Athena stood lonesome amongst the trees. Wind, ever gentle, ever quiet in the night, just barely whistled around her and for a moment or three she wondered what it must feel like to be a leaf caught in the breeze, free to drift, to wander, to be weightless to the world.
She sighed, took in another deep breath and turned her face up to the few stars she could see peeking through the canopy overhead. The trees that stretched out around her were moss covered, green and lichen in colour and depth as they clung to the bark upon which they had settled. Even the ground was covered in that very same depth of colour and though she knew it not the same place, though she knew the Pauna had long since died, she couldn't help but to recall a memory that was not her own.
She hadn't meant to stumble upon Alexandria who had settled at the forest's edge, she hadn't want or need to disturb her and so she had turned her back, had slipped from her presence before she was noticed. But she had lingered just long enough that she had seen Clarke, had seen her approach, had seen her cautiously stop in her own uncertainties before being offered a whispered word of greeting.
And Athena had been loathe to disrupt, to intrude on something she wished a little too mournfully for.
And so there Athena stood, lonesome in the dark, the trees her only companion, the leaves, the wind and the smallest of forest creatures the only souls brave enough to remind her of memories she wished would leave her be.
She sat on the ground, her back to a fallen tree, the moss beneath her soft and gentle in the dark of the night. Athena had all night to let her thoughts settle, coalesce into something more sure, more certain.
Not for the first time and not for the last time Athena let herself ask the question of why, of whether what she did was selfless or selfish. She thought the answer to that question would elude her for some time still.
In the quiet that had settled around her, Athena let her mind wander, her thoughts drift to things that weren't so pressing. She recalled years long since relegated to the past, she remembered a time when she had been a youth, wide eyed and eager, unaware of how her life would turn out. She wondered what that girl would think of the things she had done in the last decade. She wondered if that girl would be proud, appalled, something other, at the actions she had taken.
Athena had never wanted to be Commander, she had never wanted to take the flame, to have her blood be known to those that would take her away from her clan, from her village, from her family.
She let an old memory linger for a time, long enough that a bittersweet memory pulled at the corner of her lips.
But she shook her head and sighed.
The thoughts that threatened to take hold not so becoming of someone in her position. But the thoughts familiar, constant, ever present to all that had once walked the very same path she now walked.
She was unsure of how to proceed in the next few days. Of course she had made arrangements, she had explanations for everyone's presence, who they were and who they weren't. But still, she was nervous, apprehensive. There was a quiet voice in the recesses of her mind that spoke of danger, of things moving too fast, too quickly, that could spiral out of control faster than any could react to.
She thought she would always be afraid of ushering in any kind of change. She thought that fear had paralysed her for too long, too many years. Maybe Agamemnon's illness had been, in some way, a blessing, a message passed from one ageing Commander to one more uncertain of their place in the world, that change was needed, that now was the time to take the first step of many.
Or maybe Athena was simply selfish. Selfish for wanting Agamemnon to live a little longer, selfish for wanting someone who she saw as a mentor to continue to give her guidance when she needed it.
Athena felt a presence somewhere behind her then, and it was quiet, careful, cautious as it approached.
"Do you wish to talk?" Agamemnon's voice was quiet as he approached her, his presence comforting, warm.
Athena paused for a moment in thought as she considered his question.
"Please," she said, her gaze focused somewhere in the distance, some part of her unwilling to turn, to see whether it was man or spirit that had come to visit her lonesome self. "Sit," she let a hand lay on the moss covered ground next to where she sat.
And so Athena let herself wait, let herself ponder for the few moments it took for Agamemnon to find his place beside her.
"You seem troubled, Athena," Agamemnon said eventually.
She kept quiet for a moment as she considered what to say. And then, "I do not know if I know the words to say, to speak, that will give sense to my confusion, to my uncertainties," she said with a shrug. Perhaps she was overcomplicating her worries, over complicated her fears and her uncertainties until they existed within a vicious cycle, ever increasing, ever fragmenting.
"You overcomplicate things, Athena," Agamemnon said, his voice gentle beside her.
"I did not know you could read minds," her tone was light, in part jest, in part because she didn't know if she was ready to embrace the conversation she knew coming.
"I have grown to know you very well," Agamemnon answered with his own gentle lightness.
Athena paused in thought, maybe because she wanted to enjoy the quiet moment between them both for just a little while longer.
"I know what I must do," she said with a nod, to herself, a nod to the quiet of the night, a nod to the uncertainties she pushed away. "And yet I worry," she chewed on her lip and frowned.
"For?" Agamemnon asked.
"For our people," she answered. "For how some may react, how some may see my actions as something lesser."
"You will never be able to convince everyone," Agamemnon challenged. "Not when it comes to decisions that are grand, that will shape the future of our people for generations to come."
Athena didn't need to acknowledge what he said to know he knew she agreed with him. Maybe she just needed someone else to say it, perhaps it helped her carry the weight, lighten the load in some way.
Agamemnon took in a quiet breath and she felt him shift beside her as if he tried to get a little more comfortable, as if he tried to find a softer patch of moss upon which to rest.
"Do you wish to talk about Alexandria and Clarke?"
Clarke remained silent for quite some time as she let Alexandria's words settle within her mind. Flashes of memories came roaring back in a clarity she hadn't let herself envision for years. Colours and scenes, pains and tears and blood and loves all coalesced into memory and she took a moment to look away, to look out upon the forest that stretched out before her.
"I don't know where to start," she said after a moment and she looked back at Alexandria, she looked her in the eyes and made sure every emotion she felt could be seen within her gaze if Alexandria wished to look. "It's—"
She swallowed, her heart beating more strongly than it had in years.
Of course Clarke had spoken of things already, of how Alexandria had come to be wounded, of her betrayal at the Mountain, of Anya's death, and so many other small moments they had shared. But she thought them all so insufficient to answer the question Alexandria had asked her.
But maybe could tell Alexandria about when she had first realised she had feelings for her, she could tell Alexandria when they had first met, and she could tell her so many little things that had existed between them, but she didn't know where to start, how to start, how to navigate her past with a woman she had dreamt of for so many nights, that had at times filled her waking moments with regrets and loss and acceptances she thought she had let settle.
But Clarke smiled at a memory, she smiled at something that shouldn't have seemed to endearing.
And yet she thought it was.
"Do you remember how I spoke of the Pauna, of it attacking us?" Clarke began quietly. "You saved my life that day. Not that you didn't save my life many times over," she shrugged a shoulder as she enjoyed the way Alexandra's eyebrow lifted a fraction, the gesture so familiar, so full of memories.
Alexandria nodded her head and Clarke knew she remembered that conversation they had shared what seemed like lifetimes ago, when things were still timid between them both, when Clarke was still trying to come to terms with how Alexandria was still alive.
"We were trapped in a dungeon for a little while," Clarke continued. "That's when you first spoke of the spirit of the Commander, of how it chooses the next Commander," Clarke shook her head ruefully, the memories of how little she had understood more embarrassing than any other emotion. "How little I knew of the ground," she said with a quiet laugh. "I didn't understand," and she sighed, the sound quiet and warm to her own ears. "You were hurt, you should have been scared," Clarke continued. "Or maybe you just hid it better than me. But I was. I thought we were going to die," she wondered just what had happened to that particular Pauna. Perhaps it was still alive, perhaps it was old, tired, happy to live its own life of solitude deep in the forests.
"I think I would have been scared," Alexandria's voice was quiet as she spoke, her words soft, gentle as they settled in the space between them.
Clarke smiled something small, something intimate at that as she looked upon Alexandria a little more openly than she had done moments ago.
"I think that was the first time I realised there was more to you than just the Commander," and Clarke had never really let herself think too hard about those early days, those days where she had regrets, where she had wished she had realised her feelings earlier, when she had always assumed, however childishly, that there would always be more time. "Things had almost ways been strictly professional between us," she continued, we had never really shared in personal company until that point. But maybe that was the turning point. For both of us," she frowned as she recalled the destruction of Ton DC, she frowned as she recalled so many things that had soured their relationship. But there was happiness amongst the destruction, amongst the hurt.
"The Mountain," Alexandria began quietly and Clarke knew there was more coming, more to be said. "When I was a girl—" and she watched Alexandria frown. "I hardly remember a life before being taken to Polis to train," she said. "And yet I remember the Mountain, the stories my mother and my grandmother would tell me," there was a pause and Clarke's heart ached at the slightest hints of pain she could hear in Alexandria's voice. "I suspect my grandmother has long since passed," Alexandria turned her face briefly. "Perhaps even my mother, too."
Clarke didn't entirely know what to say. Part of her wondered if she could offer to ask Athena to let Alexandria visit her home village, perhaps even see her mother if she was still alive. But she knew that a request so vastly out of reach given the circumstances.
"I suppose you wonder why I go by Alexandria," her voice was quiet and firm as she turned back to her.
"I didn't want to pry," Clarke said, and she had wondered, but had assumed it a personal reason, something she wasn't to know.
"My grandmother used to make stewed apples," Alexandria's lips twitched up at the corners, a sadness and a love so open for Clarke to see. "That is what I remember most about her," and she took in a steadying breath. "When I woke at the homestead, when I realised what had happened I felt ashamed, I felt lost. Like I had failed in every measurable way," and she shook her head. "I had trained my entire youth to become Heda, to be the best, to be the smartest, the fastest, the strongest," she shook her head again. "And then I wake to find I am older, that everything I had achieved was stripped from me, my memories, my accomplishment, my pains and sufferings and every achievement I had strived to accomplish. All gone in an instant," she sneered something between disgust and self loathing. "I felt ashamed," she said quietly. "Like the flame had decided I was not deserving of it, like it had rejected me," and she swallowed the lump in her throat.
Clarke didn't dare interrupt through it all. Not when she saw the pain in Alexandria's eyes, not when she saw the hurt and sad acceptances upon her face.
"I did not think I deserved to use Lexa's name," Alexandria continued eventually. "Not when I thought I had failed her, that I had failed the flame and every single spirit that was passed down onto me."
Clarke didn't know what to say in answer. Perhaps saying nothing was all she could do in that moment.
"When I woke for the first time," Alexandria continued. "Eamon was there. Agamemnon was there. Even Brutus, as a pup, was there," she smiled at the memory and Clarke was so, so very happy that the pain that had been in Alexandria's eyes was slowly being replaced by something gentler, kinder, happier.
"Agamemnon had made me stewed apples for my first meal," she said. "It helped to calm me, to ground me, to chase away, even just for a moment, my pain. I do not know if he knew of my grandmother, I do not know if it was simply coincidence," she said with a shrug. "I will never ask," there was a sad smile upon her face. "But it reminded me of my grandmother."
Alexandria sighed, the exhale of breath seemingly taking with it the sad memories. She remained quiet for a moment longer and Clarke could see her thinking, could see her trying to put words to her thoughts.
"Alexandria was my grandmother's name," she continued. "And I wished to be reminded of the times before I felt a failure, the times before the uncertainties and the pains and the anger."
Alexandria turned to face Clarke completed, and this time Clarke saw an old memory looking back at her, someone she had connected with, someone she had wished to hold so tightly to her that they could have become one.
"Perhaps I am ready to face my past," Alexandria said. "Perhaps I am ready to move on from what I had once seen as a failure, for so many years I was unsure of my place in the world," she reached out so carefully as she closed her hand around Clarke's.
It was a simple gesture but Clarke squeezed her hand in turn so tightly in spirit, so gently in presence she thought it a paradox of past and present, hope and old memories long since faded.
"I do not think I would be here today, Clarke," Alexandria said. "Without Eamon. Without Agamemnon, both to steady me in my uncertainties, without Athena to guide me, even without Brutus and his ever loyal presence," she laughed quietly. "But most importantly, I do not think I would be here today. Without you, Clarke."