Chapter 39/40


Clarke sat in her mother's office. It had been two days since her much needed conversation with Lexa in her tent, where they had shared an awkward lunch between them. To say things were normal would have been an understatement, but she thought there was the beginnings of something.

Not a relationship, or whatever it was that she'd call it, not a romance, not something full of warmth and love. But perhaps an understanding, a realisation, an acceptance that despite everything that had happened, something did exist. Something would always exist. And it would be easier to face it together than apart.

"You're distracted," Abby said quietly, and Clarke looked up to find her mother eyeing her with a carefully guarded expression.

"Yeah," Clarke shrugged a shoulder.

"Up," Abby said

Clarke lifted her arm carefully, she winced at the strain in her side and she tried to push back the discomfort as best she could.

"It's healing as well as can be expected," Abby said as she looked at the incision she had made when Clarke had first been brought to Arkadia for help. "No sign of infection."

"Yeah," Clarke said.

She didn't know how much Abby knew about her capture, she didn't know how much she should tell her, either. Part of her wanted to, part of her didn't and she didn't know which side she wanted to win the internal argument.

"Hows your wrist?" Abby asked as she gestured for Clarke to lower her arm.

"Ok," Clarke said and she held her arm out and shivered as the cool of Abby's office chilled her bare chest. "Aches a bit."

Abby took a moment to look at the new cast she had put on it, perhaps to dare it to cause her more pain, perhaps to simply double check that it was as well placed as could be expected.

"I don't know how you didn't cause any permanent damage," Abby said eventually.

"Just lucky, I guess," truthfully, Clarke didn't know either. Perhaps dumb luck was to thank. "Nessa's luckier," she continued, and she looked up to find her mother nod an understanding. "Thanks to you," Clarke didn't actually know if she had ever thanked her mother for helping save Nessa's life.

"There's a lot of people responsible for her getting the help she needed," and Abby smiled a tight smile.

"Yeah," it was awkward. Clarke didn't know how to explain what it was exactly. But that awkwardness existed.

Perhaps it was in part because of how their relationship had been strained since coming to the ground, perhaps it was because she had walked away, perhaps it was because her mother had, in some very real way, had a role to play her in father's death and they hadn't really had a chance to talk things through properly.

"Are you looking forward to going to Polis?" maybe opening the door to something was enough of a start. Hadn't she at least learnt that from Lexa?

"Yes," and Abby seemed to perk up at the question, at whatever sliver of light Clarke had cast in the dark between them. "I am," and she smiled, the expression speaking words mother and daughter dared not utter quite just yet.

"Me too," Clarke said, and she looked away in thought, to remember and to relive. "It's big," and she wondered just how big. She wondered what it would be like to have people from all the clans there, she wondered what all the clans would be like, if their cultures, their people, their rituals and customs were as grand as she imagined.

"I've heard warriors talk about it," Abby said as she reached for a tablet and scribbled something down with the stylus in her hand. "I—" she paused to think, the stylus tapping against her lips. "They seem eager to get back."

"Yeah," and Clarke let her hand fall into her lap gently as she leant back, as she let whatever aches in her body subside as her body took a moment to breathe without strain.

Silence fell between them then, and in its depths Clarke found herself following the scrawling images upon her computer screen of whatever notes her mother had taken sometime earlier or something she couldn't make out, perhaps a list of injuries she would need to see to, perhaps a list of supplies needed for the long months ahead.

Again that same thought she had had sometime ago came to blossom within her mind, and she wondered why then, why in that moment. And it was the thought of home, of somewhere to rest without pain, without fear, without anything to disturb what she wanted her life to be. She didn't think she had had a home for months, perhaps even a year, more than a year if all things were considered. She couldn't think of Arkadia as home. Not after everything had happened, not when it held such devastating memories.

Maybe a part of her had subconsciously latched onto that idea and that was why she had become so willing to agree to go to Polis, perhaps part of her hoped it would be a fresh start, a new beginning to her life where she could dictate the path she would walk. Maybe that was th—

"I'm proud of you, Clarke."

Her gaze snapped back to her Abby to find her mother's eyes staring at her with something unspoken, open and full of emotion.

"I know you might not want to hear it, not after everything that has happened," and Abby paused, she bit her lip and Clarke found herself watching as her mother's lip trembled, as her eyes began to water, and as the tiredness, the fatigue, the emptiness upon her face took hold so fiercely Clarke couldn't understand how she had ever not seen it before. "After everything that has happened," Abby continued quietly. "Up there," she lifted a single finger upwards from where her hand lay in her lap, "and down here, on the earth," she looked around them.

Clarke looked away at her mother's words. She didn't know why, it seemed more like instinct than purposeful avoidance of whatever things her mother spoke. But still, Clarke found herself looking away and unable to meet her mother's gaze for longer than a second. Maybe it was to shield herself from more hurt, maybe it was simply because she didn't know how to be proud of the things she had done, even if she had begun accepting that she had done those things.

"I know you don't want to hear it, Clarke," Abby continued quietly. "But I want you to know I'm so, so proud of who you've become," Abby leant closer, reached out with one hand and squeezed Clarke's uninjured one as tightly as she dared.

It was that motion that made Clarke pull her gaze back to her mother, and as she did she wondered if she still looked like the child she was when she was sent down to the ground. She wondered if her mother saw her as a youth, as someone who had never killed, had never sent people to their deaths, someone who had been willing to let a missile drop on a village because it was the strategic thing to do.

But as Clarke looked her mother in the eyes, as she held her mother's gaze, she found herself realising one single truth. Her mother had turned her father in, because she had thought it was the right thing to do. She had condemned him to death. For her people. Hadn't Clarke made that same decision more times than she could fathom?

Tears began to fall down Clarke's cheeks, pain began to rob her of breath and she found herself beginning to break, beginning to crumble. Perhaps she finally understood what her mother must have felt.

"Clarke," Abby whispered quietly as she reached out, as she pulled her closer in a gentle embrace. "It's ok."

It wasn't a sudden realisation, it wasn't an immediate lifting of the weight and the burden from her mind, but as the breaths slowly passed Clarke found that that single revelation seemed to unlock the floodgates and emotions began rushing through her with such an intensity that Clarke couldn't do anything more than to break against her mother's chest.

Clarke cried.

She cried like she had done as a child, she cried and she embraced the pains and the revelations. And she cried for the time she had lost blaming Wells who she would never see again, she cried for the hate, the anger, the fury and the betrayal she had felt towards her mother. And she cried because she was a hypocrite, she cried because she had done exactly what she had hated others for.

And Clarke cried.

But this time she didn't turn from it, she didn't shy from it and she didn't hide from it.

She'd done enough hiding to last a lifetime.


Clarke leant against a doorframe. The room before her was small, a simple side-room off from the medbay where most people could catch some sleep, freshen up or find a moment to rest in the midst of whatever fray they were thrown into.

Alexandria stood in front of her, the older woman facing away and looking at her reflection in the mirror. Clarke watched as Alexandria's fingers deftly wove braids through her hair with such familiarity that Clarke wasn't even sure Alexandria was consciously aware of the patterns they wove. It wasn't the first time Clarke had seen Alexandria braid her hair, it probably wouldn't be the last, but it always marvelled Clarke at just how practised Alexandria was. Even Nessa in all her youthful determination had hardly come close to being able to do it herself.

But that would just be a matter of time, Clarke was sure.

She looked over her shoulder and at where Nessa lay sleeping in the bed, her bouts of wakefulness and sleep often unpredictable, her mending body still at times too weary to do much else than rest.

"You look well, Klark," Alexandria said quietly, and Clarke found herself turning back to face Alexandria's reflection in the mirror, the older woman's eyes soft, kind, perhaps just a little more at ease than she had been a few days earlier.

"I—" Clarke paused for a moment to think of how best to say whatever it was she wished to say. But she discarded it with a subtle smile, some small, something bashful, something perhaps tinged with as much sadness as humour. "I find myself not knowing what to say a lot," she said with a shrug.

Alexandria smiled as she turned to face her, face kind in the dim light, eyes so similar to Lexa's that Clarke could so very easily imagine Lexa stood in front of her. If only Lexa had been given the chance for the lines of laughter, of love, of life etched so gracefully upon her face.

"I do not blame you, Klark," and Alexandria sat on a chair, gestured for her to sit on the edge of the small sleeping cot tucked into the corner of the room.

"How do you do it?" Clarke asked.

Alexandria's head tilted to the side slightly, her chin lifted a fraction and an eyebrow quirked just enough that it made Clarke smile.

"You know," Clarke said as she gestured awkwardly between them. "How do you not fall apart?" and she didn't want the conversation to be driven by emotion, she fought hard to keep her thoughts steady and her heart calm. "With everything changing? How are you so calm?"

"It is not easy," Alexandria said with a sad smile.

Clarke looked away and part of her thought that maybe the question hadn't been right, hadn't been uttered with the perfect words to communicate whatever it was she wanted to say.

"My life," Alexandria began after a pause. "No parent believes that their child will be natblida," she seemed to pause, perhaps for half a second, perhaps for just a split moment of time. But it was there, subtle but poignant as it hung in the air between them. "It is an honour," Alexandria said. "A great honour, your child will be given the best training any warrior could hope for. They will be given the best chance at life, where they will learn to act, to think, to serve their people better than any others could ever imagine," and Alexandria smiled something between sadness and regret. "But it is a curse," and she sighed. "I did not wish for Lexa to be natblida. Because I knew that would be a death sentence," and she looked away, sniffled and Clarke's heart broke just a bit as Alexandria reached up and wiped at her eyes. "Do you know how many Commanders have come and gone in my life, Klark?"

"No," and Clarke shook her head, she tried not to think about the dangers Alexandria spoke of.

"Seven," Alexandria said. "I have seen seven Commanders ascend the throne. I have seen seven flames extinguished, and I have seen them replaced by someone whose service to their people lasts four, five years, perhaps six, perhaps 8 if they are lucky."

Clarke swallowed the lump in her throat as Alexandria looked her in the eyes. All she saw was pain, was sadness, was a longing for something that was never to be had.

"Natblida children are given time to live with their parents. But when they are old enough to stand on their own, when they are strong enough to hold a knife, when they are old enough to know something more, whatever that be, they are taken, they are trained. And then they die."

Clarke tried not to picture a young Lexa, someone round faced and not much older than Nessa, but with years of brutality already under her belt, someone already more skilled in combat, in taking life, in risking theirs for others, than most could ever comprehend.

"It broke me, Klark," Alexandria said quietly. "To lose Lexa," and she shrugged, perhaps to force a calmness upon her. "I remember the last time I held Lexa in my arms," she said. "She did not know why she was being taken away," and Alexandria blinked as a tear fell down her cheek. "Sometimes I wonder if she remembers that last embrace. I hope not," and this time Alexandria's voice broke. "I hope she does not remember how much I longed to keep her by my side. I hope she does not remember the pain I could not hide from her. I hope she does not remember that I could not keep her safe."

"I think she knows, Alexandria," Clarke said, her own voice just as soft, just as quiet. "I think she knows you love her and I know she loves you, too. In her own way," Clarke believed it. She didn't know why, she couldn't describe why she felt the way she did. But there was something there, something deep within her core that believed the words she did.

Alexandria smiled again, and though the expression touched her eyes, it seemed hollowed, seemed tired, seemed deeper than Clarke could ever comprehend.

"Do you know what the first thing was that I did when Nessa was born?" Alexandria asked.

Clarke shook her head once.

"I was so weak," Alexandria whispered. "So tired. It was not an easy birth," and she chuckled a wet sound. "Nessa was a stubborn newborn," there was a pause, a breath, a broken sigh. "Perhaps it runs in the family," Clarke couldn't help but to feel the corners of her lips twitch up at that. But Alexandria seemed to pull herself back to whatever she had meant to say for she shook her head and tutted quietly under her breath. "The first thing I did when Nessa was in my arms was cut her," and Alexandria lifted her palm as if to indicate where she had sliced the blade into Ness's flesh. "I needed to know," and she looked away, perhaps partly in shame, perhaps partly to help herself recall. "I could not lose another child to a life of servitude," Alexandria seemed older as she reclined a little more in the chair she sat in. "The first thing Nessa ever knew was pain," and Alexandria shook her head as something close to guilt and regret filled her eyes. "The first thing I ever did to my daughter was harm her, was cause her pain."

"I understand, Alexandria, anyone would," and Clarke did, she understood what Alexandria must have felt. Or she could at least empathise with it enough to grasp even just a fraction of her turmoil.

"I promised myself that I would never harm my daughter again. I promised myself I would protect her as best I knew how," and she shrugged. "So that is how I do not fall apart, Klark," Alexandria said, and gone was the guilt, gone was the regret, and in its place was confidence, was warmth, was love and kindness and so many emotions Clarke could barely read them all. "I can not fall apart when Nessa relies on me to keep her safe."

Alexandria stood then, she stretched her body and she groaned as muscles protested the strain and Clarke couldn't help but to smile at the feigned frailness Alexandria moved with.

"Enough of this, Klark," Alexandria reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "I am an old and tired woman who has nothing better to do but complain, come," Alexandria began walking for the exit to the side room, but as she passed, Clarke found herself thinking, found herself wanting to act, to do something in the moment.

"Hey," and Clarke turned. "Wait."

"Klark?"

"I—" again there was that cursed pause, that uncertainty that she found herself wanting to know how to avoid. "I want to thank you, Alexandria. For everything you've done. For every night. Every day. Every kind word. Every single thing," Clarke paused as she let herself think, as she let herself make sense of the thoughts in her mind. "Before I met you my life was a mess. I didn't know how to live. I didn't know if I wanted to live," she continued. "I don't know if you saved my life. You probably did," Clarke paused as she watched the smile pull at the corners of Alexandria's lips. "But you and Nessa? I know you both saved my soul. You saved me."

Alexandria's smile spread a little more openly across her lips as she held her gaze for what seemed an eternity. And though she said no words, though she voiced no thoughts, Clarke could understand. Something was said between them, something was given and something was taken. And most of all, as Alexandria reached out, as she embraced her and as she whispered You are welcome, Klark, something was felt so very deep within her core.


Lexa hadn't consciously made the decision to seek Klark out, but her wandering feet and her restless thoughts had a way of guiding her to wherever Klark had gone. Ryder remained quiet as he walked behind her, the passageways they took through the Ark's broken interior slowly becoming more and more familiar with each passing day.

As Lexa continued to walk she found herself thinking of Nessa. She worried, perhaps not for her injuries for Abby had been more than capable of caring for her sister. But she worried that Nessa would become overwhelmed in Polis. Lexa didn't know why she thought that, she didn't know what made her even consider it in the first place. Nessa was smart, she was strong, adaptable and it wasn't like Nessa would have no one she knew. Dhorma would be with her permanently, there'd be young seconds for Nessa to get to know. But perhaps it was the simple fact that Nessa would be her sister. The Commander's sister.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, though. Klark would be there. Klark could be the guiding presence by her side that she was never able to be. And if anyone was to take that responsibility, Lexa was thankful that it was Klark. She had proven herself time and time again. Not just in how she had tried to protect Nessa with her life, but in her actions, in her desire for her people to have the best chance at survival that they could get.

So maybe all that worry, all that fretting was for nothing.

Lexa hoped it would be.

And so she came to a pause.

The warriors she had assigned to protect Klark stood along the length of the hallway, two on either side of the door before her now. Lexa took a moment to consider if she should leave Klark, perhaps she was sleeping, resting before the long journey to Polis, but as Lexa listened she could hear the sounds of footsteps, of things being moved and the rustle of clothes.

Lexa knocked twice, her knuckles rapped against the metal door and she ignored the dislike she felt at just how unnatural the interior of the Ark was.

The door opened with a gentle hiss to reveal Klark standing in front of it, her hair a little out of place, her chest rising just a bit more than usual from whatever exertion she had been in the middle of.

Lexa took a second to look over Klark's shoulder to find the room in a state of disorder, things had clearly been pulled out from where they were stored, clothes were piled together on a table and small boxes or crates were stacked atop one another.

"Lexa," there was a hint of surprise in Klark's voice.

"Klark," and Lexa's gaze snapped back to Klark to find her expression a little uncertain.

Lexa didn't blame her. She felt just as much uncertainty as Klark must. Part of her now thought she was intruding, part of her wanted to ask if she needed help with whatever rearranging of her things was being undertaken.

"Come in," and Klark stood aside and gestured for her to enter.

Lexa felt the hints of a smile threaten to form on her lips as she stepped through the threshold before the door slid shut behind her.

"I do not mean to intrude, Klark," Lexa said once she came to a stop two paces inside Klark's quarters.

"You're not," and Klark sighed as she moved to the nearest pile of clothes.

Lexa looked around the room a little more dutifully then. Though it seemed a mess, though it seemed to be full of haphazard disorder, what she found interesting was that there weren't that many things lying about. Most had clearly used for years, had been well loved. Clothes were sewn and stitched in places, small objects and ornaments she knew not their purpose were weathered by years and countless hands, even the few pairs of boots or shoes that lay on the floor were beaten, soles worn down, laces frayed in places.

"I was packing," Klark said and Lexa looked back at her to find her gaze met with Klark's own inquisitive and uncertain stare. "Sorry for the mess," it was an awkward gesture Klark made as she swept her hand around the room. "It's not normally like this."

Lexa remembered the last time she had been in Klark's quarters, where things were kept neat, tidy and placed where they had always lived. Part of Lexa wanted to tell Klark that she need not pack, especially her clothes, for Lexa would ensure she would have anything she need. But she knew that to be foolish. But most of all, she understood the sentimental value so many smalls things could have.

"I'm trying to choose," Klark continued as she turned to the closest pile of belongings. "We never had much on the Ark to start with," and Klark seemed a little embarrassed at the lack of personal belongings she had. "No one did. But I didn't want my things to become a burden on the journey," Klark paused though, she bit her lip and she looked up at Lexa. "I can bring things, can't I? I mean, I'll have space?"

"Of course, Klark," Lexa wanted to reach out, embrace her, allay her fears, tell her not to worry, that everything things she would have want for would be taken care of. But she thought that a little too forward for now.

And so, of all the things Lexa wanted to say, instead she asked, "may I help, Klark?"

There was a moment of pause as Klark seemed to consider before answering.

"You don't have to," Klark said carefully.

"I wish to help, Klark," she did. And she hoped Klark could see it in her eyes.

Lexa felt a small smile upon her lips as Klark nodded and gestured for her to begin working on the nearest pile of belongings.

"So I can pack everything?"

"Yes," Lexa said as she looked up to find Klark holding a clear crate in her arms awkwardly, the cast around her still healing wrist clearly making it a little difficult for her to hold.

"Cool."

Lexa frowned at the word as Klark passed her the crate.

"Here," Klark said. "Put all of these in it."

Again there was that awkwardness in the way Klark spoke, and for a moment Lexa found herself realising just how intimate this could seem for Klark. She was in fact helping to pack Klark's clothes, things she had cherished, things she had worn for as long as she could remember.

Lexa picked up a shirt, its fabric oddly soft, its weave tighter than most she had ever seen. It was slightly smooth to the touch, a little odd to the feel and it piqued her interest as she began to fold it.

"What is this material?" Lexa asked, perhaps to try to bring Klark's mind off whatever awkwardnesses existed, and perhaps in part because she was genuinely curious about the shirt she held in her hands.

Klark looked up at her, a jacket half folded in her arms as she took in the old shirt Lexa held.

"Polyester," Klark said with a slight smile.

Lexa couldn't help but to tilt her head to the side in confusion. She had never heard the word, she'd probably never be able to repeat it properly given its odd sound. And yet her reaction made Klark smile a little more fully as she lifted up her arm, as she gestured to the fur lined leather that adorned her body.

"We didn't have animals up in space," Klark began. "No sheep. No deer. No furs, wool or cotton," and she let her arm drop before reaching for the shirt in Lexa's hands. "So we used a material we could make ourselves."

"Ah," Lexa nodded, the explanation enough for her to understand. "Skaikru tech," and she nodded, perhaps because she tried to convince herself she understood, perhaps because she found it just a little difficult to grasp how materials could be made without leathers and furs and cotton and wool. "It is nice," and she meant it, if only because she thought anything Klark wore would be nice. But perhaps she could think the material a little uncomfortable to the touch.

Klark seemed to read as much though for she handed her the shirt again, and as she did Lexa found herself enjoying the little less burdened smile upon Klark's lips.

"You don't like it, do you," it was more statement than question, and Lexa knew Klark would know she lied.

"It is different," it wasn't a lie, and it was safe.

"Yeah," and Klark turned her attention to a blanket. "It's different."

"Yes," Lexa nodded to herself.

But as she continued to fold the clothes in front of her and pack them into the crates, she felt a pressure against the side of her face. She tried to ignore it for a moment, for a second, for long enough that she thought it was vanish, but eventually she felt forced to look, felt compelled to face the gaze she knew would be staring at her.

Klark looked at her with something she couldn't quite explain. Or perhaps it was an emotion, just a tiny sliver of it, she recognised yet didn't feel ready to accept. Not yet, no matter how much she desired.

"Klark?" it was safe. It didn't beckon discussion if none was wished, but she thought it opened a door without expectation, without assumption. But wide enough that it could be stepped through, could be embraced should Klark wish for it to be so.

"Come here," Klark whispered and she gestured for Lexa to follow.

Perhaps an intrigue or a curiosity began to fill her as Lexa put down whatever was in her hand as she followed Klark into her sleep quarters. She kept her gaze firmly planted on the back of Klark's head, mostly because she felt like she didn't deserve to look at Klark's old bedroom without permission.

But Klark turned when she came to her bed and sat on its edge, one hand quick to gesture for her to sit down next to her. Klark reached down under her bed and pulled out what Lexa assumed was a book. Lexa watched, her breath held without realisation as Klark opened the book to reveal pages of drawings, some depictions clearly made by a child still to master brush, some a little more refined, others as intricate as anything Lexa had ever seen.

"These are yours, Klark?" Lexa asked, and she found herself amazed, she found herself undeserving of what Klark deemed to show her.

"Yeah," and Klark shrugged, the motion bashful, perhaps a little embarrassed. "I haven't really had a chance to draw since I arrived down here," she said, and Lexa made a mental note to make sure Klark would have all the supplies she could ever want. "But that's not what I want to show you."

Lexa couldn't help but to feel her head tilt to the side a little at Klark's words, and she found herself enjoying the way Klark's lips twitched up at the edges in response. Perhaps she would do whatever she was doing in this moment more often if given the chance. If only because she enjoyed it when Klark smiled so freely.

"Here," Klark said after she seemed to come to the back of the book.

Lexa looked down at the pages open to her and she found a portrait of a man who looked back at her. His eyes were kind, his face lined with wrinkles that Lexa, for some reason, could tell were from worry aa much as they were from love and laughter. Lexa didn't need Klark to tell her who it was for her to know the man was Klark's father. That much was clear from the eyes, the expression, the kindness and the strength she could see.

"My dad," Klark said and this time her voice was wet with emotion barely contained. Perhaps Klark meant to say more, perhaps she wanted to say more. But whatever emotions Klark was feeling overcame her voice, beat back the words she wanted to say.

There would be time for her to learn about Klark's father, if Klark wished for her to know. And Lexa would be there to listen, she would be there because she wanted to listen, to know the man who had helped raise Klark to become the woman and the leader Lexa knew her to be.

Perhaps she couldn't say anything to take away the years of pain. Perhaps she would never be able to offer Klark any words that could fill the hole in her heart that her father's death had left. But Lexa would try, in whatever way Klark needed. She could promise that much.

"He would be proud of you, Klark," Lexa said, and she knew it such a cliched thing to say. She knew it such a common thing uttered to those who had lost loved ones. But she believed it. Lexa knew enough about his death that she could understand some part of Klark. She hoped it would be enough for her to be able to form the thoughts into words. "He would be proud of you, Klark," she repeated gentle. "Not because you have taken life when you had no other choice. Not because you have led your people when others could not," and Lexa hoped Klark would understand. She really, really did. "Not because of all the things you have done for your people, Klark," and she leant her head down just enough that she could look Klark in the eyes as Klark continued to stare at the portrait of a father who wasn't with her anymore. "He would be proud of you, Klark," Lexa said and she reached out and squeezed Klark's hand as carefully as she could, if only to tell her that she was there, that she would always be there from that point forwards. "He would be proud of you, Klark. Because he loved you," Lexa wanted to say more. But it wasn't the time, perhaps it wouldn't be the time for years. But she would wait. She would wait until she had earned it. Until she had atoned for all the wrongs she had done to Klark. She didn't think she'd deserve to say it any sooner than that.

"Thank you, Lexa," Klark said quietly, her words so gentle between them that Lexa had to almost strain to hear. "For everything."

Lexa could tell Klark spoke about more than just that moment, she knew she spoke about the good that they had shared, the bad they had shared, and any other emotion caught in between the storm of their lives. Lexa couldn't and wouldn't dare to assume she knew what Klark's thoughts were, she would never dare to assume she would ever know. But she believed as much as she could that Klark spoke of things that still needed to be said, that would be said between them, when wounds were a little more healed, when times were a little more thawed. And when emotions were a little more deserved.

"You are welcome, Klark."