Rental House, Wembley, Polis - December 24th 2018 - 9:00 CET

The smell of dough frying in butter fills the kitchen as Clarke flips three more pancakes, nodding in approval at their fluffy golden surfaces. When the kettle whistles, she spins and pours the hot water into four mugs. Breakfast is almost ready… Clarke glances at the front door again, head cocking to listen for any movement from outside, for the sound of Bellamy returning home. But silence reigns and Clarke sighs, turning her attention back to the stove.

She had seen him for all of thirty seconds this morning. He was a chronically early riser yet when Clarke trailed downstairs right after eight, he had bolted up from the couch, hair mused, looking like he might have slept there. She had smiled cheerily, but he only frowned and announced he was going to pick Abby up from her hotel before breakfast. Clarke felt a slight twinge of annoyance and had to remind herself that it was just another day for him. He didn't realize she had been gone nearly the whole week.

The pitter-patter of small feet echoes from the stairs and Clarke glances up to see Madi bounding down them two at a time. The blonde smiles wide as she carries a heaping plate of pancakes to the kitchen table. The kid barrels across the floor and swings her small arms around the blonde's waist.

Madi looks up, squinting. "Is it really you?"

"It's really me," Clarke says with a chuckle.

The kid eyes her sharply, "What did you give me for my birthday last year?"

"Bellamy and I took you to see the Nutcracker and I made you a cake," Clarke states matter-of-factly. Madi's eyes drag past Clarke to rest on the golden flapjacks and the sight of them seems to quell any last doubts. But then she pulls back from Clarke with a sigh and sits heavily.

"It really is you."

Clarke scoffs, "Try not to sound too excited."

"I am excited!" Madi insists, perking up slightly. "I am."

"But?"

"I just…" Madi shrugs and looks down at the table, beginning to fiddle with the linen covering. "I just wish Eliza could have stayed too. It's not fair that she has to marry that stuffy old queen who probably smells like mothballs—"

"Excuse me?" Clarke asks indignantly, resting her hands against her hips. "Lexa does not smell like mothballs. And she's not even old!"

"Whose Lexa?" Madi asks as Clarke fetches their tea and sets a cup in front of the girl.

"Lexa is the queen."

"Oh? And how do you know what she smells like?"

"She was at the castle and I…" Clarke pauses as a sudden longing swells in her throat. The feeling takes her by surprise. Not because it is new, but because it has been resting in the pit of her stomach, a dull manageable ache which now flares to life. Clarke tries to swallow, to focus. That is what she needs. She exhales and smiles at Madi, "I spent the last couple of days with her."

"Really?"

"Yes, and don't give me that look."

"What look? I just want to know what the queen is like."

Clarke clears her throat as Lexa's face appears in her mind. She attempts to shrug casually when she answers the kid, "The queen is kind and generous… and strong… and beautiful, very beautiful."

"Uh-oh," Madi whispers under her breath.

"What?"

The child tilts her head, "You're into the queen, aren't you?"

"Well, I—"

"You are!"

"That's beside the point," Clarke huffs indignantly. "We have the competition tomorrow. We need to focus. Be ready."

Loud footsteps from the porch draw Clarke's attention and moments later the door swings open to reveal Bellamy and Abby in its frame. Clarke's breath catches. When Eliza had told her about Bellamy's gift, she had been completely overwhelmed. She had cried then. More tears than Clarke cares to admit. Now she bolts from her chair as the two arrivals use the doorframe to kick the snow from their boots. Clarke has her arms wrapped around Abby in about five seconds flat.

"Mom!"

Abby laughs, "Good morning to you too."

The blonde steps back laughing and then turns and throws her arms around Bellamy. "Thank you," she whispers, squeezing him. He stiffens against her, arms slack at his sides… but only for a moment. They wrap around her in an awkward, tentative embrace. And it's strange — like really, really strange in a way that Clarke doesn't quite understand. When she pulls back to look at him, Bellamy just stares at her, brows furrowed, before extricating himself to walk over to the kitchen table.

"What's going on? Did something happen between you two?" Abby whispers to Clarke as they follow slowly.

"No! I mean… not that I'm aware of."

"Hmm."

Clarke glances over at her mother and raises her eyebrows, "What does 'hmm' mean?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Come on, let's eat. I'm starved."

The four of them sit down to feast on the array of foods that Clarke has whipped up. There are fluffy golden pancakes, scrambled eggs, and thick rashers of bacon which drip more grease than should be legal. Tea and coffee warm their bellies. And toast with jam satisfies any sweet tooth. The tension seems to ease with the dissipating hunger, leaving laughter and jokes and holiday spirit in its wake. And it's almost enough to make Clarke forget the dull panging in her chest. She smiles and it's wider than she would have thought possible, because this is her family; she loves them dearly. The general merriment distracts Clarke, but eventually the number of furtive, odd glances from her mother becomes too many to discount. When Bellamy and Madi move to the kitchen, Clarke finally twists towards Abby with a sigh.

"What?"

The older woman's eyes slide to Clarke's throat. "Where's your necklace?"

"What necklace, mom?"

Abby scoffs, "The one you've been wearing."

"You'll have to be more specific."

"The one with the wishbone," her mother frowns. "The silver wishbone necklace. "

"I don't have a necklace like that."

Abby straightens, back rigid as her eyes search Clarke's. Her expression transforms from confusion to something else, some other emotion which Clarke cannot decipher.

"Mom—"

"I… I think I'll take Madi for a walk. You and Bellamy should talk. Whatever is going on is uncomfortable for everyone."

"What?! Mom—"

Abby stands and calls Madi from the kitchen, beckoning the girl towards the front door before Clarke can even pretend to understand what is happening. Clarke rises as well, shaking her head, but her mother just slips on a coat, helps Madi into one, then waves over her shoulder as the two pass through the door.

"What was that about?"

Clarke turns around to face Bellamy, eyes wide, "I have no idea."

"Really?"

"Yes," Clarke enunciates the word, disbelief coursing through her at his skeptical expression. Bellamy's lips pinch into a thin line and he turns back towards the sink without another word.

"What?" Clarke sighs. "Seriously, what is going on with you?"

Bellamy shoots her a look that is so full of frustrated contempt that her jaw nearly drops to the floor. Huffing, Clarke steps around the island and asks again. "What. Is. Going. On?"

He stiffens.

"Bellamy."

"No, Clarke."

"What do you mean 'No Clarke'?"

"I mean no," he turns around sharply, shoulders rigid with tension. "I, Bellamy Blake, am saying no to you, Clarke Griffin. Something which hasn't happened in a millennium so please don't push me. I'm angry and upset and I don't want to talk to you right now."

"Bellamy—"

"Damnit Clarke!" he throws down the dish towel and walks into the living room before turning around. "Stay over there."

"What?"

"Just…" he pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing in. "If you want to talk, fine. But stay over there."

Clarke laughs, "I'm not going to talk to you from across a fucking room."

He lets out a frustrated expletive, running, almost ripping a hand through his hair. "Does what I want— what I ask for not matter to you at all?"

"Of course it does—"

"Then why did you leave?!" He practically shouts the question at her. He closes his eyes briefly before continuing in a quieter, but equally heated tone. "I asked you not to, begged you to talk to me. Do you have any idea how worried I was? It was below freezing and you walked away with no coat just to get away from me! I drove around half the night looking for you. Then I passed out on the couch so I would know when you got home, but… but you just snuck by and now you're acting like nothing happened!"

Clarke shakes her head, "What are you talking about?" He wasn't making any sense. What had Eliza done? What had he done?

"Fine," he sighs, throwing his arms out in defeat. "It's fine. If you want to pretend like nothing has changed between us. Fine. If you want to act like the kiss never—"

"Kiss?" Clarke breathes out, shock rippling through her. This was not part of the plan. This is so far off the plan that it's not even computing in Clarke's mind. Her brain is short-circuiting. Even knowing that Eliza has feelings for him… Clarke had only thought it was theoretical, an ideal, one-sided. But the pain on his face is clear enough for her to see.

Bellamy laughs dejectedly, "Fine, Clarke. That's fine." He shakes his head at her baffled silence, heading for the door. Panic flashes through Clarke, hot and suffocating. Because he can't leave. He's her best friend. He promised they would always be best friends. She has to do something, has to make him understand. And the next words which leave Clarke's mouth escape before they even have time to register in her brain.

"It wasn't me."

He stiffens, "Yeah, you've made that pretty clear."

"No," Clarke steps forward, holding his gaze. "It wasn't me." Bellamy frowns and opens his mouth to protest, but Clarke quickly fills the space. "I met this woman outside the competition on our first day, after Echo spilled coffee on me. I met a woman who looked exactly like me. She needed help, wanted to switch places for a few days and said she could get Madi into that summer dance program if I agreed…" Clarke opens her hands wide, hoping he can understand, "So I did. And I've been in a castle — you know that one we passed on our way here from the airport? — I've been there with her fiance since Tuesday and she… she's been here. I don't know what happened between you two, but… It wasn't me, Bellamy."

He stares at her, unmoving. His chest rises and falls in shorter and shorter breaths until finally his face factures - disbelief turns to horror, confusion to pain, trust to betrayal. Clarke feels the tearing somewhere deep in her soul and she steps forward, hands raised. "Bellamy…"

The tall man steps back, shaking his head, "I knew it."

"What?"

"I knew there was something off about you this week," Bellamy breathes out raggedly, head still rocking back and forth as if he can no longer control the movement. "You were so different and it didn't make any sense, but— God, you shredded the itinerary!" A laugh erupts from his chest, but it sounds painful and hoarse, "and you didn't know Echo and all the… the flirting. We haven't flirted since high school! It has always been so clear cut between us and then there were lingering glances and touching and I thought I was going crazy—"

He suddenly falls completely still, eerily silent as his eyes fix on the floorboards. His face undergoes some visceral transformation until he's left staring blankly at the wood.

"Bellamy?" Clarke steps forwards slowly, again trying to minimize the distance between them.

"I don't want to talk anymore."

"Bell—"

He clenches his jaw, but Clarke can see the muscles of his mouth quiver. He breathes in and anyone else might be fooled, but it's Clarke. Clarke can see how he struggles to keep his whole face from crumbling as he says, "She left… she just left me, confused… with this lie."

Clarke's heart breaks a bit at that confession, for Bellamy, but also for Lexa. Because that's exactly what Clarke has done to her. Left her with a lie. The blonde swallows, "She didn't have a choice—"

"There's always a choice, Clarke. You know that."

"I've lied to…"

"No," he states firmly. "No, you just told me the truth. But she…" He laughs again, rubbing a hand roughly over his face before raking it through his hair and admitting, "I don't even know her name."

"It's—"

"Don't tell me. Please," he breathes out hoarsely.

Clarke feels tears welling up in her eyes at the shattered quality to his voice. What would she want Eliza to say? If Lexa knew the truth, if she was as broken by it as Bellamy now appears, what would she want Eliza to tell her? Clarke takes the last few steps between them, "She… she's in love with you. She loves you, Bellamy."

His face hardens and he swallows once, before looking at her. He only says three words, but they stick like black tar to the bottom of Clarke's heart.

"I don't care."

The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 24th 2018 - 10:00 CET

Her reflection in the mirror stares back unkindly. There are dark circles under her eyes and bright splotches along her cheeks — the mottled surface her face always becomes after shedding so many tears. And even though the effect is familiar, it has been years since she let herself break down like this and the sight is an awkward reminder. Eliza takes in a deep breath and begins to blot foundation over her blemishes, methodically concealing each one.

Her eyes drag to the picture on the vanity, the shiny paper folded in half and set to the side as if forgotten. The makeup brush stills in Eliza's hand as her eyes devour the blank, white surface, knowing exactly what is hidden beneath. She takes a breath and then reaches out quickly. Her free hand knocks the bent photograph from the vanity and towards the small rubbish bin. The thick paper catches along the rim causing it to fall to the floor instead.

Eliza swallows and forces herself to look back at the vanity. She tries to ignore the tremor in her hand, but it grows steadily. The movement builds as she finishes her foundation, as she attempts to contour her face and add blush, trembling until her fingers spasm so much that the eyeliner is more likely to add an injury than conceal any. Eliza lays down the pencil and takes another deep breath. On the exhale, she bends down to retrieve the photograph. As she flattens it against the vanity, a watery smile pulls at her face. It's a copy of the Main Street photo — of her, Madi, and Bellamy punch-drunk on something the photographer said. Her fingers trace the smiles on all their faces as a weight lodges firmly in her throat.

"Liza?"

The duchess folds the picture quickly and throws it in the trash before turning back to the vanity. Fighting down the lump in her throat, Eliza dabs the moisture from her eyes with a tissue. Movement in the mirror catches her attention as Raven bends down to grab the discarded paper.

Eliza twists around swiftly, "Don't!"

Raven frowns at the photo in her hands and then up at her best friend. Her brows furrow in a different way, confusion turning to pity or something similar as she opens her mouth, "Liza—"

"Please don't," Eliza breathes out, holding up her hands.

The brunette's face hardens, "So you really are going through with this?"

"I don't have a choice."

"You are miserable!"

Eliza's jaw works, "I— My happiness has nothing to do with it. It's my duty, Raven."

"Your duty?"

"Yes," Eliza snaps.

"Define duty."

"What?"

Raven glares, "Just do it."

"Duty," she glowers back, "a responsibility. A moral or legal obligation."

Raven simply raises her arms as if to say 'see,' but Eliza doesn't know what she is supposed to glean from that. Raven rests her hands on her hips, "What do you think will happen if you refuse to marry the queen?"

"I—" Eliza starts, but Raven cuts her off.

"You won't be arrested. No one is going to hang you. We live in the twenty-first century for fuck's sake! So there's 'legality' out of the picture."

"Raven—"

The brunette rolls her eyes at Eliza's weak protest, "So it's moral duty then? Define morality."

"Stop!" Eliza growls, pushing off the bench. She brushes past Raven, but the brunette simply stalks after her.

"Define morality, Liza."

"Why are you doing this?" Eliza spins around, nearly shouting.

"Because you won't do it for yourself! I have watched you wither year after year from this so-called duty," the brunette spits out the word, "and each time you grow defiant, you hiss and moan and say it's unfair, but then eventually you cave—"

"Stop!"

"—because deep down, despite how much you may not want to admit it, you care what people think about you, what your father thinks about you. You are paralyzed by the possibility of being a disappointment."

Eliza's mouth trembles as Raven's words hit her firmly in the chest and burrow deep. Warmth bites at her eyes and she turns away, unable to look at her friend anymore. But Raven only continues, though her voice is softer now.

"You can be angry at me for saying this. But now is not the time for me to sit back and support you… not while you're being a complete pushover—"

Eliza spins back around, face reddening, "I'm not being—"

"—You are! Now, define morality. Or don't. But at least show some courage and tell me to fuck off."

The duchess breathes in deeply. Raven's brown eyes blaze, unwavering and hard. Eliza looks to the ceiling then back down, biting out, "Morality is a set of principles concerning right and wrong, good and bad behavior."

Raven smiles tightly, "Now tell me… is it right to marry someone when you are in love with another person?"

"No," Eliza whispers.

"Is it right to withhold the truth from your fiance? When she is actually in love with a completely different person and has no idea?"

Eliza swallows, crossing her arms.

"Is it right to make yourself miserable because you're too afraid of disappointment?"

A few tears tumble down Eliza's cheeks.

"Duty," Raven states finally, stepping closer, "is not what you've been taught. But if you still don't believe me, look at this."

Eliza frowns as Raven slips a red velvet box into her hands. "What is this?"

"It's a gift from the queen. Clarke asked me to pass it on to you."

Inside the box is a golden crest with three words inscribed around the head of a stag: Ridiyo, Koma, Hodnes. Eliza bites her lips then whispers, "Truth. Honor. And Love."

Raven nods, "It doesn't say anything about duty, Liza."

The duchess lets out a stilted exhale that sounds halfway between a sob and a laugh, shaking her head. Footsteps echo as Raven moves away.

"Oh and…" the brunette turns from the doorway. "The queen wants to see you."

Eliza's gaze snaps up and her stomach plummets as Raven slides the door shut. Lexa wanted to see her? What should Eliza say? Should she keep pretending or tell Lexa the truth? Maybe she should call Clarke first? They could show up together… no, the queen might have a heart attack.

Thoughts race through her mind without any coherence or decision. Her whole life, Eliza has been taught to plan for every scenario. She has been taught theory and strategy and politics, but none of it has ever felt natural. She doesn't revel in the planning of something, not like Clarke does. So by the time she has thrown on clothes and left her bedroom, Eliza still has no clue what the hell she is going to do.

Her pulse hammers as she walks in great loping strides which are far from delicate. And her brows are twisted by indecision when a door to her left opens suddenly and her father steps through. Eliza's heart stalls for a fraction of a second, just enough for her feet to become roots beneath her.

"Ah, Eliza dear," he smiles, stepping into the corridor.

She straightens her spine, "Marcus."

The Grand Duke pauses, appraising her, then admits, "I'm glad I caught you. Have a moment?"

"I'm actually on my way to see the queen," Eliza gestures down the hallway. "Maybe we can speak later?"

"I'll walk with you."

He falls into step beside her and Eliza measures her strides to keep them light and even. She swallows, "What did you wish to speak about?"

"I only wanted to tell you how glad I am to see you so happy with the queen."

Eliza stiffens, "I— Well—" That wasn't me, she thinks.

"It's a good match, for you and for Arkadia."

"I know that, Marcus."

He turns to her, "What happened to 'dad'?"

"What?"

"Yesterday, you called me dad,"

Eliza's throat closes around that fact, "Did I?"

"Eliza," he stops, grasping her arm to halt her progress as well. "Did I do something to upset you? I thought giving you and Lexa space would be a nice gesture, but if you wanted me to stay…"

She stares back at him, all the things she never said throughout the years bubbling to the surface. All the times she was picked at and prodded by strangers. Shoved into outfits she liked by people she liked even less. The formal, impersonal birthday dinners which were the only times she ever truly had his undivided attention… at least until she was twelve. Then she had been 'old enough to celebrate on her own' and the presents showed up sans gifter. The increasing disapproval in his eyes as she began to act out more and more just for some sort of reaction.

Raven had been wrong. It wasn't that she was afraid of disappointing her father. No, she had been steadily achieving that for years. Eliza was afraid of being non-existent, irrelevant, inconsequential to his life. That one day she would go too far and he would just disappear altogether — the only family she had ever known gone because of her mistake. This one last act, this duty to unite Arkadia and Polis, felt like the only thing holding them together. The last feeble string tying his life to hers. Maybe she would be miserable, but she would finally achieve something, be worth something in her father's ledger.

But… as Eliza stares into those familiar brown eyes, narrowed over her face in contemplation, she feels like those words in her head are no longer enough. Not now that she knows what it feels like to be carefree, to be loved, to be silly and reckless and laugh until her stomach hurt. Not now that she knows what it feels like to love the person she is, to love herself.

"I can't do this," she breathes out, the words expelling from her like a gust of air.

"We can talk later—"

Eliza shakes her head, "I can't do this for you. I don't want to marry the queen. I can't do this."

Marcus frowns, stepping closer. "But the other day… you seemed so happy—"

"That wasn't me," she laughs and her hands float up to her chest. "None of this has ever been me. I don't belong in this world. I can't be who you want me to be." Her father steps back as if her words are a physical blow and his face becomes ashen. Eliza rushes on, trying to explain it again, to explain it better, "I can't pretend—"

"Stop," he raises a hand, voice rough and ragged. "Stop…" Marcus runs that hand over his face, his head shaking back and forth against his palm. He whispers something too soft to hear and presses the heel of his hand against his eyes.

"Marcus…" Eliza steps forward and when he doesn't respond she says softly, "Dad?" His shoulders rise then fall, head bending into his hands and Eliza feels panic swell within her at the sight. Her father has always been a reserved, cynical sort of man and to see him so fragile… the sight cinches invisible strings around her heart.

He drops his hands to look at her. But his eyes seem to stare through her, almost like he's looking at a ghost. "You— That's exactly what your mother said to me."

"What?" Eliza steps forward, one hand floating up like she might touch him. And that's all it takes. He moves forward to wrap his arms around her in a vice-like grip, a visceral sort of hug.

"I don't care what you do, Eliza. Marry the queen. Don't marry the queen. I just— I just don't want to lose you. Just promise me that I won't lose you. I can't— I can't do that again. Not again."

His words are whispered in a rush by her ear and Eliza feels a few more tears slide down her cheeks at the admission. Her arms come up to hold her father and she turns her face into his shoulder. Relief courses through her, sharp and sweet, and it finds release through her tears. "I'm not going anywhere, dad. I'm right here."

They hold each other for longer than she thought possible, until the distance of the past seems to seep away and her arms begin to fall asleep. She brushes away the tear tracks from his face and smiles up at him. His answering smile, watery as it may be, spreads hers even wider. And it's with that hopeful expression that she walks towards the queen's study. With a smile on her face that she finally determines to tell Lexa the truth. To do the right thing. For Clarke. For herself. For everyone. Her moral obligation. Her duty.

She sends a swift knock against the door then turns the brass handle, entering. The sun streams through the large window at the far end and illuminates the warm palette of the office. The queen looks up from her desk, hair almost like spun honey in the sunlight. Eliza breathes in deeply to steady herself as she pushes the door shut behind her and begins to walk forward. Lexa's sharp gaze follows her progress across the room until the duchess stops just short of the desk.

"You're late."

Eliza clears her throat, "Yes, I… I ran into my father."

The queen's eyes narrow and she lifts up a few sheets of paper from her desk. Eliza's gaze darts down and she realizes that the items which Lexa holds are not sheets of paper at all. They are photographs, five or six, from different angles. Photographs of Eliza and Clarke, together. Talking. Two identical women in different clothing.

Eliza's mouth falls open, heart pumping rapidly in her chest as the queen slowly drops each photograph one by one onto the desk in front of her. Lexa tilts her head, green eyes dragging up to pierce through the duchess.

"I can explain," Eliza starts quickly, raising her hands in placation.

The queen only smiles, a thin white line slashing cruelly across her face, before she answers in a hard voice.

"Good."