The morning wasn't as hot as it had been weeks before. Despite that the sun's heat made Clarke sweat, it made her shield her eyes from the brightness of the day and she, for a foolish moment, wondered what it would be like to live in Azgeda surrounded by their great frozen plains.

The bubbling river that flowed past her, whose water her toes were dipped into, was a calming and cool companion to the heat of the day. Her ever present companion River lay at the water's edge, the horse happy to rest on the pebbles rounded by years of erosion. Even Brutus lay close by, the mighty dog more than content to rest with half a leg submerged in the water. Clarke hadn't noticed it at first but over time she realised River didn't seem to mind Brutus, his company, his at times too boisterous antics or even his bark. Clarke had given up trying to understand River, she had given up trying to get her to play nice with the horses of any she came across in her infrequent travels. But she was happy River had found a companion, if only through tolerance, rather than shared enjoyment.

Perhaps what had tempered River's lack of discipline was the fact that she had been given direct access to the apples she so very desired. It hadn't taken Clarke long to put two and two together. Athena had been the one to introduce her to the particular kind of apple she had fed River, and she had been just that little extra vague whenever she needed to explain just where those apples came from. It was a harmless secret that Clarke had never given much thought. And yet there had been more to it than she could have ever realised.

And so Clarke sighed, she rolled her shoulders and she stretched her toes just enough that she felt a pop, a crack, something that told her that her body was beginning to show the signs of wear and tear after more than a decade on the ground.

"Have you ever wondered where the apples we pick go?" Clarke asked as she looked to her right at Alexandria.

The question seemed to surprise her for Clarke watched as Alexandria's head tilted to the side and her face scrunched up just enough that it wrinkled the corners of her eyes as the shallowest of dimples graced her cheeks.

"No," it was simple, perhaps deceptively so.

"Really?" Clarke didn't entirely mean to sound so surprised at Alexandria's answer.

Alexandria remained quiet for a moment and Clarke continued to watch as she looked out across the river, the fishing line held between her fingers happy to dance with the gentle current of the river.

"Not entirely," Alexandria said eventually, her attention turning away from the fishing line to meet Clarke's gaze. "Perhaps when I was younger," and she shrugged, the motion seemingly unthought.

Clarke smiled, the gesture a small twitch of her lips as she tilted her head towards River and Brutus.

"River likes them a lot," Clarke said. "I've been giving them to her as treats for as long as she's been with me."

Alexandria looked over at River for a moment before turning back to her and Clarke couldn't help but to let the smile spread a little more firmly across her lips as she saw pride in Alexandria's eyes.

"They are the best apples," Alexandria said, and though her tone was light Clarke could tell Alexandria truly believed it.

"Yeah, they are," Clarke said as she let the silence linger between them both as Alexandria nodded once before looking back out over the river.

In the days since they had shared what seemed like such a pivotal conversation Clarke had taken the time to force herself not to jump to the conclusions she had been jumping to when she looked at Alexandria, she had forced herself not to think of things Lexa would do, things she would say. But it was hard. Perhaps it would always be hard. And yet it had become easier, too. Of course there were things that would always be a reminder of the past, from Alexandria's face, her voice, the colour of her hair and the memories. And yet there were so many differences, ones she had seen immediately, ones she had come to know as the days went by. Maybe the reminders of who Alexandria had once been would always be there, but Clarke thought with time that they would lessen, would become an odd acquaintance rather than the longings for someone better known.

"Clarke?"

Clarke blinked in surprise as she found Alexandria looking at her cautiously, her eyes squinted just a little in the sunlight.

"I—" Clarke stopped, perhaps to make an excuse, perhaps to lie about what she was thinking about. But Alexandria deserved better. "I was just thinking about the past," it was the truth, nothing too explicit as to push Alexandria into a corner she couldn't escape from, nothing she couldn't lean into if she so desired.

Alexandria nodded an understanding before falling silent for a moment, her eyes looking away as she seemed to think and to ponder her thoughts.

And then, "tell me about her."

It was simple, quiet, something Clarke didn't think she had heard correctly. Clarke remained quiet for a breath or two, long enough that more thoughts moved through her mind than she thought she was able to truly comprehend. There were warning signs, ones that told her to tread lightly lest she break whatever tentative connection she had made with Alexandria in the last few days. And yet Clarke found herself clinging onto the words Alexandria had said - Tell me about her. Not me, not my past. But her. Alexandria spoke of Lexa like she was someone unknown to her. As Clarke considered her words, as she considered what Alexandria said, she found herself realising she hadn't quite ever thought of things in such a light, not in such a blunt way.

And yet, despite the words Alexandria spoke, she found herself not hurting as she thought she would, she found herself not feeling the tempered guilt and regret that she had learnt to live with over the years.

And so Clarke smiled something between sadness and happiness - perhaps she had been too hard on herself to expect things of the present that were better left in the past.

"I was just thinking of one of the last times Lexa and I shared together that was really peaceful," she made sure not to sound too cautious, too uncertain. She didn't think Alexandria needed her to tread too lightly, not when she spoke of Lexa without any expectations that Alexandria needed to know who the woman had once been.

"Were there many moments you could call peaceful?" Alexandria asked as she briefly turned her attention to the fishing line held in her hands.

"Perhaps," and Clarke found herself looking out over the river, perhaps because she found it easier not to look at Alexandria, at a face she remembered more clearly with each passing second. Perhaps because it was simply easier to talk of those memories as if Alexandria wasn't Lexa if she didn't look at the woman's face, her eyes, her smile, the barest curve of her nose. "There were a lot," she shrugged. "Just as there were a lot of times full of violence and fear and anger."

Clarke saw Alexandria nod from the corner of her eye.

"I am not surprised," Alexandria said.

"We were retuning back to Arkadia," Clarke said and she remembered the anxiety she had felt as she had watched Lexa and Roan fight to the death, she remembered the uncertainty she had felt when Lexa had slain Nia. She remembered so many things as if they had happened mere moments ago. In time she thought she'd explain more to Alexandria — if she asked.

"Why?" Alexandria's voice was quiet.

"To bring an offer of peace," Clarke continued. "The Mountain was gone. We thought Azgeda had been dealt with. We thought our people could finally live in peace — it was something Lexa had fought to achieve for as long as I had known her."

"Yes," it was simple, perhaps Alexandria didn't know what else to say, perhaps it was because she knew enough to put the pieces together about what Lexa's legacy had become. Alexandria cleared her throat then, the sound uncertain, perhaps unconscious even. But Clarke remained quiet, herself, for she could sense Alexandria wanted to say more, wanted to put word to the thoughts that seemed to be raging in her mind. "For as long as I have lived here," Alexandria said eventually. "I have wondered what Lexa's legacy was," she shrugged her shoulder, the sleeveless shirt she wore making her seem so very different to the regality that had once been Lexa. "Of course I knew the lands had turned peaceful, of course I knew there was no Mountain, that war within the coalition had subsided," she trailed off and Clarke wondered what Alexandria thought, she wondered what she hoped, dreamt, imagined. "It is nice knowing that the things she fought so strongly for have lasted as long as they have."

It was simple, a nice sentiment that didn't seem to harbour regret, anger, guilt or turmoil in the words spoken. But as Clarke turned to look at Alexandria she could see those things just barely within her eyes. Perhaps those emotions weren't strong enough to consume Alexandria, perhaps she had learnt to control them years ago, but still, they were there, ever present, perhaps they always would be.

Again, as Clarke remained quiet, as she took the time to let thoughts settle in her mind she remembered words that had been spoken between her and Lexa, of hoping the peace would last, of owing nothing to anyone but themselves.

The next breath Clarke took was broken by a slight shudder, her brows furrowed and she found herself feeling the emotions just a little more strongly than she had felt for quite some time.

"Ever since I came to the ground," Clarke began quietly, "I fought for my people, I fought to make sure they would live another day," she smiled a wry smile as she met Alexandria's eyes. "After the fall of the Mountain, after Azgeda, and after a few other things," she shrugged. "I left everything behind," and she sighed. "Made a little log cabin for myself in the depths of Trikru territory."

"I do not blame you," Alexandria said equally as quietly. "The mighty Wanheda deserves some rest, does she not?"

That statement made Clarke's eyes widen a fraction, in part because she had never expected Alexandria to say something like that, in part because she had never expected Alexandria to be so open as to jest about things that seemed so awkward between them. But Clarke smiled a little more openly as Alexandria's eyebrow raised as if to challenge, as if to dare her to make more of the open hand she had just offered.

"I guess so," and Clarke leant sideways just enough that her shoulder nudged Alexandria's.

Clarke had cherished every moment she had shared with Lexa and the ones she cherished the most were the few times Lexa had dared to let her guard down, had seemed less burdened than she was. And though she knew Alexandria was no longer Lexa, though she knew the woman she had loved was almost all but gone, Clarke couldn't help but to feel a lingering love and pain for a woman she wished she could hold onto once more.

But even then, even with all those thoughts, as she looked Alexandria in the eyes, as she let conversation flow just as quietly, just as easily between them both, she realised she enjoyed Alexandria's company — and maybe with that company was included all the hurt and the pain of the past, just as was included the new memories, the new moments shared between them that she hoped would grow into something more. And even if it didn't, even if all they ever became was friends, she would hold onto that for as long as she lived.

Clarke hoped their someday would be soon.

One week later

Alexandria sat in the small chair beside Agamemnon's bed. In her hands was that same old book she had read hundreds of times, its pages crinkled, its corners frayed. The sounds of birds in the distance chirping carried on the wind and the sun sat ever present in a blue sky.

Ever since she had had that one pivotal conversation with Clarke a weight had seemingly been lifted off her shoulders. Before she hadn't understood what she had needed to do, but when those words had come to her it had seemed obvious, it had seemed so simple that she felt herself a fool.

Since then they had shared in company perhaps a little more than before, and each one of the times it had felt less awkward, less tinted with something she couldn't quite grasp. But still, she felt like she needed time to process everything, from small little bits of information Clarke spoke about, to the new thing that existed between them both. But it wasn't bad, wasn't unpleasant, wasn't something she was afraid to face. Not exactly, at least—

The sound of a cough broke her train of thought and she looked up from the pages in front of her to find Agamemnon looking at her expectantly, one eye a little bloodshot from whatever strain his recent coughing had put him in.

Alexandria began to rise from her chair, a hand already reaching for the handkerchief folded on the bedside table. But Agamemnon shook his head as he reached out and took hold of it. She remained half standing for a moment longer to make sure he was ok before she settled back into the chair, book forgotten in her lap and she chewed on her lip for the briefest of moments.

"You worry too much, Alexandria," Agamemnon said quietly, his voice slightly hoarse.

"You make me worry," she challenged though she found herself relaxing just a little more at his words.

Agamemnon chuckled as he sat up a little more comfortably in his bed before he folded his hands in his lap and looked at her expectantly.

"Yes?" she asked, head cocked to the side and eyebrow raised.

"You have been spending more time with Clarke," Agamemnon said, and though he didn't actually say anything else, even though his tone was as even as could be expected, she knew what he meant.

"I have," she shrugged, the flush of heat she felt in her cheeks making her feel much like a youth being chastised for something done without worry of the consequences.

"She is a very kind woman," Agamemnon said, eyes still looking at her, but this time there was a slight shade of caution.

"She is," Alexandria answered, and it was true. She thought Clarke kind, strong willed, perhaps a little too stubborn t times. But she didn't blame her, anyone in her position could be forgiven for being stubborn.

"You are not very talkative," Agamemnon said, and this time his tone was a little more reproachful, perhaps tinged with the slightest of jests.

"Is it not rude to talk about someone who is not here?" Alexandria challenged, her lips quirking up just enough that she knew Agamemnon would know she didn't really take offence,

"I am not talking about Clarke," he countered. "However—" he coughed once. "I am talking about you. And you are here."

Alexandria sighed, she knew Agamemnon would push the topic, if not in the moment, but later, the next day, the next week, the next two weeks.

"We spoke," Alexandria ceded whatever ground she had managed to defend in the conversation. "A little more than a week ago."

"About?" Agamemnon asked, his eyes seemingly coming alight as he looked at her with a smile.

Alexandria looked away as she tried to order the thoughts she had into something more understandable. It wasn't entirely because she was embarrassed to about such things with Agamemnon, but she didn't know if she could put her thoughts into things that were understandable, that he'd understand, that anyone would.

But she startled when she felt Agamemnon's hand reach out and grasp hers, his fingers a little colder than they should be, the strength that had been in them years ago not as firm in the moment.

"You care for her," he said quietly, and he squeezed her hand as tightly as he could. "And she cares for you."

"How can I care for her?" Alexandria didn't say it to be rude, to be insulting, to deny what Agamemnon said. But she said it because she didn't even understand her own feelings.

It was true she thought Clarke kind, strong willed, striking in appearance. She was patient, kind when she looked over Agamemnon, patient with her. Understanding of the space she asked for. And yet Alexandria didn't think she deserved it, and that was exactly why she had asked Clarke to take her as she was, to come to know who Alexandria was and not the memory of Lexa. And yet she could still see the hints of memories in Clarke's eyes, in the way she looked at her.

"Do you want to care for Clarke?" Agamemnon asked.

It was a simple question, an innocent question, something Alexandria knew he asked only because he cared and wished the best for her. And yet it was too difficult for her to answer with a yes and a no.

"Part of me feels as though I am obligated to care for Clarke," she hadn't ever voiced that thought before, but as the words left her lips she knew them true. "Part of me wants to care for her," she continued as she squeezed his hand only as tightly as she dared.

"And yet you do not?" Agamemnon asked.

"Not quite," Alexandria looked him in the eyes. "I do not know what I feel," she said and she looked down at her stomach, to where the scar was that etched itself into her flesh and she remembered Clarke's words, her explanation of how the events transpired and she still found it so odd to know and yet not remember.

Agamemnon sighed and leant back into the pillows that propped him up, he remained quiet and Alexandria watched him for any signs of discomfort as he seemed to relax, think, ponder something for so long that she thought he had almost forgotten she was even there.

"It is ok to feel like you do not know everything," Agamemnon said eventually. "Even I do not know everything, even now."

Alexandria rolled her eyes as he chuckled. But she knew he spoke those words to alleviate whatever uncertainties had been beginning to spread within her mind. And it had worked. The smile she felt across her lips was enough to lighten the thoughts in her mind, it was enough to make her feel a little less burdened.

"I admire her," Alexandria said eventually. "I admire her strength, her poise, the fact that she is willing to give me space, to understand the position I find myself in."

It was true, too. Part of Alexandria had expected Clarke to return home, to leave, to turn her back on whatever hopes she had had. And yet Clarke had stayed, had accepted everything she had been asked to do and been told about. And maybe, as Alexandria continued to think, continued to ponder, she found herself understanding that Clarke cared not for a love that had once existed, not that that love wasn't important, but that Clarke cared for her, for whatever was left of her spirit that had once been Lexa. Clarke had done everything she had been asked to do, had been willing to simply spend time with her, to grow to know who she was now and not who she had been.

Perhaps all those things were reason enough for Alexandria to give Clarke a chance, in whatever metric that was.

"Clarke cares not for a memory," Agamemnon said into the silence. "Though the memories she has she cherishes," he paused in thought. "But she cares for you," and he put his hand above his heart. "For the spirit within," and he smiled. "You could have a different face, a different voice, a different body but I believe Clarke would care for you just as much as she does now."

"You believe so?" Alexandria asked.

Agamemnon nodded his head in agreement.

"I do," he said. "She would be happy to simply be your friend, Alexandria. To know you are happy, to know you are well, that you have lived a good life."

"Why do you believe so?" Alexandria didn't ask because she didn't believe him, she didn't ask because she wanted to hear platitudes of herself, of how kind she was supposed to be, of how strong willed her spirit was. But she asked simply because she still, after all this time, didn't think she deserved it — how could she believe herself worthy of such faith?

"We have served our people," Agamemnon said. "As nightbloods. As Commanders, warriors, guides, leaders. Some more poorly than others, some longer than the rest, some for only a year or two," he shrugged a thin shoulder. "I gave everything for our people," and he took in a steadying breath, "though I do not remember it. And yet the flame chose me, just as it chose my successor. And Eamon gave everything for our people until the flame chose his successor. And then it chose you, your spirit, who you are within," Agamemnon said. "Our debt to our people is paid tenfold," Agamemnon said. "I wish for you not to let your life be spent sorry for yourself child," this time Agamemnon's voice seemed a little firmer, a little more sure and certain. "I have lived a long, long life, Alexandria," Agamemnon continued. "Longer than most nightbloods ever live. I have regretted things for years, I have longed for things I wish I had done differently," he smiled at her with love and Alexandria couldn't help but to feel a tear begin to well in the corner of her eyes as she met his gaze. "You have given too much to our people for you to live your life alone—"

"—I," but Agamemnon shook his head and continued, ignoring her wish to speak.

"Take the opportunities to live your life to the fullest Alexandria, do not be afraid of what could happen when you can choose what will happen," Agamemnon paused as he reached for her hand, squeezed it tightly and brought it to his lips as he kissed her knuckles. "I will not be here forever," he said and Alexandria didn't like how truthful he seemed in the moment. "And I want you to be happy," and he smiled once more. "But most importantly? Lexa would want you to be happy."