that she found herself incapable of crossing.
Clarke wasn't sure how long she lay awake in their tent, she wasn't sure how long sleep seemed to elude her, and she wasn't even so sure she knew how long it had been since Jessa's breathing had evened out into sleep.
But Clarke knew she couldn't find sleep for some reason, she knew she couldn't even really let herself try to find it. Not when she felt the presence she hadn't felt in years. Clarke turned her gaze to Jessa, she let her eyes take in the peaceful slumber that the girl embraced, and she let her mind try to make sense of whatever thoughts she seemed to be having in the moment.
And so Clarke rose, she sat and she let the furs fall from her body and pool around her waist. The night's chill took hold of her skin and prickled her flesh and she found herself shivering as she stood and wrapped herself in loose clothing, red and eager to flow down her shoulders. Clarke spared just one last glance over her shoulder to check on Jessa's sleeping form before she ducked out of their shared tent and into the open night.
And the night was calm, the moon sat high in the sky, and barely there clouds seemed to drift on whatever currents ebbed and flowed through the sky overhead. Clarke took a moment to look around herself at the tents that surrounded them, to the fires that glowed in the dark, to the few warriors who could either not sleep themselves, or who were on watch.
It didn't surprise her to find Ryder sitting by the nearest fire, the man's eyes closed, and his hand resting atop a knife tucked into his belt. And it didn't surprise Clarke, that as soon as she took a step from her tent, Ryder's eyes opened, they blinked and they focused on her from where he sat.
"Do you need to watch me, even here?" Clarke said quietly as she gestured around them and to the warriors and tents.
"Yes," Ryder said, and Clarke watched for a moment as he stood and rolled his shoulders before coming to a stop not far from where she stood.
Clarke sighed as she turned and began to move towards the water's edge, but as she passed Ryder, she found herself taking in the scar across his face, that sliced through his tattoo, and that seemed to have found a home amongst the many other scars that she was sure littered his body.
And she thought this moment familiar, she thought this moment funny even, for she found herself remembering the time she had held gun to Ryder in the dark, when she had marched him back to the Commander's tent, had demanded he leave Octavia be.
But perhaps it wasn't so similar. If only because she didn't know if Octavia still lived, she didn't know if any others had survived the years, she didn't know how many of her people had found a place on the ground, had made a home to call their own. And so Clarke sighed as she continued to find her way between tents, Ryder's presence steady and constant behind her as she continued to move.
As Clarke continued to make her way slowly to the water's edge, she found that it didn't surprise her that a shadow seemed to be drifting in the very corners of her mind, it didn't even surprise her to find that she seemed to be chasing after it without conscious thought, without even really trying to close the distance between them both. And perhaps she was tired of running, perhaps she was tired of not facing whatever it was that she needed to face.
And so Clarke came to a pause by the water's edge, she let herself still, she let her breathing even out and she let her mind clear as she tried to think of just what to say.
But she paused, too. She paused for she wished for this conversation to be private, for this conversation to be heard by none other than herself. And so Clarke looked over her shoulder, she let her gaze meet Ryder's and she let her voice carry just far enough for him to hear.
"I'm not going anywhere, Ryder," Clarke said to the man, and she saw him eye her for a long moment, and she was sure he took the time to consider, to contemplate whatever it was that drifted though his thoughts. "You can watch, you can guard me if you want," and Clarke shrugged. "But I want privacy," and she turned to face him fully. "I'm not saying don't follow your orders. But for now, I want space," and Clarke let her voice harden just enough that she knew Ryder recognised the fire in her words.
The man sighed for a moment, and Clarke watched as he looked around them, as he searched the dark.
"Do not move where I can not see you," he said after a moment before turning and fading into the dark that surrounded them both.
And so Clarke turned back to the water's edge, to the river that sparkled to the stars and the moon, to the rippled across its surface that undulated and ebbed, slithered and trickled through the lands. Clarke smiled as she looked up into the stars, she smiled as she found herself not so sad, she smiled as she thought over the things she had done, and she smiled for she thought she understood that this time was different, that this time wasn't so full of guilt, so full of anger and pain and blame.
And perhaps she smiled for she knew she could face whatever demon stood beside her without breaking, without seeking forgiveness, without trying to make excuses for the things she had done.
And so Clarke let her eyes close for a long moment, she let her breaths even out and she let her mind settle into a peaceful quiet she had once thought never for her to have again.
"Hi," and perhaps Clarke would never have said such a thing to the woman who stood beside her when she still lived, when she still glared and snarled, threatened and maimed.
"You are not dead," and Clarke couldn't help but to smile just a little to the surprise in the voice that came from somewhere beside her.
And so Clarke opened her eyes and turned to the woman who stood beside her, whose hair seemed just the same as when she had first seen her upon the bridge, whose eyes were smudged by the same black war paint, and whose curiosity and intrigue and wariness seemed ever constant behind an fearsome twitching of a lip.
"Hi, Anya."