Abby sat in her office chair, her fingers clenched tightly around the armrests as she let her breathing settle and as she tried to wrestle her emotions under control.
Clarke and Jessa sat in their own chairs, too, and as Clarke looked around the office she couldn't help but wonder if anger and hurt would come after the shock and surprise wore off.
But Abby took in a deep breath, she closed her eyes and she tucked a strand of frayed hair behind an ear as she let her breathing settle into something more controlled before she opened her eyes again.
"Clarke," and Abby's voice came out quiet and careful, but Clarke was sure she could hear the pain and the heartbreak in her mother's voice still.
Clarke thought Abby must have tried thinking of how to ask all the questions that she was sure filled her mother's thoughts, she was sure Abby must have been trying to think of how to break the ice, to break the silence that now settled around all of them.
And so Clarke looked away for a moment, she let her gaze settle upon a stack of papers, some edges wrinkled and torn, all filled with hastily scribbled writing of things, of thoughts, perhaps measurements and notes or perhaps something else entirely.
"Were you safe?" Abby's question broke the silence, and it drew Clarke's attention back to her mother whose gaze seemed to settle upon the scar that adorned the left side of her forehead, whose edges were still slightly raised, whose wound had just barely fought off infection and the agony of pains Clarke knew would always exist within her.
"Yes," Clarke answered, but her answer was a half truth, and she knew her mother knew from the narrowing of her gaze. "As safe as I could be living on the ground," Clarke added.
"What happened?" Abby asked.
And so Clarke took in a deep breath as she let her memories come to the forefront of her mind, as she let them take hold and bring her back to times long since gone.
"I spent a lot of time lost," Clarke began, and she turned to Jessa to see the girl eyeing the flashing of a screen, and the flickering of the lights overhead before the girl met her gaze with a slight smile. "We both did," and Clarke looked to Abby to find her mother's gaze moving between them both.
"And then?" Abby asked, and her voice remained as quiet as ever.
"We found each other," Clarke answered, and she found herself smiling as she held Jessa's gaze for a moment. "And then we were found by Plains Riders, they took us in, they realised we needed help, they gave us a place, somewhere to call home."
And Abby paused for a moment as her eyes took in the red of the clothes she wore, of the way they flowed freely in places, and how they seemed to hug hug and conform to her body in an comforting embrace.
But Clarke thought from the way Abby's eyes never held still for too long, from the way her mother's lips parted just a little as if word tried to escape, that she should explain, should try to give reason to her insanity.
"The Mountain broke me," Clarke continued, and she blinked back a pain she knew would always hide somewhere just under the surface.
And she wondered what her mother saw, she wondered what her mother thought. She wondered what the others must think of her, what Bellamy must think, must feel.
But perhaps what gave her pause, what made her second guess, reconsider, was that she wondered what Jessa thought, what the girl saw, what she thought of the woman she had become.
"I needed time to heal," Clarke said, and she recalled her demons, she imagined them standing beside her, quiet and careful in their company, and she found that she hoped that whatever was to come would be worth the pain she had lived with for years.
"You were gone for years," Abby said, and Clarke didn't hear malice in her mothers words, nor did she hear anger, blame, resentment. But she knew she heard a pain, a despair and a hurt, something she knew would take years to fix.
"I know," Clarke said. "I know," and she shook her head, let her braids fall across her face ever so slightly.
And perhaps Clarke thought explaining her life, of what it had turned into was better than trying to make amends, trying to make excuses, to shift the blame.
And so, "I have friends," Clarke said, and she looked to Jessa to find the girl's gaze had settled upon her mother. "Tenebediah, she took us in, taught us how to live again," and Clarke smiled as she thought of the woman with wild hair, dreadlocked and fierce, whose tattoos always made it seem as they her lips were twisted into a smirk, into a smile and a grimace that graced down her chin. "Jorda," and Clarke nudged Jessa's foot with her own. "He helps teach Jessa, makes sure she won't skip out on her lessons," and Clarke couldn't help but to laugh just a little at the way Jessa's eyes roll with a subtlety she knows is made in jest.
But Clarke's voice trailed off slightly as she found that she knew not how to explain her involvement in the war against Azgeda, in how she was sure she had spied people from Skaikru in the briefest moments, how she was sure she could have reached out years earlier if she had wished to do so.
And perhaps as the silence began to linger for a moment longer, Clarke found that she listened to the beating of her heart, to the way her breathing seemed to fill her ears, and to the way every little noise seemed to cascade over every little surface that filled her mother's office.
"I missed you," and Clarke's gaze snapped back to her mother's, she watched as Abby took a moment to once more look to Jessa before back to her. "You don't have to tell me everything," and Abby nodded to herself, and Clarke thought the motion something desperate, something that tried to keep whatever emotions from breaking free. "Will you stay?" Abby asked after a moment, and Clarke couldn't help but to hear the desperation in her mother's words, then, but she couldn't blame her, could never, should and would never blame her. "Can you stay?" but Clarke thought her mother knew the answer already from the way her eyes seemed to move over her clothes once more, to the knife strapped to her body, to the scars that littered her fingers, small slivers of white that spoke of years of handling sharpened metal, to the callouses that tipped her palms, to the way her skin seemed just slightly darker, that spoke of days spent in the sun, sun kissed and weathered to the plains.
"We'll stay for as long as we can," Clarke answered, and she looked to Jessa briefly to see the girl nod an agreement.
And perhaps Clarke found that she had expected her mother to beg, to plead for her to stay, to linger for longer than they would, but she saw an acceptance wash over Abby's face, she saw an understanding, and she saw a flicker of something deeper that Clarke thought she had only discovered after the pain had begun to temper.
And so Abby smiled sadly, she wiped a hand across her face for a moment and she took in a deep breath before speaking once more.
"Ok."
Standing outside her old quarters was unusual, was bizarre, and it seemed to reach out to her with twisted claws that unsettled and prickled her skin.
"This is where you lived?" Jessa asked, and Clarke looked down to the girl to find one of her hands scratching her chin, another tucked into her belt as she took in the metal, the reflecting of the light, and the tech that seemed too loud, too vibrant.
"Yeah," Clarke answered, and she couldn't help but to think it strange that where she now stood in the centre of her quarters seemed to feel too confined, too closed off from the outside world.
"You don't like it," and Clarke couldn't help but to smile at Jessa's words, the girl sensing her discomfort easily.
"I'm just not used to it," Clarke answered, and she tried to temper the unease in her stomach.
"We'll camp outside," Jessa countered, and with that the girl turned and made her way to the door somewhere behind them.
And perhaps Clarke thought that not so bad.
The sun began to set by the time Clarke and Jessa found themselves alone in their small tent. Clarke had found that the day passed by slowly at times, where any conversation she had had with an old acquaintance, or an old friend had played out exactly as she had expected at times, and far too differently than she could ever have anticipated. Abby had hardly left her side, too, her mother too uncertain and disbelieving of her return to leave her be for too long. But Clarke didn't mind her mother's presence through each conversation she had had, she didn't mind her mother's quiet, and she couldn't even blame her.
But perhaps most of all she found that Jessa seemed to bring a sense of stability to her mind that she hadn't expected, and perhaps it was because the girl had remained quiet, had remained guarded in her company, and Clarke knew her to be unsure of her place, of what to do, and what to say. And because of that Clarke made sure to check on the girl every moment she could, whether it be a careful glance shared between them both or a subtle squeeze of a shoulder or hand.
And Clarke was under no mistake that Jessa must have been facing her own pains, however guarded they be, for Clarke was sure being so close to tech, to Skaikru most have brought forth memories of the missile that had struck Ton DC, that had been the catalyst Jessa needed to leave, to seek out whatever peace she could find in solitude.
And so Clarke sighed quietly, she whispered a word of apology and she continued to pull the small brush through Jessa's hair, each stroke coming surely and smoothly as she continued to tame the mane of hair that cascaded down Jessa's back.
"You're quiet," Clarke said as she looked to the shadows that danced around their tent, where the few candles that burnt and cast the interior in an orange glow flickered with little care for the wind that filtered through whatever small gaps in the tent it could find.
Jessa hummed a response that seemed noncommittal, distracted, unsure and uneasy of whatever thoughts seemed to be drifting through her mind.
"I like Harper," Jessa said eventually, and Clarke smiled at the memory of Jessa showing both Harper and Monroe her horse earlier in the day. "And Monroe."
"They're good," Clarke answered, and she found herself a little sad at the memories of when she had been trapped in the Mountain, of how Harper had been drilled into.
But Clarke didn't miss the way Jessa didn't quite bring up Bellamy, of how he had seemed guarded and had held her at arms length after the shock of her arrival had worn off, yet Clarke couldn't blame him, for she knew her leaving him at the gates of what was once Camp Jaha had been a wound that must have still felt raw, too sharp and piercing even still. She knew though, that given time and space, that Bellamy would see reason, would temper his own emotions.
And she knew, if only because it had taken her time to do so.
"You're mother is a healer," Jessa said after a moment, and Clarke whispered a quiet sorry as the girl winced as Clarke pulled the brush through a knot in her hair.
"Yeah," Clarke answered, "she is."
"And we are, too," Jessa said, "or I am training to be one some day," and Clarke couldn't help but to smile at the picture Jessa's words painted in her mind.
"Only if you want to be a healer," Clarke said, and she meant it, if only because she wanted Jessa to forge her own future, she wished for the girl to have a life unburdened, unhindered by the pains of whatever experiences in life that were surely lying in wait.
Jessa hummed something unspoken once more, and Clarke found herself falling quiet as she turned her attention back to Jessa's hair, to the braids that she would need to re-braid now that they had a moment to reprieve in their journey. But as she continued to fall into the familiarity of motion, into a pattern that they had both come to recognise over the years, Clarke began to think of the things she had kept quiet in the conversations she had had with those she only now reconnected with.
And she was sure her mother would wish to know of her troubles as much as her loves, of how life had taken her in a direction she had never anticipated. But perhaps for now Clarke would keep those things quiet and secret, if only to spare others from whatever worries they were to have. But perhaps most of all, she found herself deciding to keep just how close to losing herself she had been. Or perhaps Clarke thought her rambling mind made little sense. And that thought brought a smile to her lips for she recognised the cycle she had fallen into, into the pattern her life had begun to live.
But perhaps seeking to close old wounds was a step in the right direction.
It was with that thought, that idea of tempering old pains that brought her thoughts, her wishes and her desires to a woman she had refused to acknowledge more than she knew she should.
Clarke had hardly even let herself think of her name, think of her face, of her presence.
But it was a final battle she knew she would need to face.
And so Clarke let herself fall into the memories, and she remembered their first meeting, of coming face to face with a vision of death, of anger and suspicion, where blackened cheeks and hallowed eyes seemed to stare into her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.
And she remembered the days and nights they had spent hunched over her war table, over battle plans, where she would find herself worrying only to be told that worrying was nothing but a waste of time.
She remembered the pauna, too, she remembered Quint, how he had ambushed her, had tried to take her life only to be stopped by a knife thrown through the air with a precision and a skill too stunning for her to quite comprehend. She remembered being trapped in the pauna's lair, she remembered being told to leave her behind.
And perhaps that brought a smile to her lips, if only because it reminded her of times when she had been less burdened by her actions. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was simply a smile for the times that had seemed easier somehow.
But of all the times they had shared, Clarke found that her thoughts never strayed too far from the foot of the Mountain, where she had been betrayed, where she had been blindsided, had been fooled and tricked and cornered, backed into a choice and a decision she was to make that would seal the fate of hundreds of people.
But still, dwelling of things long gone was something she knew not to do, if only because she had done so already, had done so for nights, and days, and she knew by now how quickly she would spiral, would second guess, would try to reason and find reason and fault in what had happened.
"Clarke?" Jessa's voice broke through her mind and brought her to the present.
Clarke blinked just once as her gaze settled on Jessa's face that peered over a shoulder, eyes worried in their flickering, and Clarke was sure she had missed a question, a sentence, a thought Jessa must have voiced.
"Sorry," Clarke said, "what did you say?"
"You were lost," Jessa said quietly. "You stopped brushing my hair," and she gestured to the brush Clarke held loosely in a hand now by her side.
"Oh," and Clarke looked down for a moment as she bit her lip and tried to think of how to explain. "Sorry," she said.
"Do you want to talk?" Jessa asked, and Clarke couldn't help but to let her heart beat a bit more fully in her chest at the worry in Jessa's gaze.
"I—" and she did, at least partly, but yet she found that she knew not what to say. Or perhaps she merely feared whatever conversations should come to be.
"It's her, isn't it?" Jessa said, and Clarke found her head tilting to the side as she tried to think of who Jessa spoke of.
"Her?" Clarke echoed.
"Lexa," Jessa shrugged. "The Commander."
"Lexa," and Clarke couldn't quite hold back the slightest frown that graced her forehead as she took in the way Jessa's eyes didn't waver, in the way her freckles seemed to shine a little more brightly, or even how the few untamed strands of her hair seemed to stick up in any direction they desired.
"She did something bad, didn't she?" Jessa said, and her voice came out gently, came out carefully, with no hint of probing, no hint of trying to gleam more than was offered.
But Jessa's words didn't quite sting as much as Clarke would have thought they would, and for why she didn't know. She didn't even quite know how Jessa could have known, have discerned. But that, too, she found didn't matter. Not anymore.
"She did," and Clarke looked to the corner of her tent, to the shadows that flickered in the corners of her vision. "But I did bad things, too," Clarke said.
"You did what you thought was right," and Jessa's determination, the way her chin raised, and the way she seemed to straighten her shoulders brought a smile more fiercely across Clarke's lips.
And perhaps, if she looked passed the guilt, and any thing she had once seen as a burden and a pain, Clarke could accept Jessa's words as a truth.
"I did," and the truth seemed to slip from Clarke's lips just barely dulled, just barely muted. But still, perhaps it was good to voice and to let free.
"Mayb—"
Jessa was cut off by the horn that echoed out lowly, its sound deep and rich and echoing as it rolled over the forest, over the trees that stood away from Arkadia's gates. She heard the thumping of hoof against hard packed dirt, she heard the heavy breathing of war horses as they neared.
"The Commander?" Jessa asked as her head turned to the sounds of the approaching horses.
"I don't think so," Clarke answered.
And so she rose, glanced to Jessa to find that the girl also rose to her feet and began to follow her out the tent.
The setting sun greeted them as they exited their tent, its rays just barely brushing the treetops in one last farewell. The sky seemed to purple and darken with each passing second, and Clarke's gaze snapped to the gates of Arkadia in the short distance.
Horses and warriors were already piling into the open space left by the gates, and Clarke saw Arkadia's guards greeting some, waving others forward, even helping to unload whatever supplies were brought.
And the scene brought a smile to her lips, if only because it seemed easy, it seemed simple, without thought or issue, each warrior seemingly happy to accept help when offered, happy to greet a familiar face when recognised.
Clarke's attention was drawn to the man who stretched his arms, who rolled his shoulders, and the woman who came to stand beside him, whose hair was braided out of her eyes in a fierce pattern.
Octavia and Lincoln seemed in deep conversation with one of the guards, a man Clarke just barely remembered, and she saw smiles upon faces, frowns and confusion, and she saw the guard point her way, and she knew what must have been shared between them then because both Lincoln and Octavia looked her way, and she couldn't quite stem the feeling of unease at the way Octavia's eyes narrowed, or the way Lincoln seemed unsure of what stood before him.
But, as Clarke let her gaze meet Octavia's for a long moment, as she returned Lincolns uncertainty with her own, what took her attention the most was another warrior who approached, whose short hair curled fiercely, whose tattooed and scarred face seemed older than the few years that had passed since she last saw her.
Indra's footsteps seemed to come slowly and full of caution, and it took Clarke a moment longer to realise that the woman looked not at her, but at Jessa who now stood stiffly, one hand now clutching at the play thing ever tucked into her belt, the other white knuckled and clenched into a tight fist.
Jessa's lips seemed pursed tightly, too, and Clarke found herself half reaching for the girl, half reaching for some kind of purchase, but before she could urge her hand to do so Jessa began to walk forward.
Clarke's gaze snapped back to Indra who continued to cross the distance, and Clarke was sure to any other, the way Indra's face seemed to tighten, and the way her steps seemed to falter, would be seen as anger, as pain and fury, but as Clarke continued to look at the older woman, she couldn't quite shake the feeling of something more.
And so Clarke found herself standing in place outside her small tent as Jessa continued to cross the distance, over the hard packed dirt, through what little muddied puddles scattered the ground, and past ramshackle building after half constructed den.
And perhaps Clarke would ask in days to come, in moments of reprieve, when things had settled for herself and for Jessa, but for now she let herself fade into whatever background existed around her as the sun set over the horizon.
And she did so for she recognised the emotions hidden behind Indra's face, she understood the recognition in the way Jessa took cautious step forward after cautious step, and she recognised that whatever happened before her was not for her to steal, not for her to pry, not for her to sway anymore than her presence had already done.
And so Clarke found herself looking on as Jessa and Indra met somewhere in the open, where one last ray of light fought for its place upon the ground, where the dark of a setting sun shone one last defiant shine.
Indra knelt down on a single knee and she came face to face with Jessa, and though Clarke could only see Jessa's back, could only see the weathered red of her clothes and the half tamed mane of hair rolling down her back, she knew she could see the shaking of slender shoulders, she knew she could see the pain in the way Jessa's head bowed.
Indra's hand rose then, and Clarke watched in silence as the woman let it rest against Jessa's shoulder, and Clarke could be forgiven for thinking the motion familiar to the older woman.
And so, not for the first time, Clarke knew it important to remember that others fought their own demons as much as she had battled hers.
