Chapter 29/29

Clarke wakes to the rapid beat of her heart. Her eyes snap open and she can't help but to gasp out in shock and confusion as she sits up, her eyes searching for whoever had intruded, whoever had interrupted her sleep. It takes her a moment to register the knife she holds in her grasp and that the intruder had merely been her thoughts, had merely been the dreams she finds come and go as they please.

But she hears the quiet nock on her door, she hears the careful pause and the uncertainty of the guards outside.

"I'm ok," she calls out, and she grimaces as she lets the furs pool at her waist, the cool air just a little warmer now, just a little less chilled in the early hours.

She slips from her bed then, and she lets her eyes wander over the furs that line her walls, that shine dimly in the light and she can't help but to feel at odds with the warmth and the beauty of what lays around her.

But Clarke shakes her thoughts, grits her teeth and begins the short walk to her washroom, her feet just barely echoing out around her, the stone underfoot cold and hard. Clarke pauses in front of her washbasin then, and she feels the twitching of her lip as she eyes the kindling left out for her and the already full basin, the cold water waiting for her to heat.

She feels the smile chase away her nightmare though, and she lets the memories of when she had first been introduced to her servants take a hold, she smiles at the memory of how the youngest had stared at her wide eyed and starstruck only for an older servant to jab her quickly in the ribs as she had hissed words of being respectful under her breath.

It doesn't take Clarke long to light the fire and to let the crackling flame begin to heat the bottom of the basin, and she sits by its edge, she lets her fingers dip into the warming water as she traces the stars that begin to dim a little as the sun rises.

She waits until the steam begins to rise, until the faintest sign of bubbles begins to stir the water and then she extinguishes the flame with a splash of water. Clarke stands then and she lets her sleep clothes drop to the floor. She welcomes times like this, she finds that she enjoys the way the cold bites into her flesh, the way it steals the breath from her lungs and the way it prickles her skin. She enjoys the contrast, too, she enjoys the very first step into the basin, when her body flinches to the heat, if only because it lets her know she lives, she still breathes, she still wakes at the rising of the sun.

And so she lets herself recline into the scolding water, she lets the scents and spices of the soap fill her nose and soothe her body.

And she enjoys it, she enjoys the quiet, if only because she never knows just what the day will bring.


Clarke's feet echo through the halls of the capital building, and as she passes warrior and servant alike she sees them nod to her, she sees them bow, and she feels her guards move with her, she feels them shadow her steps and eye any who even thinks of approaching without permission. And she rolls her eyes, but only a little, because she knows she can't help but to smile when she sees a young servant beam broadly, wave and almost drop the basket she carries.

And Clarke smiles and she lets it reach her eyes because she doesn't wish for people to live in fear of her, she doesn't wish for Azgeda to take from her the image of the Commander of Death, of someone who had fought for her people, of someone who had bled and suffered and returned victorious. Because she knows how the stories had spread, she knows warriors whisper of how she had slain Kwin Nia, of how she had bathed in the woman's blood, of how she had returned to enact vengeance for the warriors who had died fighting the Mountain.

But Clarke knows herself not to be a fool, not to be someone who doesn't realise the strength and power that image provides.

And so she sighs, glances out a window she passes at the still low sun and she continues walking down the hallway, eyes meeting those that glance her way before they bow and smile softly, words whispered of greetings and well wishes.

Clarke arrives at the healer's room after a short walk through the capital building, and as she eyes the large doors that remain open and the many beds that line the walls, she can't help but to smile just a little more freely, if only because she had demanded that all must have easy access to medical care and aid. Two of her guards pause at the entrance, but Clarke feels the others continue with her as she begins walking down the line of beds. Clarke smiles and nods to the many warriors she passes, the endless stream of training injuries seemingly increasing with each day, the warriors, she assumes, taking the installation of such a large healer's space as message that they must train harder, must train longer, more violently.

But Clarke doesn't quite mind. If only because they don't mind. And so she smiles openly at one warrior who waves awkwardly, one hand bandaged, the other arm pinned to his side, a riding accident to blame for his injuries.

But she finds who she searches for, and as she comes to a pause she lets her eyes take in the injury that slices down Torvun's face, the cut that only just misses his eye.

"Clarke," he says as he tries to rise, only for Clarke to hold up a hand.

"Relax, Torvun," Clarke says quietly. "How is he?" she asks, and she sees Entani look up from where she mixes a paste in a small bowl.

"Fine," the healer grumbles. "But he does not realise how lucky he is," and she points to his eye. "He came this close," and Entani holds her thumb and index finger up so that they almost touch, "to losing it."

"But I did not, which is all that matters," and Torvun smirks as Entani merely scoffs and pushes him down onto the bed as she leans over his face and begins to smear the cut with the paste.

"It was training," and Entani rolls her eyes. "You do not need to prove anything when you train," and Clarke thinks she already knows what Torvun will say.

"Yes I d—"

"Ok," Clarke cuts in quickly, and she knows their argument will spiral, will end in them sharing insults soon. "I expect you back on my guard detail by the afternoon, Torvun," and Clarke pins him with an even look.

"I will return before the morning meal," Torvun says simply, despite Entani's grunt of annoyance.

"Good," and Clarke looks him over briefly before she begins to turn, but she feels the wriggle in the back of her mind and so she turns back to Entani to see the healer looking pointedly away from her. "Where's Ontari?" Clarke asks.

And she sees Entani grimace slightly, she feels the woman consider whether to lie or to tell the truth.

"I do not know," Entani answers simply, and Clarke feels the twitching in her lips as Torvun chuckles quietly.

"You're really going to cover for her?" Clarke asks, her eyebrow raising.

Entani meets her gaze then, and she sees the healer raise her chin in defiance, her eyes flashing. And so Clarke merely raises an eyebrow and meets her friend's gaze with her own.

"She promised to clean all my supplies," Entani complains. "Even to sharpen my spear."

"I see," and Clarke hears a guard behind her snort just once. "If I give you the afternoon off will you tell me where she is?"

And she sees Entani consider her words, she sees Entani mull them over and bite her lip in thought.

"She is at herquarters," and Entani jerks her chin in the direction she talks of.

"Really?" and Clarke thinks over what Entani says.

"Yes, Clarke," and Entani turns her attention back to Torvun's fresh wound. "I expect the afternoon free," the healer finishes.

And so Clarke chuckles quietly before she turns and begins to walk towards the exit.


It doesn't take Clarke long before she comes to a quiet pause outside locked doors, and as she turns to the guards who walk with her she thinks she sees humour living in some eyes.

"She brought this on herself," Clarke says, and she sees one shrug in answer.

"She is Ontari," the guard says simply.

And so Clarke rolls her eyes as she faces the door again.

Clarke bangs on the door once, and she hears the curse and the yelp through the wood before she hears feet slapping against stone and hushed whispers. And then the door's lock scrapes back and Clarke watches it open a crack to reveal a head of wild curls and dark skin.

"Clarke," the surprised voice says.

"Costia," and Clarke raises her chin as she meets the woman's gaze. "You aren't dressed, are you?" Clarke says as she sees Costia try to close the door just a crack.

"No," and Costia blushes as she looks back into her room subtly.

Clarke's smile returns though, and she can't help but to think it just a little amusing, and just a little annoying, too. If only because she knows Ontari will hold this against her for months.

"Entani gave you up," Clarke calls out, and she hears the curse. "She traded your offer to clean her stuff for the rest for the day off."

"Maybe I will make her disappear," Ontari's voice answers.

"Who'd cover for you then?" Clarke challenges, and she hears Ontari grumble quietly before she hears the woman approach the door.

"Torvun would," Ontari says as her face appears over Costia's shoulder.

"Would he?" and Clarke sees Ontari recoil once she registers the guards that stand just behind Clarke.

"Please do not let this spread," Ontari whispers as resignation falls across her face.

And so Clarke looks over her own shoulder at the guards who stand close by.

"Do not speak of this to anyone," she begins, and she turns back to see relief settle over Ontari's face, and she sees Costia's eyes roll at the sigh Ontari lets loose. "I still expect all your duties to be done before the morning meal," Clarke finishes.

"There is not enough time," Ontari answers, her eyes flashing.

"And whose fault is that?" Clarke challenges.

And so Ontari glares at her for a long moment before she grunts out a curse and slams the door shut in Clarke's face.

"They will be done," Ontari calls out through the door. "Now go."


Clarke's feet clip against the stone. Her thoughts turn to the conversation she is sure to have in the next few moments and she knows she feels the anticipation, the eagerness and the thrill that strums through her mind. Torvun walks besides her, too, his cut stitched and lathered in paste. And Ontari grumbles quietly under her breath, her morning's distraction having left her with little time to eat before Clarke had summoned her. But she smiles as they pass Entani who walks in the opposite direction, her duty-free afternoon already started, and Clarke can't help but to smile slightly as she hears Ontari curse the healer out before she can get too far.

They enter the atrium then, and Clarke eyes the ever constant flame that burns in the room's centre. And as she looks up and into the sky through the windows that sit high in the ceiling, Clarke thinks she senses the shifting of the season, the warming of the days and the melting of the snow. Clarke nods to a number of guards they pass, and she sees a group of seconds who gaze at her as she passes, the firsts with them quick to bow their heads and to prod the seconds to do the same.

Clarke comes to a stop before the large double doors and she lets her mind settle and her shoulders square. She feels Ontari shift slightly, the woman quickly patting down her furs as she glances once to Torvun's face only to grimace at the way the paste smears into his beard and as it ruins the braids that drape down his chest.

The doors to the throne room open then, and Clarke waits until they finish groaning before she begins to walk forwards, her guard detail moving with her as she advances. Their steps fill the room and as she passes a particular part of the wall she can't help but to let her gaze linger for a moment longer before she turns her attention back to the other end of the room.

And so she comes to a stop before the throne, and she lets her gaze fall to Roan who sits before her, his eyes meeting hers for a moment. Clarke bows then, and she feels the others with her lower themselves onto a knee, too, and she waits until the sounds of their furs rustling cease before she raises slowly, her eyes moving to the guards that stand close by Roan's side. She spots Echo there, too, the woman's eyes moving from person to person who stands before her.

"Clarke," Roan begins as he leans forward, his voice a familiar gravel that lifts just slightly at the end of her name.

"King Roan," Clarke answers as she meets his gaze. "You wished to see me?" she asks.

"Yes," Roan says as his finger begins to tap against the stone of the throne's armrest. "We received an answer last night," he begins. "Azgeda is invited to Polis to reaffirm its commitment to the Coalition," and Clarke watches as Roan lets his gaze dance over those before him.

"We are to be escorted to Polis by the Trikru still here?" Clarke asks.

"Yes," Roan says simply. "There are some clans that demand Azgeda do more for the Coalition given the actions and the turmoil that has befallen our clan as of late," and Roan sneers slightly, but Clarke thinks it more annoyance than anger.

"You wish for me to send a message?" Clarke asks, and she thinks she already knows where Roan goes with this. "For me to ensure Azgeda is not taken advantage of?"

"Yes," Roan says simply.

"I can do that," and Clarke shrugs, and she can't help but to recognise the familiarity of the request, of the actions and events that may happen. But she thinks this time it won't be so deadly, so secret and hostile. And Clarke thinks that this time she finds it not so annoying to be doing what she can for the people.

"Good," and Roan tilts his head in thought. "All but Clarke leave us," he says then.

And so Clarke watches as Ontari and Torvun send her one last look before they bow and begin to leave the throne room amongst the warriors that guard both Clarke and Roan.

"The clans annoy me," Roan sighs once the last of the warriors exit.

"They annoy me, too," Clarke agrees as she crosses her arms.

"They try my patience," and Roan stands as he steps towards her. "My spies tell me that they think Azgeda is unstable given that you defeated my mother only to bow to me almost immediately," and he shrugs.

"Azgeda do not see it that way," Clarke says.

"Azgeda are not the ones who seem to think my hold on the clan questionable."

"I'll make them think twice," Clarke reassures him. "That's why I'm going to Polis, I'm assuming?"

"Yes," and Roan smiles. "You have my permission to go as far as you wish as long as you do not threaten war and open conflict," and he shrugs as he begins to pace back and forth slowly.

"So I can drop some ambassadors off the top of Polis tower?" Clarke jokes.

"Only if you are not caught," Roan answers with a smile.

Clarke laughs quietly then, and she watches as Roan begins to move to a table that sits behind his throne.

"This is for you," Roan calls out as he turns, parcel in hand as he begins to move back to her.

"What is it?" Clarke asks as she takes in the large bundle in his arms.

"Open it," Roan says simply.

And so Clarke takes the parcel and begins to open it cautiously. And she can't help but to smile, and perhaps to feel just a little sense of warmth fill her heart as her eyes fall to the dark pelt cradled in her arms, to the skull that sits gleaming atop it.

"You found my skull," she says as she looks up at Roan.

"Yes," and Roan smiles lightly as he returns to his throne. "There is more," Roan adds.

Clarke looks back into the pelt then, and she reaches in to a small lump and as her fingers close around it she can't help but to gasp slightly as she draws her hand free.

"Thank you," she says as she meets Roan's gaze.

"It is yours, Clarke," Roan says simply, but Clarke sees him incline his head and gesture for her to don her belongings.

And so Clarke places the pelt on the ground at her feet for a moment as she straps her father's watch to her wrist, the weight of it familiar and comforting.

"You are Wanheda, Commander of Death, Mountain Slayer, Champion of Azgeda, You fell Kwin Nia in single combat," Roan says simply. "Ensure the clans do not forget it."

And so Clarke smiles at Roan as she clasps the pelt over her shoulders, the weight of the skull a familiar presence behind her head as she bows before she turns to leave.


Clarke's horse rides easily, the swaying of its gait enough send her into a quiet trance of sorts as she considers whatever actions and arguments she is sure will await her in the days to come. She looks up into the sky though, and as she eyes the sun and the distance it still has before it reaches its highest, she thinks that she looks forward to whatever is to come.

She turns her attention back to Ontari and Entani then, and she listens as both women bicker about something that she missed in her drifting thoughts. Torvun pulls his horse closer to hers though, and she looks up at him to see the man smile slightly.

"Not long now," Torvun says simply as he gestures out at the shimmering of Polis in the far distance.

"No," Clarke answers with a smile. "Not long now," and she knows from the way Torvun eyes her that he speaks not just of arriving at Polis. Of not just beginning her new role. "You think they'll like Roan sending so many warriors?" Clarke finishes.

"They will not," Torvun says. "But you are Wanheda," and he shrugs. "They will do little as long as our numbers to not exceed what is allowed in the capital," and he sighs as Ontari's laugh fills the air.

"It's weird," Clarke shrugs as she turns to see Entani glowering. "I think this is the first time I've been through these forests without having to worry about Mountain Men or reapers."

Torvun shrugs in answer, and Clarke watches as he scratches his beard as he ducks under a low branch.

"Perhaps the peace will last," and Torvun glances over to the Trikru warriors who ride with them, "at least with King Roan in control of Azgeda, Trikru and Azgeda relations have been less tense."

"Yeah," Clarke agrees and she follows his gaze to see Costia riding at the forefront of the Trikru warriors, Ryder, her personal guard close by her side as he looks out into the trees.


Clarke feels the smile spread more openly across her lips as she sees Polis gates stand out before her. She senses the shifting in the air, too, and she knows the Azgeda with her sit a little straighter, a little more proudly atop their horses as they form themselves into neater rows as they continue riding along the main path towards the open gates.

Clarke pulls the skull over her face then, and she lets the weight settle itself fully before she glances to Torvun who eyes it for a long moment.

"Can't let them think we're pushovers," Clarke says simply, and she sees Torvun smirk as he turns back to face forward as they continue to ride at the forefront of the Azgeda warriors.

A horn echoes out then and Clarke feels the Trikru who ride on either side of Azgeda forces breathe out a little, the time spent in Azgeda lands clearly tiring, and their return to Polis, to Trikru lands a welcomed thing. Clarke sees Ontari raise a hand easily from the corner of her eye, and an Azgeda horn echoes out in answer and she knows the last stretch of their journey will soon end.

They crest one last small hill then, and Clarke sees warriors lining the walls of Polis, she sees many looking their way, and she sees the banners of each clan waving in the wind as warriors and civilians alike gather to see the Azgeda's arrival.

Clarke raises her hand then, and the Azgeda who ride behind her come to a stop.

"We come as honoured guests to Polis," Clarke says, her voice carrying over the wind to the Azgeda who remain quiet. "Many think our clan weak given what has happened," and she sees a few Azgeda scowl, she sees a few sneer and a few puff their chests out. "But we are not," and she lowers her hand, lets it fall to her side. "We make no trouble but we will not let Azgeda be pushed around. We will not let clans take from us what they do not deserve," and she sees heads nod, she sees acknowledgement in eyes. "You will act as though King Roan walks besides you and you will honour your clan," and Clarke sweeps her gaze over the Azgeda one last time. "Is that understood?"

Clarke sees heads nod and she hears the soft murmurs of acknowledgement and so she turns her horse back to Polis, only one last stretch of land separating the Azgeda from the gates that lie open in wait.


It's odd, Clarke finds, to be riding down the main street of Polis. People watch, many hang out of windows, line the streets and chatter away quietly. But it's odd because, despite the sound, she thinks a silence settles over the city, and she knows it to be an uncertainty for the days to come, they know not if this changing of power within Azgeda bodes well for the Coalition, or merely signals the collapse of a once great nation.

But Clarke pushes her thoughts aside, she lets her mind turn to the present and away from futures uncertain. And she smiles. She smiles because she rounds the last slight bend in the main road and she finds the main entrance to Polis tower awaiting her. Warriors line the entrance, Polis guards and warriors from the other clans watch quietly as the Azgeda forces slow, as they come to a stop and as they begin to dismount.

Clarke feels the ground beneath her as she slides off her horse, and she nods just once to a young second who takes its reins before directing the horse to the stables.

But Clarke takes in one last breath before she turns to face the small group of warriors that approaches, she squares her shoulders and she begins the short walk to meet them half way.

And Clarke can't help but to smile behind her skull, and she knows the smile is seen, she knows she feels the eagerness of their reunion, the months spent separated by duty and distance enough to leave both feeling anxious, despite the awkwardness and trials that had plagued their pairing in their last moments.

But Clarke comes to a pause, she breathes in deeply, holds it for long enough that the shaking in her fingers lessens, and then she meets the woman's eyes before she bows her head and kneels.

"Hello, Commander," Clarke says as she rises.

And Lexa smiles, just slightly, just enough that Clarke knows only she sees it.

"Hello, ambassador."


Clarke's eyes open slowly, and it takes her a moment to remember where she lies. As she looks around herself she thinks she feels the last tendrils of the dream recede and lessen the hold on her thoughts. And it's not that she enjoys waking so early. But she knows it preferable to the dreams she knows herself to have been living.

Clarke sits and she lets the furs bundle at her waist as she looks around her quarters. She finds them familiar, too, the time she had spent in Polis slowly returning to the forefront of her mind. And so she rises. She rises quietly, her feet padding across the cold stone and the soft furs. Clarke glances through the latticework that lines her quarters and she thinks the sun not even ready to rise yet, not even ready to think about its day. But she knows she doesn't mind the dark, she knows she doesn't quite recoil from the things the dark had once conjured in her sleeping mind like she used to. And she thinks it because the things she has done were for her people. She knows them to be sacrifices she was willing to accept, willing to embrace. Yet, perhaps she isn't quite so proud of the role she had in the deaths of so many people.

Not quite, anyway.

But it was worth it. She knows that much, she knows she need not argue with her mind, she knows she need not wage conflict with her slumbering thoughts.

Clarke begins moving through her quarters, she begins lighting candles, her feet tracing a familiar path through the furniture that decorates the large room. She wraps a large fur around herself though, if only because the breeze this early and at this height is just a little cold, just a little damp to her flesh, and she thinks it not quite like Azgeda winds, not how they had been cold but fresh, had been a sharp bite to wake her mind.

And so Clarke finds herself leaning against the railing of her balcony, her gaze happy to wander over the city below her. And she thinks she begins to follow the paths of light that move through the streets, the torches that people carry as they make their way through the city, and she wonders what they may think now, she thinks over what people must assume to be happening in these ambassador meetings, she wonders what the warriors prepare themselves for.

Clarke shakes her thoughts though, and she turns her gaze upwards in search of a pattern in the clouds, in search of a star that could help replace, redirect, refocus her mind.

She hears the quiet groaning then, and she knows the sound to be the elevator that rises, that brings a presence up to this level of Polis tower. Clarke listens to the sound increase, she listens as it comes to a grinding halt and she listens as the doors open and as feet step free.

Clarke thinks she can tell the moment when Lexa registers that light flickers out through the cracks in her door, and Clarke knows she senses when Lexa makes a choice, when she changes direction and begins to approach.

And so Clarke barely turns, barely feels surprised at the knock on her door.

"Clarke?" and her name comes out quietly, it comes out cautiously.

"Come in," Clarke calls out, and she doesn't turn to face the door, doesn't feel the need to.

And it opens, and Clarke thinks she senses Lexa look around in search of her.

"You could not sleep?" Lexa asks as she begins to approach, the swaying of her coat filling the quiet that settles around them.

"No," Clarke answers as she feels Lexa come to a pause besides her. "I wake this early now," she finishes with a shrug.

And she thinks Lexa understands.

"I was called to meet with some ambassadors," Lexa says in explanation of why she remains dressed at such an early hour.

"They wanted to catch you off guard, didn't they?" Clarke asks.

"Yes, Clarke," and Lexa sighs quietly. "Some are more anxious to begi—"

But Clarke turns to her, and she places her hand atop Lexa's.

"It's not even daybreak yet," Clarke begins. "Can we leave that for later?"

And Lexa nods, and Clarke sees her sigh once, just a little thing that seems to lessen the weight on the other woman's shoulders.

"I made sure Costia was guarded," Clarke begins quietly, and she knows Lexa wouldn't bring it up, wouldn't even approach the topic. "I know you didn't want to leave her in Azgeda."

"It was a sensible decision," Lexa counters, but Clarke knows she senses the woman's worry.

"There were some who were angry, but given her time in Azgeda she was able to smooth things over for the most part," and Clarke shrugs awkwardly, and she finds herself still unsure of just how to speak of Costia's time in captivity. "I think it'll work given time."

"Yes," and Lexa sighs. "If our people are to avoid conflict, then it would be good for our warriors to share in experiences more closely."

"You don't have to be so pragmatic, Lexa," Clarke challenges quietly. "It'll be good to have Trikru and Azgeda warriors spend time together," and Clarke nudges the other woman's shoulder. "Look what's happened between you and me," and Clarke smiles just a little at the thought of Ontari and Costia, and for now she thinks she will keep whatever exists between both women a secret. At least for now. If only because she isn't so sure how Lexa would react.

"Thank you," Lexa says though. "For making sure she was ok."

"Hey," and Clarke nudges Lexa once more. "You care for her. And I like her, too, and she's back in Trikru lands now, so no more worrying," and Clarke smiles. "We all deserve a little less worry every now and then."

"Yes," but as Clarke watches, she thinks she knows Lexa still needs a little time, still needs to accept her actions, her guilt at whatever thoughts had lingered in her mind at Costia's return.

"It's nice," Clarke begins instead, and she sees Lexa meet her words with a careful raising of an eyebrow. "It's nice being able to ride through Trikru lands without having to worry about Mountain Men or Reapers or Nia's games."

"Yes," and Lexa's face relaxes a little further, and Clarke thinks she feels the tension in the woman's jaw ease just a little more. "It is nice, Clarke."

They fall into a silence then, and as Clarke lets her gaze turn to the skies overhead she feels a sense of longing for something different, for something a little less restrictive than her role as ambassador, but only for a little while, for she doesn't quite mind fighting for her people, making sure they survive and have the best chance at living.

"You know, Lexa," Clarke says as she turns to face the woman. "I don't even know how to swim," and she sees Lexa's head tilt just a little in thought, the moon's light shining just a slight touch across her cheek.

"That is a shame, Clarke," Lexa begins, and Clarke knows she sees the smile beginning to spread a little more openly across Lexa's lips.

"Perhaps someone should teach me," and Clarke raises an eyebrow.

"Perhaps," Lexa says.

"Maybe I'll ask Cos—"

"No," and Clarke coughs on the laugh she tries to stifle.

But she finds herself glad that they can joke of whatever it is that exists between the three of them. If only because it lets her know they'll be ok.

"I wonder who will teach me, then," and Clarke hums as she thinks, as she looks up into the sky in thought. "Anya? Gustus?"

"I will," Lexa says simply, her eyes hardening in the light, and Clarke can't quite tell if Lexa knows she jokes now, she can't quite tell if Lexa understands the jest in her tone.

But Clarke smiles as she realises she doesn't quite care.

"So," and Clarke nudges Lexa's shoulder. "It's a date?"

And Lexa meets her gaze, her eyes softening as she thinks over the phrasing, as she tries to understand what Clarke says. And Clarke goes to explain, goes to add a little more infor—

"Yes, Clarke," Lexa nods. "It is a date."