Chapter 29/31
The wind seemed to whistle through the air a little more loudly than Clarke was used to. It seemed to rub against every hard edge of metal it could find, and it seemed trapped behind the gates of Arkadia with little ability or want to seek an escape.
And it was strange, it was cold, the morning air seemed crisp, seemed artificially clean, void of the scents of the forests and the lands.
Or maybe it was just different, something Clarke had once known, had once found comfortable and reassuring but had long since faded from her memory.
She took in a deep breath as a bird screeched its wake overhead. Clarke let the cold fill her chest, she let it stretch her ribs, her lungs, her nose and her mind and she found the motion calming, she found it soothing, something she thought peaceful. And so she exhaled in as steady a motion as she could as she pulled a fur more tightly around her shoulders.
She wasn't sure how long she had spent sitting outside her tent, her ears ever tuned to the quiet breathing of Jessa who remained sleeping inside, whose nights terrors and fears were as tempered as they could be.
Clarke imagined herself a watchful guardian, a lone sentry, a sentinel of sorts, who would watch and look after, care for and nurture with as much hope as she could. Or perhaps, rather than all those things, she simply enjoyed the quiet, simply enjoyed the solitude, the moment of reprieve she had found before others would wake.
And she knew she needed it for she didn't blame those who had met her reappearance with annoyance, she didn't blame those who sought to cast hurt her way. Not fully at least, if only because she found herself not so selfish as to ignore that others must have hurt in their own ways.
And yet, neither could she blame herself for wanting to shy away from whatever accusations and angers existed. If only because she was nothing more than human, than a person who wished to find a peace in a life that had seen fit to take her to places never anticipated.
But footsteps interrupted her thoughts, the careful crunch of boot against hard packed dirt seemed to echo out around her in the quiet and Clarke looked in the direction of the sound to find her mother walking her way.
Abby wore a thick coat of fur and leather, stitched and patched together with harder fabrics, with materials from before. Abby's hands were tucked into deep pockets, and her hair seemed swept and unkempt, slightly tussled from a lack of sleep, from a lack of rest.
"Hi," Clarke whispered once Abby came to a step before her.
"Hi," Abby said as she looked around, as her eyes settled on the tent's entrance behind Clarke. "Can I sit?"
"Yeah," and Clarke gestured to a spot on the furs beside her. "Of course."
And so Abby took just a moment longer to ponder whatever thought occurred to her before coming to sit by her side. Clarke moved a little over then, enough that the warm her body had left in the furs would be felt by Abby, and Clarke knew the gesture was welcomed from the quiet hum of thanks she felt vibrant around her.
They fell quiet then, mother and daughter content with existing in the same space, in the same silence, and as Clarke turned her gaze to the forest in the distance, through the gaps in the gates, to the trees and the leaves, bushes and grasses, she found herself wondering what Abby was thinking, she found herself wondering what Abby saw in her, how she saw her now that she had returned, had seen fit to make her self known to her past.
"I understand why you needed to leave," and Abby's voice came out as gently as it could, as quiet and full of pain and fear and hurt as possible.
And perhaps Clarke should have expected whatever conversation was to come to have arrived in time, once the shock of her appearance had dissipated.
"I'm sorry," Clarke said, and she knew her voice croaked just barely at the edges as she tried not to listen to the pain that escaped Abby's control. "I'm sorry I stayed away for so long," and Clarke meant it as much as she could. "I'm sorry I never said hello, I'm sorry I never let you know where I was, that I was safe, that I had found a place, that I needed to heal."
"I know," and Abby's tears came out quiet and gentle as her hand reached out ever so slowly, enough for Clarke to pull away if she wished, "I never gave up hope," and Abby's hand closed around Clarke's, she squeezed as tightly as she could and Clarke found that she embraced the pain, the hurt and the angers and fears. "Even when I still had hope, I thought I had lost you," and Clarke couldn't hold back the choked sob that broke past her lips as her mother's finger's began to shake. "I thought I lost you when you found out the truth about your father," and Clarke bit her lip. "And I knew I lost you when you left, when you felt like you would find whatever you searched for in the forests, in the wild, and not in me," and Clarke tried to shake her thoughts free. "I blamed myself for so long," Abby continued. "I blamed myself for everything. I blamed myself."
"I know," Clarke found herself saying, and she knew for she was sure if their roles had been reversed that she would blame herself, too, if only because she knew she understood the love Abby felt now.
"I was a horrible mother," Abby continued. "I still am," and Abby's tears seemed to land upon the furs loud enough for Clarke to hear. "I've made so many mistakes in my life, Clarke," she said, and Clarke turned to her mother in time to see her wipe a hand across her eyes roughly. "I've done so many things I wish I could take back," and Clarke watched as her mother's lips trembled as fiercely as she knew hers to be trembling. "But of all the things that have happened, of all the things I've done, of all the mistakes I've made, that I wish I could take back, that I wish I never did," and Abby paused for long enough that her vision must have cleared, that her eyes seemed to harden and hold Clarke's gaze. "You were never one of them. You could never be one of them," and Abby's free hand reached up tentatively, her fingers warm as they brushed a tear from Clarke's cheek. "You will never be one of them."
"M—" but Clarke found her voice seemed to die in her throat, it didn't seem to let itself break free. "I—" and maybe she was too afraid to let herself fight through the pain in her chest now that she was faced with the consequences.
"You don't have to say anything," Abby whispered. "You won't ever have to say anything, Clarke," and Abby's head shook just once. "I'm so proud of you," and Clarke knew her mother meant it, she knew her mother spoke from somewhere full of regret, full of years worth of memories not shared between mother and daughter, of years spent lost to the world. "I'm so proud of the things you've done. I'm so proud of you for surviving. Of doing what you needed to do, of learning to live," and Abby smiled something bittersweet, something sad, something kind. "Of finding love," and Abby's eyes moved to the tent for a moment, to where Jessa remained sheltered from the pain of the cold and the outside.
"I'm not proud of the things I've done," Clarke found herself saying, and she watched as Abby's eyes returned to her. "I hope I never have to do anything like I've done again. I hope I won't have to take another life, I hope I'll live the rest of my life in peace, and I try to make aments every chance I get. I try to do the right thing, I try to be what dad would want me to do be," and the words she spoke seemed to sting deeper into her mind with each syllable, each utterance.
"He'd be proud of you," Abby said, and Clarke watched as her mother closed her eyes for a long moment. "He'd be proud of you no matter what," and Clarke hoped he would.
"I hope so."
Abby paused for a moment as she looked up into the sky, and to the reddening of the few clouds overhead.
"I should get back," she said quietly, and Clarke looked around them, to the Trikru warriors who stirred from sleep, who seemed to be waking in their own tents set not far away. "The med bay will begin to fill soon," and Abby sighed lightly. "We're always busy when warriors stay for a few days," and Clarke wasn't surprised.
"I'll visit some time today," Clarke said as she came to stand alongside Abby. "I'll help, Jessa, too," and so Abby paused for just a moment as she made a decision, and Clarke saw the tentativeness in her step, in her uncertainty, but Clarke leant forward, she closed the distance and she embraced her mother tightly, and she knew things would be strained, would be uncertain between them, but for now she was happy with knowing things had begun to mend, at least in the smallest of ways.
Clarke ducked back into the tent as Abby's footsteps faded into the background, and she blinked for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dimmed light. And as Clarke's vision settled she found Jessa squinting at her in the dark, her hair tussled, messed and far too untamed for being allowed outside and into the open.
"I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No," Jessa said with a shrug. "I woke up by myself," and she yawned and stretched as a small groan fell from her lips. "What time is it?"
"Early," Clarke answered.
Jessa paused then, and Clarke thought she sensed the girl trying to think of something to say, of how to voice whatever thoughts seemed to be forming within her mind and so she came to sit on the edge of the bed, and she wrapped an arm around Jessa as she came to sit beside her, knees tucked to her chest and her sleep furs wrapped around her body.
"You were speaking to your mother," Jessa said after a moment, and Clarke let her gaze settle upon Jessa who seemed not so sure of where to look.
"I was," Clarke answered with the slightest of frowns.
"She is your family," and the words came out as much statement as they did careful question.
"She is," Clarke said, and she thought she sensed where the conversation might be going.
"And we're family," and the barest hint of hesitation in Jessa's voice made Clarke's heart ache enough for her to pull Jessa closer to her, was enough for her to press her lips to Jessa's head.
"Of course, Jessa," and Clarke pulled away enough that she could look Jessa in the eyes, "always."
Jessa paused for a long moment then, and Clarke saw the girl trying to form words, trying to settle thought, and find the courage to ask whatever question seemed to be pulling at the fear in the very corners of her mind.
But Jessa took in a deep breath, and Clarke saw the determination taking hold in Jessa's gaze as the girl steeled her worries.
"Does that mean she is my family, too?"
Clarke smiled at the question, and she knew it to be full of an emotion she had seen upon her own mother's face countless times in her youth.
"If you want her to be," Clarke said.
And so Jessa looked away for just a moment, she frowned and she bit her lip as her nose crinkled in thought.
But when she met her gaze once more, Clarke knew the answer before Jessa let it free.
"Yes."
And so the few days Clarke spent at Arkadia flashed by, each hour was spent with those she had once known, Abby never far from her side, Jessa ever wide eyed and cautious as she took in each new detail of how Skaikru lived. Lincoln had spoken to her, too, had been impressed by her ability to use bow and fire arrow, he had even been awed in his own quiet way at the horses Clarke and Jessa had brought with them, whose sized was larger than the largest Trikru mounts.
Bellamy had warmed to her presence, too, and it had taken long conversations, some filled with anger, raised voices full of anger and pain and hurt, of acceptance and sorrows, but he had tempered whatever existed within his heart with the simple realisation that Clarke had returned, had needed to do whatever it was she had done. But Clarke was thankful she had had Harper and Monroe to turn to, who had been more open to her, had seemed more forgiving, and perhaps it was for the simple reason that they had always been content with being led, of not worrying about leading, of being responsible for much more than simply surviving each day on the ground without worry for much more.
But Octavia had taken longer to warm to her, had taken time, space and a tact that Clarke had had little patience for, and it wasn't until Lincoln and Bellamy had cornered her, had urged her to at least see the light that had cast such a great shadow, and Clarke was never so foolish as to think it would be so simple, but she was thankful for Lincoln's presence, his calming words, each thing enough to temper what Octavia let free.
Clarke had asked about Raven, Monty and Jasper, too, and she had cursed herself on the second day when she had realised she had found no trace of them, no sign of them, had barely even thought of them. And her question had been met with the Mountain, and perhaps Clarke could be forgiven for taking pause at that, at, just for a moment, reconsidering whether she wanted to visit the shadow that lurked deep in the recesses of her mid, but she knew she had not come so far, had not braved the world only to shy away at the last stretch of whatever journey she had embarked upon.
And so Clarke now found herself atop her horse, whose gait was easy, carefree, lumbering and calming as it moved past tree and bush, over fallen trunk and flattened lands.
Jessa rode beside her, the girl's gaze taking in the forests that she had once called home, had once played in, had once called a safe haven in times far gone. Jessa had been quiet for a day earlier though, her reunion with Indra having had an effect on her that Clarke thought not for her to pry too deeply into, and so she had given the girl time, space, company when needed and comfort when required, and maybe in time Clarke would ask, but not now, or perhaps never, if only because she knew it a past Jessa wished to leave be, if only because the girl had hardly spoken of her life amongst the Trikru, of her mother, her father, of any siblings she may have had before the bombing of Ton DC.
Abby's voice broke through her thoughts then, and Clarke glanced past Jessa to her mother, to find the older woman talking quietly to the girl, whose own horse seemed just a little wary of the one Jessa sat atop of, but Clarke couldn't even try to fight the smile that found its way across her lips as she took in the moment shared between Abby and Jessa. And she couldn't for she knew her mother reached out to the girl, reached out to her in any way she could, and Clarke knew it to be because Abby wished not to miss whatever life Jessa was to have, whatever relationship was to be forged between them.
And maybe for the briefest of moments Clarke thought that whatever pains she had once experienced had been worth it. If only because she thought the moment she looked upon as something special, something to remember and to embrace.
Clarke hadn't put much thought into what the Mountain had become, she hadn't given much thought to the stories she had heard during her travels. But maybe she should have.
And she should have for she now stood in a spot she had once stood years earlier, when war cries had echoed out around her, where blood and sweat had clung to the bodies of every warrior that stood by her side.
But now, in that same spot, things seemed so very different.
The sun shone down upon the lands, each ray that fought for its place upon the ground blinding in its light, warm in its touch. The sky was blue, clear and cloudless, even the birds seemed to embrace the change, the warmth in the barely there reprieve of a soon to be winter.
Warriors moved about the open gates of the Mountain, some through the permanently open maws, some milling about near by. Camp fires burnt and crackled, the sounds of sparring echoed out through the trees and even laughter and conversation drifted on the wind.
And Clarke tried to embrace all those things as much as she could. She tried to let those sounds, those noises, those echoed replace what had once been her only memory of the Mountain.
"It's changed a lot over the years," Abby's voice came out quiet and careful, and Clarke knew her mother must have sensed her worry.
"It has," Clarke said as she saw a warrior eyeing her horses, awe clearly on his face.
"I spend a lot of time here, Jackson, too," Abby continued. "We use it for the more serious injuries that we can't deal with in Arkadia," and Abby paused for a moment. "It took the grounders a long time before they were comfortable with the situation," and she paused for a moment. "But they're seeing its uses now, how it can help."
"Yeah," Clarke said, and she looked around for a moment longer. "It's hard to believe," and it was. If only because she had once dreaded ever setting foot within its confines once more.
And so Clarke steeled her emotions, took a moment to make sure Jessa seemed ok with whatever was to happen and then she took a step forward.
Walking the halls of the Mountain was something that Clarke found odd. And she found it odd for she recognised the walls, the twists and turns and she remembered the fear, the anger, the revulsion and the hopelessness. But all those things contrasted too blindly with what the Mountain had become, and they contrasted with the walls that now were fur covered, with tapestries and burning flames hanging from the walls, even wood had been brought in from outside, tree branches and large sheets of bark hung against the walls, all in the hope of bringing some of the forest to the depths of the Mountain.
Warriors moved about, too, some in groups, some on their own, each with a mission in mind, with a purpose, some carrying supplies, others in quiet conversation about things she couldn't quite grasp.
Members from a number of clans seemed to linger about, too, and Clarke recognised those from the Glowing Forest, from Trikru, Azgeda, some from Rock Line, even a few from the Plains Riders who nodded her way with an enthusiasm and a delight at another seemingly tired traveller from their homeland.
But perhaps Clarke found that she liked the way things had become. And perhaps she liked it for those she passed looked to her not as an outsider, not as someone born in the skies, but as another whose life had begun on the ground, and whose fight would one day end with the burning of a pyre.
Jessa walked close by her side too, but the girl seemed a little more quiet now, a little more guarded, and Clarke couldn't blame her, she knew Jessa had her own demons that she faced, that she struggled with, and that their proximity to whatever tech had stolen what ever future the girl had once dreamt of was perhaps too daunting for her to grasp.
But through each step, each pause and each careful moment Jessa stayed by her side, she shadowed each step she took and she remained firm in whatever thing she used to keep her mind steeled.
And Clarke hadn't even quite had a destination in mind after she had stabled their horses at the mouth of the Mountain, and she hadn't quite known where to go, but Abby had sensed her uncertainties, and so Clarke had fallen into step behind her as she began to move through the halls.
But maybe following another, that moving on autopilot and without much thought was what was needed for Clarke to temper her emotions, at least long enough that the shock would wear off, at least long enough that she would remain steady enough in her thoughts so as not to break.
And so they came to a pause outside doors that seemed permanently opened. Through the doors was a large room that Clarke recognised as a workshop of sorts, where twisted tech and wiring, metal and wood and rock and stone littered tables large and small. Bright flood lights shone down from the ceiling, each one suspended on a swinging chain that clinked quietly to the barely there breeze that seemed to filter through the Mountain now that every door seemed opened to the air.
Abby caught her gaze then and Clarke saw her mother's understanding in the way she smiled softly and gestured for her to step forward.
"I'll give you some privacy," Abby said, and Clarke returned her words with her own smile before she took a step forward and through the open doors.
"What is this place?" Jessa asked from beside her, and Clarke followed Jessa's gaze to the nearest table where the remains of what Clarke assumed was a vehicle lay scattered and broken and destroyed.
"A place where things are created," Clarke said after a moment of contemplation. "Where we turn things into tech to help us," and Clarke saw an understanding on Jessa's face.
"Skaikru's blacksmith shop?"
"Yeah," Clarke smiled. "Something like that."
A shadow fell across them then, and Clarke looked up to see a Trikru woman standing before them, curiosity in her eyes.
"You wish to trade?" She asked as she blinked through the swinging of a flood light against the length of her face.
"No," Clarke said as she looked around for a moment. "We were just looking for someone," and Clarke's gaze moved to the back of the large room as she heard a curse and a saw a spark of light.
"Niylah, can you get me th—"
Clarke couldn't hold back the smile upon her lips as she looked past the woman to find a face she realised she had missed for a long time.
"Clarke?" Monty's eyes were wide in shock, his lips slack and his skin was dirtied from grime and oil.
"Hey Monty," and Clarke didn't quite know what else to say.
Monty's hands dropped whatever he had been carrying, and Clarke couldn't help but to wince at the sound of whatever it was scattering and breaking against the harsh flooring.
But Monty ignored the sounds as he pushed past the woman and came crashing against her in a bruising embrace.
"Holy shit, Clarke," and Clarke stumbled back just a step as she tried bracing herself.
But Monty must have sensed her own shock for he pulled back after a moment and blinked the surprise away as he took her in.
"Clarke?" and the confusion in his voice was clear for her to hear, and Clarke couldn't help but to laugh as he slapped himself lightly across the cheek and tried to let whatever he thought stood before him make sense.
"It's really me," Clarke said, and she looked at the woman who stood aside, whose confusion was evident. "I'm here," and Clarke looked back to Monty to see a frown starting to form across his face as he took her in, as he took in the scar across the left side of her forehead and the clothes she wore.
"I can't believe it," and she knew the shock was still trapped within his mind. "You're alive," and he shook his head for a long moment and squeezed his eyes shut before opening again. "You're still here," and Clarke glanced once to Jessa who snorted at that as her arms crossed over her chest.
"I'm still here," Clarke couldn't help but to smile again as Monty shook his head for a long moment before letting out an uncontrolled quiet wheeze.
But Clarke's attention was stolen by movement behind Monty, and as she peered past him she saw a woman limping her way, one leg braced, and a hand pushing off from table edges she passed with a known familiarity.
"Hey Raven," and Clarke's words choked somewhere in her throat as she remembered the pain Raven had gone through and must still live with.
"I'm going to be angry with you tomorrow, and for a very long time after," Raven said simply as she came to stand before her. "But for now," and Raven paused for a moment to look at Jessa before back to her, and then Raven stepped forward awkwardly and took her in a tight embrace, and perhaps the shock, the suddenness of this reunion, of the way things seemed less full of violence and anger and pain and blame was a shock even to Clarke. "I'm glad you're alive."
And so Clarke's day was spent in the workshop. Clarke hadn't been surprised that after the shock had worn off that both of them had grown quiet, had needed time, explanations, even a moment to vent whatever angers had reared themselves, but through it all Clarke had sat with Jessa by her side, and her mother close by as she met each question and accusation with an understanding and an acceptance that she had things she wished to make right.
It saddened her to find that Jasper had taken years to heal, though, and it saddened her to discover that his once jovial and kind self had turned into something quiet, something less willing to open up. But Monty had tempered whatever guilt she had had with the explanation that Monty had turned to farming, had turned to helping grow crops in the Mountain's green house, where he could work in peace, in quiet. And perhaps that was all Clarke could hope for, if only because she remembered the way he had looked with Maya in his arms, how hurt and broken he had seemed.
Clarke had explained Jessa in as simple a way as she could, and she couldn't help but to feel just a little spark of worry at the way Jessa seemed drawn to the sparking tech, to the way it seemed not so safe for those around despite Raven's assertion that it was safe.
And it was tiring, Clarke found, to be constantly explaining herself, it was tiring having spent so much time travelling from Raska to Arkadia, and only having a few short days there before feeling the call of the Mountain, and it had been tiring having to explain the things she had done, the lives she had lived away.
It was with a yawn, a setting sun and the passing of a day that Clarke said farewell to Raven and Monty and had promised to stay for at least a day, for at least long enough for them to reconnect, to rekindle whatever friendship had long since set sail.
Abby had insisted that they stay in her quarters that night, that they have a warm bed, a hot meal and the quiet of a sleeping Mountain to rest, and if Clarke had been less tired she perhaps would have insisted on not intruding, perhaps she would have insisted on finding their own place to sleep, but as she stifled a yawn and as Jessa's eyes seemed to droop with each passing second Clarke had found herself agreeing.
And so Clarke had found herself drifting to sleep in her mothers quarters in the depths of the Mountain, and despite the nature of where she had found herself, she had thought it calming in an odd way, if only because it seemed not so real, not so settled for her.
But perhaps it was her mind's way of preparing her for what was to come.
Clarke woke with a start and a choked gasp that seemed to echo out through the quarters. It took her a moment of wild searching before her heart seemed to slow and for her mind to remember where she found herself.
She couldn't help but to curse quietly as she looked around, as she searched for Jessa only to find the girl fast asleep, the previous day and the hours spent travelling having taken a toll of her body.
But Clarke's gaze snapped to the corner of the room, to the couch pushed up against a wall, to where her mother had insisted on sleeping. And Clarke couldn't help but to feel a pang of guilt as she saw Abby's eyes opened, concern and worry clear for her to see.
"Are you ok?" and Abby's voice came out quiet and careful in the dark, the sole light to give them vision a candle that flickered atop a worn desk.
"Yeah," and Clarke sat carefully, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and she knew sleep would not come for her again, she knew her mind would keep her awake for hours to come.
"Are you?" Abby asked as she stood and wrapped the furs around her shoulders as she approached.
"I am," Clarke said, and she wondered if she looked as lost to her mother as she felt in times like this. "This is how I wake sometimes," Clarke said simply, and she knew she saw the pain across Abby's face. "I'm ok," but Clarke looked away as her mother came to a stop before her, as worry took hold of her gaze. "I just need a moment to myself," Clarke said, and she stood with a glance over her shoulder to Jessa who seemed to roll into the heat her body left behind. "I'll be back," Clarke said, and she made sure she met her mother's eyes. "I promise."
And perhaps Clarke couldn't blame her mother for being cautious in the way her eyes never wavered, if only because the last time Clarke had been allowed to disappear alone she had left for years, but she knew she recognised an understanding in her mother's nod, and so Clarke smiled as confidently as she could before she slung furs over her sleep clothes and made her way to the door.
And, as Clarke found herself stepping from the room, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that something called her forward.
The Mountain always seemed to deaden at the night's darkest hour, where the moon seemed too unsure of whether it wished to rise further in the sky or to shy away from the lands and return to its place below the horizon.
And it was strange, she thought to walk the halls of what was once her people's enemy, to trace the cracks in the stone wall, and to find that her people had taken over what had once been a demon and a monster that had stolen life from all who had cowered in fear.
But Lexa found that she liked the solitude of the night for it let her live as freely as she ever could, if only because she could find some semblance of peace in the Mountain's depths without having to remain in her quarters, whether in Polis of in her tent.
And she thought it because her mind would stray too far to times of regret if she remained solitary for too long, she thought her body would remain restless and too uncertain of what to do in the nights.
Or perhaps it was simply because she had found herself with little to do since the fall of Azgeda than to listen to her ambassadors, to listen to their complaints, to wage war, not with violence, but with word, with threat of tariffs, of exchanging goods from one clan to another, and of ensuring her people would have enough for what ever troubles would come across them.
And perhaps it was a selfish thought to wish for violence, to wish for action, for something to happen that would let her restlessness find a victim other than her own mind. And she knew it to be.
If only because what she now lived was what she had killed for, what she had fought to accomplish, what she had longed to achieve for as long as she could imagine.
But maybe that was now what it meant to be Commander. Perhaps her life would now fade away in service to her people, where her life would end not in one last defiant stand at the tip of a blade, but rather, it would end with the quiet of a setting moon, where the dark of a fearful night would bleed into the waking of a brighter day without fanfare or triumph, where those who lived would never quite realise that the violence had been chased away before it was nothing more than a tale told to children too young to know anything but peace.
And wasn't that a selfish thought?
Lexa scoffed as loudly as she dared, and she knew she sensed Ryder's barest confusion at the sound as he followed her ever so steadfast in his duties. But even his life, even his duty had seemed to become little more than a shell of what it had once been.
And perhaps that realisation was sad, for she knew couldn't help but to compare his life to that of Gustus, to the man who had done what he thought best to ensure her survival time after time, whose body had taken blade and wound for her. And she couldn't help but to feel saddened that Ryder had become nothing but a shadow of what he had replaced, in name and in role.
If only because she thought her death something even Ryder's body would not be able to stop.
Lexa paused then, and she let herself take in the hallway she stood in, and she found that she had come to crossroads, an intersection, a choice, to turn left, to turn right, to take her steps down a path she knew would return her to her quarters, or to take a journey that would prolong whatever solitude she found she embraced.
She wasn't so sure what made her choose the direction she chose though, she wasn't even so sure she knew which direction she stepped towards.
But she found that she didn't care.
And so she continued forward with cautious step after cautious step, each torch that flamed and flickered doing little to light her way in the dark of the Mountain.
Lexa continued to walk for what seemed like hours of aimless wandering, of lost contemplation. With each step she found herself remembering those she had lost, those who had once cared for her, who had known her as more than just Heda, as more than just natblida. As more.
And though she would never admit it, would never even accept it, she thought it sad. And she thought it sad that her legacy, if she was so lucky as to see peace last in her lifetime, would be that of a warrior of a leader, as someone who had been devoted to her people for as long as she breathed, for as long as her heart beat the black of her blood through her veins.
And it saddened her that her dreams would die with her last breath, that the memories of those she had loved would cease when she did.
But wasn't that what she had been taught for as long as she could remember? Wasn't that what had been whispered to her through the flame? Wasn't that what she had accepted, had used as a mantra, as a guiding force through every decision she made?
Lexa came to a stop then, somewhere in the middle of a lonely hallway where a single flame burnt at the far end, whose walls held the cracks of lives long since lived, whose emptiness seemed as cold and as quiet as the echoes in her mind.
"I am sorry," Lexa said into the quiet, into the solitude of the night. "I am sorry," and perhaps she couldn't quite grasp who she apologised to, and for what she apologised. But she thought it important to ask for forgiveness, to ask for a reprieve from the guilt, from the loss, from the hurt and the anger and the sense of isolation she had come to embrace with each passing beat of her heart. "I am sor—"
"Lexa?"
The voice cut into her mind as cruelly as it did into her dreams, and Lexa couldn't help but to let her eyes close and to wonder, perhaps even to hope that she had simply died in her wonderings, had fallen, had slipped and struck her head against the ground hard enough to spill her blood and her life for some lonely warrior to discover with the rising of the sun.
"Lexa?"
The voice came more loudly now, more uncertain, more full of caution than she had heard in years.
But she heard the approaching footsteps, she heard the quiet breath, and she heard the uncertainty in the way step faltered somewhere in front of her.
And so Lexa's eyes opened to find Clarke standing paces from her, where the light of the lone flame cast her in a glow, red and rich and full of life, orange and warm, something kind, something graceful and full of beauty and defiance.
Lexa blinked slowly as she tried to let her mind steady and her thoughts return to the present, and as she did so she thought she saw something too cruel within the blue of Clarke's eyes from across the emptiness between them.
"Clarke," Lexa said as she straightened her back and tried not to gaze too clearly at the way the furs wrapped around Clarke's body exposed a naked shoulder that gleamed golden in the light.
"Lexa," Clarke echoed.
"Clarke," and perhaps Lexa found herself unsure of what to do.
"What are you doing?" and Lexa was a fool to think she heard anything more than nothing in the question.
"I could not seep," Lexa said, and she thought the statement safe enough to let free.
"Same," Clarke said after a moment. "I—"
"I do not wish to disturb your night, Clarke," and the words cut deep into her own heart, but Lexa believed them as much as she believed the truth in her heart.
And so she made to turn, to walk away, to leave Clarke bathed in a light that made her too beautiful for her to be allowed to memorise. And it hurt, it hurt, and it made her wish to scream, to cry, to rage her anger into the ni—
"Don't turn your back on me," the words cut into her more sharply than any blade, more painfully than any loss of life, more fully than her own demons. "Not again."
