Her quarters seem untouched since last she stepped foot inside. Her bed remains neatly made, the furs that cover it a shining white in the sun's light. Even the things she had left about, small books, scrolls full of things she found bordering the tedious lay scattered where she left them. But things are different, too. And it doesn't surprise Clarke to find that her quarters are spotless, that someone must have gone through and cleaned and cared for it in her absence. The candles that she has scattered about have also been replaced, these ones new, fresh, ready to burn for hours as their scent filters through her quarters.
"I have had your quarters clean, Clarke," Lexa says quietly, the woman perhaps a little awkward as she stands beside her.
"I can tell," and Clarke picks up the sounds of Gustus and Torvun both taking their place by her door outside.
But Clarke ignores their presence as she has done in times like this, and she lets her pack fall to the ground with a quiet thud as she turns to face Lexa.
"How were you travels?" Lexa asks, the woman seemingly a little unsure of what to do, her hands held behind her back as she faces Clarke.
"Ok," Clarke shrugs, the corner of her lip turning up at the corners as she leans against the doorframe, the warmth of the rich wood enough to seep through her furs.
"And your hunts?" Lexa adds, "they were successful?"
"Yeah," and Clarke wonders how she will reveal her gift to Lexa.
"That is good, Clarke," Lexa says, and for some reason Clarke can't help but to laugh, to let herself forget her worries about the tech, of Teben and of whatever else must be happening.
"It is, Lexa," Clarke says, and she reaches out with her hand, her fingers beckoning as she wriggles them for Lexa to approach.
And it's not that Clarke is impatient, but it takes Lexa far too long to register just what Clarke wants for her to do, and so Clarke rolls her eyes, pushes off from the door frame and takes a quick step forward as her fingers close around Lexa's collar and pulls.
Lexa gasps out ever so quietly at the sudden motion, one hand quick to brace herself against Clarke's hip, her fingers warm as they splay out. But Clarke lets herself lean into the pressure, she lets herself press closer and she places the quickest of kisses upon Lexa, deep enough that she can savour, long enough that she can remember, but chaste enough that she hopes it leaves Lexa wanting.
"Clarke—" she can't help but to laugh at the way Lexa's words die upon her lips.
Clarke ignores it though, reaches up and quiets Lexa with a finger places upon her lips.
"I have something for you," Clarke begins, and she knows she isn't one for outward displays of affection, at least not so brazen as what she just did, but she can already feel her heart picking up, can already feel her mind telling her to not do it, that it is stupid, foolish, perhaps even childish.
But from the way Lexa swallows heavily, from the way her eyes take a little longer to focus, Clarke thinks it worth it.
And so she reaches down, takes Lexa by the hand, other spare snaring her pack from where it lies at her feet. Clarke pulls Lexa deeper into her quarters, past the small table where they have shared meal, and to the edge of her bed.
"Sit," Clarke says, and she smiles as she pushes Lexa down onto the bed's edge.
"Clarke?" and Lexa looks up at her, eyes curious, perhaps a little expectant and full of a mirth.
Clarke bites her lip just once, enough that she can consider once more. But she discards her worries and thumbs the leather strap of her pack as she lets herself take in the moment.
"I won't be long," Clarke says, and perhaps just for a moment, she lets her voice lower enough that Lexa should understand.
And so Clarke turns, takes the few quick steps to her washroom that is tucked away in the corner of her quarters. She is sure Lexa's gaze follows her every movement though, and she is sure she can feel Lexa's gaze as it drills into her back until the very last moment that her washroom door closes behind her and steals her from view.
Her washroom is large, not overbearingly so, but Clarke is sure it must be larger than most others who are allowed quarters within Polis tower. A brass washbasin sits in the centre supported by heavyset metal slats that keep it resting above a fireplace. A large polished mirror of metal stands against the wall, too, it surface not as smooth as the mirrors of the Ark, but smooth enough that Clarke knows care and skill went into its creation. But Clarke moves to the small table that sits beside the mirror, and she lets her pack rest on its surface.
It doesn't take her long to pull out the furs of the beast she had hunted, and as she does so she can't help but to marvel at how soft the fur is. She holds two towels in her hands, as for a moment she brings them both to her nose, the scents that were infused into them still strong and vibrant.
But Clarke's gaze moves to the other garments she has tucked away in her pack, and just for another moment she feels the slightest tugging in her stomach, as if her mind was cautioning her. But she discards those worries yet again, if only because she didn't go through the effort of having them created only to chicken out at the finish line. And so Clarke takes in a deep breath as she sets aside the towels and reaches for the first set of the clothing.
It doesn't take Clarke long to undress, her travel clothes just a little dusty to the days of constant moving. She runs a wash cloth over herself quickly, the water from a bucket unsurprisingly warm. She even makes sure to dab a slight spice over herself, its scents enough to lessen her worries.
Clarke turns to face her mirror fully then. Dimmed sunlight streams in from a window recessed high in the wall, and as Clarke eyes herself, she can't help but to notice just how pale much of her body is save for her hands and half her forearms where she rolls her furs up to, and her face and neck, and the slight v that dips between her collar bones from where she opens her collar.
And though Clarke thinks of herself as someone not obsessed with her form, not obsessed with needing to appear a certain way, she can't help but to compare the body she now carries with that of the girl who had first come to the ground, who had been always slightly too thin from a constant lack of nutrients, who had never felt the sun's light upon her own flesh. But now, what some would consider weak, appears strong, full, the dips and valleys of her body tell a tale of a life of hardship, of constant physical exertion, of training day after day, whose muscles have hardened to the weather, whose flesh calls pain a companion, and shoe skin knows suffering as a friend.
But perhaps for only a fraction of a second, Clarke can't help but to think that she looks good, that she looks healthy. That she feels strong.
Clarke's gaze turns to her scars, and she lets herself take in the slashes down both her cheeks, that start at the corners of her eyes just below her temples and dip down to the corners of her lips, she lets herself trace the prominent V that etches itself across her forehead, its presence a shining beacon of exactly which clan she belongs to. Even the braids that pull her hair back at the temples, mark her as different to most, if only because they are hers. But all those things that she sees, all those little marks upon her body tell a story unread by some and fabled to many.
And so Clarke reaches for her pack, and pulls the first set of scant clothing free, and she can't help but to bite her lip as she pulls the fur clothing up her legs, and as she settles it, perhaps for a moment, Clarke feels yet another spike of embarrassment. But, she discards that as easily as she has discarded all those other worries, and she reaches for the last piece of clothing, it's cut and shape enough to support, hardly enough to cover.
Before long Clarke finds herself with a hand reaching for the door to her washroom as the cool air around her prickles her exposed skin. She lets herself pause for a moment as her ears pick up the slight sound of Lexa's foot that she thinks must be tapping against the floor, the sound enough for Clarke to know Lexa to be curious, perhaps even intrigued as to what she will soon find.
Clarke takes a moment to look over her shoulder and to the towels that still lie folded upon the small table by the mirror, and she can't help but to cast her gaze over her reflection in the mirror, and for a moment she lets herself appreciate the way the white of the fur she furs highlights her figure in the light. But she turns back to the door, shakes her thoughts free and she pushes it open.
Clarke steps from her washroom, she lets the thud of the door closing behind her draw Lexa's attention, and Clarke can't help but to smirk all too satisfactorily at what she sees.
Lexa's head turns from where she looks out a window. Lexa does a double take, her head seemingly stunned as it looks to Clarke only to look away as if she has seen something she isn't supposed to see. Even Lexa's foot stops tapping mid motion, the toe of her boot midway in the air. But Lexa swallows as Clarke takes a step forward, her motions feline, careful and purposeful. Lexa's gaze widens then, her lips part and Clarke feels a barely-there flush creep across her flesh as Lexa's eyes wander, as they begin to move down to her chest before moving a level lower.
"Cla—" but Lexa can't seem to find the words to say for her voice seems dry, seems broken and hoarse, and Clarke lets herself marvel in the reaction as Lexa's eyes snap back to her face as if in self reprimand for having looked where she should not have looked.
"It's ok," Clarke says, her voice more husk and whispered breath than spoken word. "You can look," and Clarke stops before Lexa, and she lets herself look down at the woman, and she knows now that the sun's light streams in from behind her, that it must cast her in a golden glow, that it must send deep shadows across chest, across the dips of her body.
"I—" but yet again Clarke thinks Lexa doesn't quite know how to react.
Clarke smiles, for she thinks Lexa's inability to form words must be a compliment. And so she reaches forward, takes Lexa's face in her hands and bends down and places the slowest of kisses upon her lips before breaking it with a more than purposeful moan.
"Happy anniversary."
The dungeons of Polis are almost cute, Entani thinks, as she continues to walk past cell after cell. And she thinks the dungeons cute because there is no constant drip of melting ice water to act as a constant torment. There is no freezing chill that bites deep into her body, and there is even no ice underfoot that freeze parts of the stone in unpredictable ways making it all the harder to walk, especially for any prisoner with shackled ankle.
Prisoners, some standing, others pacing back and forth, some trying to pass the time by chasing sleep, fill perhaps almost half the cells she passes. But even the way the prisoners are treated seems kinder than in Azgeda for all don't seem to be shackled to the wall with hardly space to move unlike Azgeda prisons. But still, she thinks she wouldn't want to be a prisoner in Polis either, if only because all clans are harsh in their own ways, Azgeda simply happens to treat their own prisoners just that little bit worse.
"Here," the man says, and Entani eyes the cell that man holds open, its interior dark, cold, floor littered with hay she is sure was rejected by the horses.
"In," Ontari snaps as she pushes Teben forward, and Entani can't help but to wince just a little as Ontari seems not to care for the woman's injured arm.
But Teben must take it in her stride for she manages to catch herself before falling despite the way her hands remain tied together.
"I will check her wound," Entani says as she looks over her shoulder and at the Polis guard who has accompanied them down the dungeons.
"She deserves none of your treatment," Ontari says as she begins to move for the door.
But Entani ignores Ontari's words and she steps closer to Teben who has already found a somewhat awkward place to sit on the hay covered stone.
"Light," Entani says to no one in particular, but she senses Ontari turn back to her, a torch surely in her hands for flame lights the cell more fully. "You are lucky," Entani continues as she takes a hold of Teben's wrist, the woman wincing yet again to any movement of her wounded limb.
"I know," Teben says, and her voice seems tired, seems resigned now that she has arrived at a seemingly more permanent place of imprisonment.
Entani begins to unbind the wound, the wrap just slightly dirtied from blood that has dried, but as she pulls the last of it away Entani finds that the wound seems to be healing as well as can be expected, the edges just a little inflamed and red, but no more than she would have hoped for.
"Move your fingers," Entani says, and she eyes the way Teben's face twitches with the pain of doing so, but Entani finds herself satisfied that Teben's fingers move with little resistance. "You are lucky Torvun did not strike more viciously," Entani says, and she knows Teben must know Torvun could have maimed her if he desired, as does she know Teben must realise Torvun struck as cleanly as he could for the wound is too simple, too easy for it to be anything less.
"I know," Teben says as she winces at the slight prod Entani does as she checks the surrounding tissue with a careful finger.
Entani wonders why Teben has a dislike for tech though, and it isn't that she can't understand why Teben would have a dislike for it, but perhaps she can't quite piece together why now, after tech has been used to heal, to help and to aid, that Teben and whoever else shares her views, are trying to do whatever it is they try to do.
"Tech is not all bad," Entani says, and she meets Teben's gaze with enough intensity that the other woman breaks eye contact.
"Yes," Teben says as she seems to find a spot on the wall to stare at. "It is."
"Why?" Entani asks, and perhaps morbid curiosity is what gets the better of her, perhaps simply wanting to know why Teben tried to kill her and her friends is enough for her to humour Teben, to be kind to her, if only to pry anything from the woman.
"You must ask me why I think tech is bad?" Teben says, and perhaps this time her voice comes out with just a hint of derision, enough that Entani knows she has struck a cord, not enough for her to think the conversation soon to end.
"Reapers," Entani shrugs. "Mountain Men," and she pauses for a moment to steal herself to what she is about to say. "Kwin Nia—"
Teben snorts, "that is explanation enough," and Entani can't blame her.
"You have not answered my question," Entani says instead of falling into argument, and she knows she senses Ontari's glare, Ontari's annoyance at Teben's words.
But Entani thinks she has heard enough, or perhaps has humoured Teben enough, and so, satisfied with the wound's state, Entani stands, eyes Teben for just a moment longer before turning to the door. But as she reaches it, and as Ontari steps aside for her to pass through, she hears Ontari speak out with a kindness that is all too feigned.
"You are lucky," Ontari says. "That you have information we need. We are much less kind to those who are useless to us."
The walk back through the dungeons passes quickly, the Polis guard who accompanies them seemingly content to follow. But Entani sighs as they come to the exit, the sun's light enough to make her squint for a moment and blink through the brightness. Ontari stifles a yawn beside her, the woman clearly eager for something more to do.
"What do you think?" Entani asks, and she watches as Ontari squints and considers her question for a moment before answering.
"I do not know," Ontari says. "Perhaps Teben was taken for a fool and does not truly believe in what she does," Ontari pauses, looks around and to the warriors and city people who move about them. "I do not know if she knows why she is supposed to hate tech, or if she simply thinks she must because someone else told her."
"You can not blame anyone for hating tech," Entani counters as she waves a farewell and a thanks over her shoulder and to the Polis guard who finds a place outside with others who must be on duty guarding the dungeons.
"No," Ontari says heavily, and Entani knows she thinks of the times both fo them have needed the aid of Skaikru and their tech. "I can not blame her for disliking tech, but she is a fool to think it can not help us now."
"Yes," Entani nods. "She is a fool."
Ilian had been hard pressed not to do a double take, not to gape and curse aloud as his gaze had fallen on Teben being escorted by two Azgeda and a Polis guard. And he was thankful that Teben hadn't seen him in the streets, too, for he was sure she would have been too obvious in trying to ignore him, especially by the way one of the Azgeda warriors had been glaring at her fiercely.
He continues moving through the streets, his mind trying to sift through the things he now knows. And he thinks it can't be a coincidence that Wanheda has returned and that Teben is now seemingly a prisoner within the dungeons under guard by Azgeda warriors. And he thinks it not quite a setback, not quite as ruinous as others might think, but he knows he must do something, if only because things are too far gone now to risk it all on someone who shouldn't even be in Polis, who should be safely squirrelled away near Arkadia and the Mountain with the others.
And yet, as Ilian begins to consider what Teben's capture must mean, he thinks it likely, perhaps even certain that things have gone wrong, that something or someone has made a mistake.
He knows he hasn't come this far, hasn't moved through the shadows and lied and threatened and almost been caught countless times to react too quickly, and without little thought or planning. But for now, Ilian settles for simply alerting the others of what has happened, if only because he knows they must be cautious, at least until he can deal with the problem that is Teben.
Clarke always marvels at the way Lexa seems to shift from hardened warrior to someone who seems far too young to have lived with such weight upon her shoulders. But as Clarke lets her gaze take in the way her chest rises ever so slowly with each breath, and the way her hair seems to fuzz at the nape of her neck, Clarke can be forgiven for thinking of Lexa as anything other than a young woman who has perhaps only just begun to find her place in the world.
Clarke can't even help but to wonder exactly how old Lexa is, whether they share the same month, whether they even share the same year. There's some uncertain part of Clarke that thinks Lexa is older than her, too. For just a moment Clarke finds herself trying to remember how old even she is, and it takes her longer than she would like to admit that she forgets what year it should be, what month it should even be.
But perhaps she doesn't mind, if only because, despite the trials she seems to always face, she enjoys what her life has become.
"You think too loudly," Lexa says, and Clarke's gaze settles on her face to find that her eyes are still closed, but that she has rolled onto her side to face her, a hand tucked under her head as her hair falls across a sleep cheek.
"What makes you think I'm thinking at all?" Clarke challenges, her voice light as she props herself up on her hand.
"I can sense your gaze on me," Lexa says simply.
"Is that so?"
"Yes, Clarke."
Clarke laughs, albeit lightly and she finds herself happy to stare at Lexa's face, but she sees Lexa's eyes open with a laziness that seems at odds with the scars she can see littered across what little exposed flesh visible to her.
"You know, Lexa" she says. "If you're going to be so cocky, maybe I won't wear these anymore," and she holds up the fur bralette she had worn.
"That would be a shame," Lexa says far too cooly.
She reaches out then, pokes Lexa lightly on the upper chest and she can't help but to giggle just a bit as Lexa's hand snakes out under the covers and runs across her ribs.
"It must have been a mighty battle you fought," Lexa says after a moment. "To fell such a beast," and Lexa lets her hand snake out from under the covers and run through the fur Clarke let lay on the bed between them.
"It was an interesting fight," Clarke says, and she thinks over just how close she came to drowning. "I ended up in water," she says, and she sees Lexa's eyebrow raise slightly, and she knows she can spy just the slightest sign of worry. "Your swimming lessons paid off," Clarke adds as she shuffles closer on her side.
"I am happy to hear that, Clarke," Lexa says.
"Me too," Clarke says, and she reaches out with her hand until she finds Lexa's, their fingers quick to intertwine under the covers of her bed.
But Clarke knows the lightness of the conversation has ended when Lexa looks over her shoulder and eyes the sunlight that streams in from outside.
"We have kept the ambassadors waiting for too long," Lexa says, her tone just slightly apologetic.
"I know," and Clarke can't help but to sigh, a reluctance to leave the bed and her quarters heavy on her mind.
"You have a prisoner," Lexa continues as she squeezes her hand just once before releasing it and sitting up, the furs happy to pool around her waist as she stretches.
"I do," Clarke says.
"Is she to do with Roan's suspicions?"
"Yes," and Clarke rises from her bed, stands in the cool, and she doesn't miss the way Lexa takes an unashamed look at her from the other side of the bed. "She attacked us."
Lexa's eyes narrow at that, the anger Clarke sees in her eyes a stark contrast to just how naked the woman is. But Lexa shakes her darkening thoughts as she stands and begins to dress herself, hands quick and sure in motion.
"I discovered things, too," Lexa says. "Tech is missing in our store room," and Clarke sighs, if only because she anticipates her troubles to only increase with her return to Polis. "We discovered people in the forest," Lexa adds. "They were toying with tech, trying to use it."
"But?"
"They did not know how to do so safely," Lexa says. "It exploded and killed them," and Clarke can't help but to scowl at that, if only because she knows tech falling into the wrong hands, especially those that don't know how to use it properly, could be dangerous. "I believe someone escaped, but was injured," she adds.
"Do you know who?"
"No," Lexa says as she finishes wrapping her chest, a knife quick to be slid into place between the folds of her chest binding. "I have handmaidens investigating as we speak."
"That's good," and Clarke lets the weight of her furs settle upon her shoulders as she runs a hand over her hair, the motions of herself dressing second nature, unthought and unconscious after the years.
"Yes," Lexa says as she shrugs on her coat.
"You want to speak to my prisoner?" Clarke asks as she slips her knife back into place on her hip. "Maybe she'll talk when she's faced with the mighty Heda."
"Perhaps," Lexa says, and Clarke sees a little mirth in her eyes. "But I am sure Wanheda, Champion of Azgeda is much more frightening," Lexa finishes as she tucks the last of her hidden blades into place.
"Then I guess we should both ask her questions," Clarke says as she moves around her bed to stand in front of Lexa, and just for a moment she curses the fact that Lexa stands just a sight bit taller than her.
"That would be wise."