Waking up from her stupor, Lexa cast Clarke the most inquisitive look she could manage under the circumstances—her eyes were so puffy she could only get her eyelids to open halfway, and they were stinging so much she guessed her sclera must be an ugly red. How ever her incredulous stare came across, Clarke seemed to have figured out the brunette's silent question; she smiled a lopsided smile—Lexa guessed it was because her friend was trying to stop her fascial muscles from forming a smile during such a dramatic time—and waved at her with the henna paste, as if that gesture offered up a logical explanation, enough to put Lexa in the loop. Yet she looked even more lost and was starting to panic, so Clarke decided maybe it wasn't a situation where actions spoke louder than words after all; maybe she needed both.

"Hey, hey, don't get worked up. I'm not gonna mummify you or anything. This is henna paste; are you familiar with it?"

If Lexa were still exhibiting human emotions, she would have been offended by the question. Was it not her who bought Clarke the very brushes she was now holding so proudly? Had she not informed her painter friend of her monthly escapades to the art supply shop? In another life, she would have reprimanded the blonde for her forgetfulness. However, nothing mattered anymore, so she simply said "Yes."

She's not saying much, but at least we're interacting. Now that she was all cried out, Lexa had reverted back to an unfazed attitude that Clarke was starting to forget she ever had. But she could see intrigue flash in the otherwise stoic girl's eyes, so she felt like she was on the right path, and soldiered on.

"Then you know that it's used for tattoos. Now before you bite my head off, I know your stance on 'disfiguring the sacred body God gave you'. But we're not talking about a real tattoo here. Consider it a painting on skin! I'm sure God wouldn't mind it. It would be your way of commemorating your lost friends. I think it's the least they deserve after all you've been through together. And while I admire and stand by your decision to let them go, I don't see why you wouldn't want to remember them, and celebrate what you had."

Lexa had gone from wanting to bite her friend's head off—though not for the reason she mentioned, but rather for speaking of God so shamelessly—to wanting to scream at her not to mention them again, to never wanting her to stop talking, because her words were piercing through the fog of tragedy clouding her thoughts and rendering her apathetic. She could feel herself feel something; a strong desire to do as Clarke was telling her. So she simply got on her feet, turned her back to her distracted guest and swiftly removed her top. She used it to hide her nakedness before turning back to face Clarke.

"Okay."

"Okay!"

Clarke's voice came out much more high pitched than planned, but she was so thrilled that the jaded girl was being responsive that she didn't care if her tone betrayed her emotions. She drew Lexa back down on the bed, laying her on her stomach, adjusting her body to give her enough room to move around. Lexa was being uncharacteristically docile; even though it was for the wrong reasons, Clarke liked it. At the first swipe of the brush though, the brunette started fidgeting.

"Lex, If you don't stay still your tattoo will look like my childhood bedroom wall drawings!"

"What are you drawing."

Commander Lexa was back. Her creator might think she killed her, but Clarke knew better; Lexa would always have a side of her that was all Heda, like she called herself in her own language.

"How about I tell you about the tattoo while I'm drawing it. Maybe that'll distract you enough not to move!" A nod. "Good. So first off I am drawing the infinity sign at the base of your neck. It's the symbol of continuous renewal. It means that things are never really lost, only transformed. Originally, it was the image of a snake biting its own tail. Many believe that to mean that we have all we need within ourselves. The Tibetan Buddhists even say that everything we experience actually only happens inside our head. So it's only fitting to have that symbol on you, looping together past and future, the inside and the outside worlds."

Lexa was certain whatever Clarke was saying had a lot of meaning and she was sure she would appreciate all the effort her empathetic friend was putting into making her feel better. But for the moment, all she could think about was how Clarke's left palm was resting on the small of her back, steadying her, and how the circles she was drawing were giving her goose bumps. The sun was filtrating through her window, bathing her in warmth, while the artist's hand was scorching her skin; both sensations felt so good that Lexa had to bite her lips to sop them from emitting an appreciative sound that wouldn't have sounded like her. She tried to focus on the blonde's words to distract herself from the excruciatingly pleasurable sensations her body was being subjected to.

"Now I'm drawing an empty circle under your shoulder blade. It represents the virtual reality, because it's empty, and yet it's still there. And a second circle, which represents the real reality. I'm making this one full. Finally, I'm drawing connecting lines between the two, so you never have to choose again."

Just as Lexa had gathered enough clarity to thank her friend for the beautiful and obviously well thought out explanation—Clarke must have been thinking about these symbols long before she found out the news of Lexa's subjects dying, which was odd enough that she made a mental note to inquire about it later—when she felt a hot breath on her back. All coherent thought left her at once. Clarke was blowing on the tattoos, to help them dry out faster. Lexa wasn't prepared for what she was experiencing: her whole body felt like hot lava. Clarke's breath was washing through her in rippling waves; she was nothing but molten flesh moving like the tide with each new breath. Then the divine assault stopped, replaced by shuffling noise. Clarke was looking for something in her bag—a spray of sorts, which she proceeded to apply on the brunette's back, rubbing it ever so gently with the tips of her fingers. If one could die from an over sensitized body, Lexa would have been drawing her last breath. She was sweating from the cold of the spray, from the heat of the tender touch, or from something else—she didn't know anymore. Her body had relinquished control to an all-powerful witch who was playing it like her own personal instrument.

"All done! The lemon juice brings out the henna's color. I hope it didn't bother you? It's supposed to last up to three weeks; by then, you'll be eighteen, so you could get a real one in its place!"

Not trusting herself to speak, Lexa flashed her a wide-eyed grin that Clarke didn't know what to make of, so she chalked it up to PTSD and decided her work here was done. She should leave her friend to rest after a trying day. She told her as much. Still feeling tingly all over and too hot to function, and still smiling, the disoriented brunette nodded, even slower than usual, before lying back on her stomach and practically fainting into a sound sleep.