Clarke sat in the small chair beside Agamemnon's bed. Her eyes moved across the pages of the book in her hand but she found that her mind wasn't taking in the words, not really, anyway. The book was something she had read many times over, one from her childhood that she had found years ago. Perhaps what she did was seek comfort in a familiar friend, perhaps reading the pages she did let her think of something familiar and kind without worry or need to consider more.

Truthfully, the reason why she read the book was to take her mind off the realisation that Agamemnon was ill. It didn't take a genius to know that much. It didn't take a doctor or a surgeon to understand. But to diagnose, to do more than to just know he was ill was its own problem all together. She wasn't a fool, wasn't so new to the world anymore. There was a reason the homestead surrounded by endless apple trees was tucked away into the depths of the forest. There was a reason only handmaidens who had long since retired walked the perimeter, cared for the apple trees.

No one was to know. No one could know of the homestead's existence other than it was simply a farm that supplied apples to those near and far. It was a cover that had existed for generations, years and years and endless summers and winters. And for Clarke that meant getting Agamemnon the help he needed was going to be as impossible as it was for her to turn back time to years less burdened by such truths.

Clarke took in a steadying breath and she looked out the window, to the last of the sunlight that began to slip down below the horizon. She thought it beautiful, she thought it charming in its colour, in its vibrancy and warmth. Perhaps she saw a bird fly through the sky, perhaps she noticed a squirrel that jumped from one apple tree branch to another. Perhaps she heard the laughter of a handmaiden or two as they shared in a moment of jest on their trek back to their quarters. Perhaps it was one of many things that would help to distract from the moment she now found herself in.

But a quiet cough broke what little tepid revelry she had found herself in. Clarke turned from the window to find Agamemnon frowning, a handkerchief held to his lips and his eyes blinking for a moment or two before his breathing steadied.

"Are you ok?" she asked, book placed atop the nightstand, hand already reaching for his shoulder in an attempt to steady him.

"Yes," he said with a small smile, frown gone and replaced by a lightness she thought accepted through the passing of time. "Yes I am alright."

Agamemnon took a moment to compose himself, she thought perhaps to make sure his coughing had subsided, perhaps simply to find a slightly more comfortable position to sit where he lay on his bed.

"Can I get you something?" she asked, but Clarke knew his answer before he even spoke.

"No," it was said with warmth and humility, "No, I am fine," a single long breath came then, and it was slightly ragged, slightly laboured, but it was gentler than breaths moments ago and that was all Clarke could ask for.

She leant back in her chair, eyes guarded as she took him in though she tried not to make it too obvious. In the next few moments Clarke wondered what kind of Commander Agamemnon had been. She had only heard small stories of his reign, just as she had only heard small stories of Eamon's and others. But she had never paid too much attention to them, her mind always having been thinking of what to do next. At least until she had decided to hide away from the world in her own little version of the homestead. But then she had lived a life of solitude away from others, away from responsibilities. Away from painful memor—

"Usually Alexandria is the one to watch over me at night," Agamemnon's words cut into her thoughts and Clarke blinked back the surprise as she realised she had been looking at him without realising.

"I—" she didn't quite know what to say, but from the twinkle in his eyes she knew him light of spirit and mind in that moment. "Sorry," she didn't really know what else to say.

"You are nicer," he said with a chuckle. "Alexandria normally forces me to drink or to eat."

"Both those things are good for you," Clarke challenged, an eyebrow raising just a little as she met Agamemnon's smile with her own.

"Yes, perhaps they are," Agamemnon fell silent for a long moment and Clarke could see him looking at her with a curiosity she had once been so very well accustomed to by those who recognised her as Wanheda, by those who judged her for actions she couldn't take back or for actions they assumed she would take. But for some reason the way Agamemnon looked at her didn't make her want to recoil. Not quite, at least.

"You worry yourself too much, Clarke," he said after a moment.

"I do?" she didn't know what else to say. "How can you tell?" her voice was light, if only because she could tell Agamemnon meant to jest, "is it the greying hair?" she let her fingers card through a braid, "the wrinkles, maybe?"

Agamemnon smiled at her, the corners of his eyes creased mightily and for a moment the beast of a scar down the side of his face all but vanished in the humour. But that lightness faded as it always seemed to do.

"No," he shook his head slowly. "It is your eyes, Clarke."

That gave her pause, made her think, made her head tilt to the side for a moment as she let herself wonder what he meant, what he wished to say.

"Yeah," and she shrugged a shoulder. "I've done a lot of things I wish I could un-see." it was an answer she had given so many times it almost came out robotic.

Agamemnon remained silent for a long moment then. She knew him thinking, considering, studying her in some way. But she didn't mind. Not really. Once upon a time she would have felt threatened, she would have wanted to shy away from such a moment. But she thought age and loss had a way of tempering her old fears.

Agamemnon coughed only once, he winced and Clarke watched him ever so quietly for the signs of pain lest she need to try and do something to alleviate his discomfort.

"Have you ever thought of having children?" Agamemnon said.

That surprised her. She had anticipated so many questions, she had answers to a lot of them. But she didn't think she had been asked such a question for a very long time. Perhaps never.

Clarke could answer clinically, say she had been brought up knowing that ever person on the Ark needed to have a child lest their people die out. She could answer truthfully and say that of course she had thought about it, just as she had so many times wondered what she would have for dinner, for breakfast, whether she would wear furs or thick cotton, if she would give River an extra apple slice or not. But she had never considered it. Not honestly.

"Not really, no," she said with a shrug. "I guess I never really had the time when I was younger," and she shrugged, "there were wars, trying to survive, trying not to die," she looked away for a moment, if only because she didn't know if she liked the way Agamemnon seemed to understand her words more than she did herself. "And then I lived alone," and she gestured outwards as if that was explanation enough. "When no one's around it's hard to begin having kids."

"It is never too late, my child," Agamemnon said after a moment.

Again he paused, and again Clarke thought him thinking of how best to say his thoughts.

"I have known Alexandria almost as long as she has known herself," he said, the admission enough to make Clarke's attention snap into focus.

It wasn't that Clarke hadn't spoken about Alexandria with either Eamon or Agamemnon since she had arrived, of course they had. But it had always been surface level, both parties unsure of how to broach what was quite clearly an unspoken history between both women that only Clarke was privy to.

This time it felt different. This time it was different.

"Do you know how old Alexandria was when she took the flame?" Agamemnon asked, and as Clarke looked him in the eye she found him studying her.

"No," Clarke said. "Not really," she hadn't really given that question much thought. All she had known was that Lexa had been young to take the flame. Just as she had been too young to lose it.

"She took the flame when she was twelve," Agamemnon said. "Most who take the flame do so at that age. Some younger, some older."

"Yeah," Clarke didn't know what else to say. She wouldn't add that she had once thought it barbaric, obscene — she still did. But she had long since grown accustomed to the way the world was now.

"When Alexandria arrived here," Agamemnon said. "She had no memory after taking the flame. She had no memory of ever having served as Commander. Just as I had no recollection. Just as Eamon had no recollection."

Again Clarke didn't really know what to say.

"Alexandria was as much a child when she arrived here, as she was as much a child when she took the flame," he said, this time his voice more quiet. "She was fearful. Afraid, unsure of what had happened," he paused as if to think over what he was going to say next. "It is strange to hear stories of the Commander who had united all twelve clans, who had helped to end the Mountain's reign only to then meet a child, someone who can not live up to expectations, someone who has no knowledge of what she has done. Of who she had become."

Clarke blinked back something too close to tears in her eyes as she continued to meet Agamemnon's gaze.

"I think that is why she chose to go by Alexandria," he said finally. "To divorce who she had become from who she had been. I do not blame her."

Clarke had thought something like that must have been the reason. But she had never asked Alexandria, she didn't think she had deserved to know. Not when they had hardly reconnected at all. Not when she, herself, had been too afraid of overstepping, of intruding, of scaring away someone she only wished to hold in her arms once more.

Again Agamemnon was quiet, and again Clarke let the silence linger between them as she considered his words.

"It is strange," Agamemnon said. "Commander's are never given the luxury of having children of their own. Not because it is forbidden, not exactly," he paused. "But only because they never have the time, how could they when they fight war after war with no reprieve?"

Clarke smiled slightly, if only because she thought that reason so very similar to hers. Funny, that.

"When Eamon arrived here," Agamemnon said. "I cared for him. I knew how confronting it must have been. I knew how confused, how alone. How fearful it was to wake not knowing what had happened, not knowing who you were, not understand where you were," he smiled again, but this time it seemed a little sad. "I began to think of Eamon as a son, of sort," Agamemnon said. "I guided him as a father would guide a child. I helped answer questions he had when he asked — those that I could answer," he looked away as if to recall years gone by.

"And you did the same for Alexandria," Clarke said, and it came out as much a statement as it did a question and a guess.

"Yes," Agamemnon answered. "Just as I came to think of Eamon as a son to me, so too did Alexandria seem to take a place in my heart as a daughter. This time Agamemnon smiled and Clarke knew he thought of younger days. "It is funny," he said. "I never expected to live to this age. Not when I was natblida. No natblida ever would expect to live as long as I have. I never expected to have any children of my own, or to even have someone who I thought of as a child of my own."

"Why are you telling me this?" Clarke asked, her voice quiet, small, perhaps because she didn't want to know the answer, perhaps because she didn't think she could handle it.

Agamemnon turned to look at her fully, and this time his eyes seemed older than they had moments ago. Gone was the light of youth, gone was the carefree mirth that had once existed and in its place seemed tiredness, seemed age, weariness and a long since accepted understanding of the way things were and would always be.

"I accepted long ago that I would not be here forever, Clarke, and it seems my time is soon approaching," Agamemnon said, and as if to accentuate his point he coughed, and this time it seemed cruel, wicked, painful and made him appear so much more frail than before. "I—"

"Hey," Clarke reached out and steadied him.

"I am happy knowing someone will be here with Alexandria who cares for her as much as I do," Agamemnon continued with a sad smile. "I am not afraid of death, Clarke," he said as he let him hand clasp over hers where it lay on his shoulder. "That is something, I think, all Commanders are good at accepting."

"Agamemnon," Clarke whispered, and she looked around as if she could will Eamon or Alexandria into existence, if only because she didn't quite know what to say.

"But I was afraid for Alexandria," and his voice grew weary.

"And not for Eamon?" Clarke said in the hopes of lightening the mood, in the hopes of bringing jest into such a bleak conversation.

"Eamon is strong," Agamemnon said with a gentle chuckle as if he knew her intentions more clearly than she did. "He has had far longer than Alexandria to learn what has become of him and what part he plays in the world we live," Agamemnon paused. "But I Alexandria has not. Not yet."

"You'll be there to help her," Clarke challenged.

But Agamemnon shook his head slowly, the tiredness now having come to rest upon his shoulders and push him deeper into the bed he lay atop.

"I will not be here forever," he said. "I am happy someone will be with Alexandria who cares for her as much as I do," he echoed from before, his voice quiet, calm in the darkening of the night. "I am happy she will not be alone," he paused and smiled again as his gaze held hers. "And I know you will take care of her after my passing, Clarke."

Alexandria stood outside Agamemnon's door. She hadn't meant to intrude, she hadn't meant to eavesdrop. Truthfully she hadn't done either of those two things, if only because she hadn't really heard what had been said. Agamemnon's voice had been muffled, had been quiet and strained. She had only heard a whispered word or two. But it had been enough.

She waited until she was sure the conversation had died down and then she waited longer. She didn't know why. Maybe to give herself time to turn away, maybe to give herself time to think of an excuse should they realise she had been outside. Maybe to hide away from whatever tugged at her mind.

But then she found herself knocking ever so quietly.

"Agamemnon?" she called out, her voice hardly breaking the silence as she waited for a response.

The door opened to reveal Clarke standing before her, a gentle crease upon her forehead that seemed ever present. She found she liked its presence.

"I am not intruding?" Alexandria asked as she looked passed Clarke and at Agamemnon to find him already asleep, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath he took.

"No," Clarke as she shook her head and stepped aside as if to invite her in. "I can leave?"

"No," Alexandria said. "I do not wish to interrupt his sleep," she would have time enough to speak with Agamemnon, she was sure many more times despite what she had heard from him.

And so Alexandria smiled awkwardly at Clarke as she stepped out of Agamemnon's room and closed the door behind her. When Clarke turned to face her Alexandria realised they hadn't ever been that close before. It wasn't even that they had been far from each other when they had spoken. But something felt different now. Alexandria knew why, though. She knew why and she didn't quite know if she wanted to turn from it or if she wanted to steer into it and embrace it with as much bravery as she could muster.

"I—"

"How—"

They both paused, and Alexandria watched as Clarke bit her lip and looked away as if she were too afraid to meet her eyes.

Alexandria took in a steadying breath, she let Eamon's conversation filter into the forefront of her mind and she let herself consider just for a moment if she could live with the answer before she spoke.

There was no going back.

"Did you kill me, Clarke?"