Clarke drifted in and out of consciousness. Perhaps it was her brain's way of surviving, of dealing with the constant upheaval of her life. Maybe it was simply because she was tired, so very fatigued that any one drastic change to her life was enough to put her down.

Whatever the reason, it didn't seem to matter though. She embraced it, too for it gave her a reason to fade away, it gave her a reason to hide, shirk away from responsibility and just simply think of herself. But she wasn't doing much thinking, not when her thoughts could hardly organise, not when her emotions could hardly settle, and not when her body hardly knew how to handle the exhaustion it so readily embraced.

But after a time, after an unknown passing, Clarke's mind began to grow restless, it began to grow less shy, less timid. And then she woke.

Clarke's eyes opened and she found herself in a tent, she found herself somewhere unfamiliar. It took her longer than she would like to admit before her memories began to return. But they did and she remembered.

Clarke remembered being walked day after day after day through the forest. She remembered green moss covered tree turning to pale grey bark and ice blue lichen. She remembered Echo, a spy, an assassin, and she remembered another, a man she knew not what to call. She remembered the violence of attack, of blood, pain and shock. And she remembered Lexa.

Clarke bolted up, warm furs pooled around her waist and she grimaced as pain seemed to seep into her core as her eyes darted left and right in search of something to tell her if it had been a dream or if it had been real.

Her eyes settled on a large table in the centre of the tent, a map lay across it and candles, part melted, sat in their small metal holders. The next thing Clarke noticed was just how large the tent was. It was grand, far larger than most, and it seemed to very impractical for travel, for surely setting it up and packing it away each time it was needed to move would require far more effort than it was worth. But then Clarke began to hear the sounds of others moving about outside. She could hear voices talking quietly, she could hear horses neighing and she could hear the distant sound of feet walking this way and that.

It shouldn't have taken as long as it did, but as she looked down at the bed she was sleeping in she realised she had seen it before. She had seen the sheer fabric partition that lay half pushed aside and she had seen those very same things when she had been in Lexa's tent. Clarke didn't know what to think of that, she didn't know what to make of the fact that she was more than sure she had been in Lexa's bed for who knows how many hours, perhaps even days.

She grimaced as she tried to extricate herself from the far too soft furs, she grimaced as she tried not to let her mind wander to places it shouldn't and she found herself frowning as she came to stand. She could see Lexa's throne then, it's twisted wood and metal body so very familiar. But then Clarke realised she wasn't wearing what she had been wearing before. Instead of the dirtied, ragged clothes, she now wore softer fabrics of cotton, thick enough to bring warmth to her body, soft enough that they moulded to her form and seemed more second skin than barrier to the elements. They even smelt nice, rich, full of something she couldn't put her finger on.

There were too many thoughts racing through her mind, too many questions, too many things that needed to be answered. Clarke couldn't understand, she couldn't put event into order and she couldn't see how, why, wher—

The tent's entrance opened to reveal what must have been either early morning or late afternoon. A wash of rich red and orange light splintered into the tent before a body quickly ducked inside as the entrance swung closed.

And then Clarke came face to face with Lexa.

It must have taken Lexa's eyes a second or two to adjust to the difference in light for she startled as her gaze landed on Clarke. There was a split second of relief upon her face, a split second of happiness before it was swallowed by that same calm expression that was always almost too hard to read.

"Klark," Lexa said as she walked forward ever so slowly as if she were afraid to startle a wild beast.

An awkwardness danced between them, where one side existed an uncertainty, a hope, something gentle and timid, where the other side existed an emotion so violent, so furious, gallant and ardent that it should make Clarke's heart beat itself into pieces.

And so Clarke settled for ignoring all that. At least for then.

"How long?" it was so safe, so obviously an attempt to ignore their past that it would almost be funny. "How long have I been here?"

"Almost two days," Lexa said.

Lexa's reply was as equally simple and full of avoidance.

"What happened?" Clarke asked, and she tried putting the images in her mind into an order that made sense. "I—" she stopped herself from speaking for some unknown reason. Perhaps it was better than another did the talking.

"We tracked you," Lexa began carefully. "We found you," Clarke's not sure if she liked Lexa's bluntness or not. "You had a fever. You were ill," Lexa swallowed then. "You have been in and out of consciousness ever since."

Clarke nodded her head only to wince at an ache somewhere behind her ear. But perhaps, as she stood there, in someone else's clothes, feeling so open, so vulnerable and helpless, all the emotions came forth. And it was an anger, it was a fury, a nakedness that made her want to recoil, that made her want to break, to shatter into pieces. And yet she felt so self-centred, so conceited, so self indulgent. She shouldn't feel like this, she didn't think she deserved the self pity, so many people had suffered because of her, so many people had died.

Was it fair that she was the one to live?

Clarke didn't realise that tears had sprung from her eyes, she didn't realise she had begun to cry until she felt herself fall back onto the bed, until she felt the warm furs under her.

In that moment she didn't care that Lexa seemed to have crossed the distance between them, she didn't care that Lexa awkwardly tried to comfort her and she didn't care that she made a fool of herself.

"Is this how it's going to be?" Clarke didn't know how she managed to speak. But she did.

"Klark?" Lexa's voice was full of concern.

"Always looking over my shoulder," and Clarke hated the way she sought out the warmth of Lexa's body pressed next to her. "Always afraid someone else will die because of the things I've done?"

"Klark," Lexa's voice seemed wriggle its way into her mind.

It was pathetic to feel sorry for herself.

How could she? What about Jaxta? A woman she had only known for a short while, who had dreams, aspirations, a life that had no right to end so swiftly, so violently as it did. Did Clarke have the right to feel so sorry for herself when she had been the one to bring Nessa and Alexandria's lives down around them? If she had simply died in the forest, had never wandered upon them they would have continued to live a life free of fear, of turmoil and upheaval. She thought of the two warriors who had protected her, who she had led to their deaths without even meaning to. It wasn't fair. It never had been. Life never had been.

Clarke never dreamed of being who she was. She never imagined her life would turn out the way it did. But that one little spark, that one tip above the water's surface that was her father's discovery had revealed so much more beneath the surface. And it had been violent, so grand, so large she could never fully realise.

An anger, a frustration built somewhere mixed in with whatever sadness she felt. She knew she had been used by Echo in some way, she knew Echo had wanted to turn her, she knew she had been seen as nothing more than a pawn, than a piece to be moved into place without care for her own sanity.

And so Clarke cried. She cried and she let her tears run free. She didn't care that Lexa held onto her. She didn't care that she made a fool of herself. She decided in that very moment that it would be the last time she would feel sorry for herself.

She was tired of hiding away from her past. She was tired of hiding away from her actions. She was tired of being a pawn in someone else's game. Maybe it was time to be a woman worthy of the price put on her head.

And so she let herself, for that one last time, feel all the self pity she could muster. She'd grow, she'd learn from it and she'd stop hiding from it. But after this one last time.


Clarke woke. She didn't know how long she had slept. Perhaps an hour, perhaps five. She supposed it didn't matter though. She could still hear people moving about outside, she could still hear horses neighing and she knew she was still somewhere in the forests.

She sat up, her head not as muddy as it had been the first time and she looked around herself. There were signs that someone had moved about within the tent. A plate of food sat on the table, a beaker of drink beside it. She didn't need to be told that the food and the drink were for her. At the foot of the bed were a pile of clothes, too.

Clarke took another moment to look around herself, perhaps to check to see if she were truly alone. Satisfied, she slipped out of bed, careful to avoid using her injured arm, and she grimaced as the cuts across her knuckle stretched and almost split open again. She ignored those small pains as she stood, as she let her body stretch and her mind begin to bring order to the chaos and confusion that filled her mind.

The clothes at the foot of her bed were simple, utilitarian and so very much like what she had worn during the siege of the Mountain. But there was a difference. Clarke could tell from the fabrics, from their stitching and their construction that they had been made with much more care, that they had been designed for maximum comfort, and she was sure they were as protective as they were comfortable. There were even a pair of boots that were set aside, these equally as well crafter as the clothes.

Clarke dressed quickly, she shed whatever sleep clothes she had been wearing and she ignored the fact that someone had to have dressed her in them while she was unconscious. She ignored the fact that these new clothes fit her perfectly and she ignored the fact that she could tell who had chosen them.

There were more important things for her to do.

It didn't take her long before she stood in the centre of Lexa's tent, her eyes on the food and beaker, her stomach grumbling just loud enough that it would have been embarrassing had anyone else been present.

And so Clarke sat down at the table and pulled the plate of food towards her. She was hungry, perhaps more so than she had originally thought for her mouth began to salivate as the smells hit her. She didn't care that she was in Lexa's tent in that moment, she was tired of tiptoeing around whatever awkwardness she felt. So Clarke ate cheeses, rich in flavour and texture, she bit into dried meats, salted and spiced, even the slices of fruit seemed so much more enticing than anything she had ever eaten before. The beaker contained a drink that was just a little thicker than water, it's taste tangy, somewhere between bitter and fruity. But she gulped it down for she was thirsty, thirstier than she had realised and sh—

Clarke looked up to find Lexa looking at her, the woman's eyes just slightly wide as she stood by the tent's entrance.

"I—" Clarke didn't know what to say, it was awkward. "I was hungry," for one small moment Clarke wondered if she had assumed wrong, and that the food left out on the table was in fact not meant for her. "And thirsty," she set the beaker down on the table and pushed it away from her. "I—" she put the half eaten piece of meat back on the plate, she looked down at the mess she had made and she cursed herself. "I assumed this was for me," she didn't know why in that very moment, after having promised herself she wouldn't succumb to any stupid emotions, that she felt all those things she promised herself she wouldn't.

Lexa's lips twitched up just barely at the corners, and though Clarke could tell she wanted to approach, she watched as Lexa remained where she was at the tent's entrance.

"It was for you, Klark," Lexa said.

Suddenly all that bravado, all that determination that Clarke had felt seemed to melt away once she came face to face with Lexa. She thought herself a coward and she thought herself so very stupid. But it was odd, too. It was odd for Clarke had realised so many different things during the endless hours she had been forced to walk through the forest. And she had realised Lexa had been at least in some way a part of her thoughts, her blame, her emotions, and her hurt.

Maybe hiding from it wasn't a good idea.

No, she shook her own head and she knew. Not maybe, not perhaps, but surely. Certainly. Absolutely. Hiding from her pain wasn't a good idea. It couldn't be.

"Klark?" she looked up to find Lexa looking at her with guarded expression.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you," and she hadn't, she didn't even realise she had been frowning and staring at Lexa for what must have been an eternity.

"Is the food to your liking, Klark," Lexa asked.

And it was so hospitable, so politely asked that Clarke could almost forget the emotions she knew both of them must have felt. And it was in that moment that Clarke decided to face her fears.

"Sit," Clarke said and she gestured to the chair opposite her. "Please," it wasn't lost on her that she was inviting Lexa to sit at her own table, in her own tent.

That seemed to give Lexa pause for her lips parted just slightly in surprise and Clarke found herself feeling just a slight tinge of satisfaction that she had Lexa on the back foot. She'd ignore the fact that she had sobbed into Lexa's chest only hours earlier.

Lexa sat before her then, and her movements came cautiously yet poised. That didn't surprise Clarke, and it didn't surprise her when Lexa's gaze never wavered from hers either. She wondered if Lexa forced herself not to look away, she wondered if it was hard for Lexa to look at her like this, and she wondered if Lexa held any guilt for the things she had done.

"Is Nessa ok?" Clarke asked, she hoped she had been the only one targeted by Azgeda.

"Yes, Klark," Lexa said with a slight smile. "Nessa is ok, she is safe."

"And Alexandria?" Clarke asked.

"She is well, too," there was perhaps just a slight tinge of triteness in Lexa's answer.

Clarke took another bite of food. She didn't realise it at first but as she reached for the beaker of drink she found Lexa's gaze following every single motion she made. She didn't know how she felt about Lexa watching her eat so intently, for some reason it seemed so very more intimate than it should. Part of it was perhaps because she also assumed she was dressed in clothes Lexa had either had selected, or had found. And it was so very strange. It was such a drastic dichotomy of things, where within her mind she felt things she knew she needed to be put into words, and yet she found herself existing in that current moment in a situation that seemed so incredibly full of normalcy.

"What happens now?" Clarke asked.

"We are returning to Arkadia, Klark," Lexa answered with a measured breath. "And then we will leave for Polis," it was straightforward and simple, yet Clarke knew Lexa must be moving pieces of the puzzle into place behind the scenes.

"Echo," Clarke said after a moment.

"Echo?" Lexa's head tilted to the side slightly.

"One of my kidnappers," and she shrugged, perhaps because she didn't know what else to call the two people who had indeed kidnapped her. "And the man you killed," Clarke continued. "Were they Azgeda?" she saw Lexa's eyes harden, she saw her flinch and Clarke saw a pain try to fight its way onto Lexa's face.

"Perhaps, Klark," Lexa said but her voice was strained, restrained and wound tight, and Clarke could see it pained Lexa to think of Azgeda, and she remembered being told of Costia what seemed like lifetimes ago.

It was with that thought that Clarke found herself wondering if Lexa had gone through this same experience once before, if this was how Costia's disappearance had played out. Part of her didn't want to know if Lexa felt the same way about her as she so clearly felt about Costia.

"You will be safe in Polis under my protection, Klark," Lexa said, and Clarke knew Lexa assumed she feared for her life still, she knew Lexa assumed she wanted to know she would be protected.

But Clarke didn't quite think that was a concern. Not fully.

"That's not—" she trailed off, perhaps to find the words, perhaps to avoid the words. "Echo," perhaps Clarke simply wanted no more lies. "She thought I could be turned," and Clarke took in a deep breath. Perhaps this was the first step she would need to take in confronting her fears. "They didn't want to kill me," Clarke said. "Not right away, at least," she didn't like the way Lexa seemed pained at even mentioning her death, it made her think of emotions she couldn't afford to confront right now. "She tried to convince me to go with them to Azgeda. To fight against you. To help them."

Clarke didn't think she needed to give more detail, she could see from the way Lexa's eyes seemed to grow calculating that what she didn't say was as much understood as what she voiced.

But what Lexa asked next made Clarke's heart break for all the wrong reasons.

"Did I rescue you, Klark?"

It took Clarke far too long to understand what Lexa meant. It took her far too long to process the words Lexa said. It took her far too long to understand that what she saw in Lexa's eyes was pain, was regret, was emotions so vibrantly alive that it made her want to scream, to roar out into the world until her voice could no longer make sound.

And if she really thought about it, if she really weighed every option before her, Clarke didn't know if Lexa really had rescued her.