It's an awkward dance that both women play as they stand facing each other, the light that seeps in through a faded window casting the room in a bloodied orange glow. The air's stale too, there's a bite to it that burns her nose just a bit when she breathes in, when she lets it fill her lungs and so Clarke coughs awkwardly, a hand coming up to touch her cheek for a moment as she feels the drip of blood once more spread out across it.
And so she sighs. If only because she thinks the reopened cut will ruin the scars she wears. She looks back to Lexa for a moment, the other woman resting against the ladder that leads up to the hatch that is now closed. And Clarke takes in her appearance. Gone is her long coat, her under armour flexible, more leather than metal. She notices that Lexa breathes just a bit harder, her chest rising and falling to the rapid expansion of her lungs and she eyes the way Lexa holds her arm close to her chest, her free arm resting against the knife on her hip.
"Thanks," Clarke says again, her eyes moving to meet Lexa's gaze once more.
Clarke hears her offer a murmur of acknowledgement and so she turns her eyes to the room she finds herself in. A table sits in a corner, small candles sitting atop it, the wax melting them into the worn and dusty wood, furs lie on the floor too, old and faded in colour.
"Where are we?" she asks as she turns back to Lexa, herself already moving to sit in an old chair by the ladder.
"Trikru have places to stay if the acid fog comes," Lexa replies, her arm still held against her chest as she leans back tentatively in the chair.
"Ah," Clarke says, her eyes following the movement for a moment before she sighs once, tucks a loose braid behind her ear and moves forward. "Let me look at that," and she comes to a stop before Lexa, their eyes meeting in a quiet battle of stubbornness as the other woman raises her chin.
"It is fine."
"it's not," and she pauses for a moment, "I'm a healer. We're stuck here together so you might as well let me look at it."
And so Lexa nods once, her eyes careful as Clarke moves to kneel besides her.
"Can I?" Clarke asks, her fingers coming to a halt at Lexa's collar.
And so she nods, her head leaning away from Clarke's fingers as she begins to pull away the leathers. She finds a bruise already beginning to spread, the deep purple running underneath the skin an angry red that seeps into the flesh around Lexa's shoulder, spreading out to her neck and so Clarke can't help but to sigh, can't help but to roll her eyes as Lexa's refusal to admit her pain. If only because it must hurt.
"How'd this even happen?" she asks, her eyes turning briefly up to the ladder.
"I fell," and she meets Lexa's gaze.
"You fell?"
"Yes, my horse was startled," she finishes, her eyes peering somewhere past Clarke.
"Oh, well… It's not dislocated," she says, her words coming out stilted for a moment, before her fingers turn tentative as she exposes the shoulder, her hand ghosting over the joint briefly, "which is good," she adds in the silence that follows, her hands probing around the join for a moment as she eyes the spreading bruise. "But I think you've bruised it pretty severely," and she pauses, looks up at Lexa, "you going to talk?"
"What is there to say?" Lexa replies cooly.
And so Clarke rolls her eyes.
"Never mind," she says, already searching around for fabric she can use to wrap the shoulder.
Lexa must notice her eyes wandering though because she draws her knife, already cutting a long strip of fabric from the hem of her shirt, the tearing noise drawing Clarke's attention quickly.
"This might hurt," she says as she takes the strip of fabric, and so Lexa sighs once more, the silence that follows an annoyance that lingers within Clarke's mind. "I have to wrap it," she begins, fingers nimble in their motions, "and I don't want you to move your arm for a while, ok?" and she looks up quickly, her eyes meeting Lexa's for long enough that the words are acknowledged, "or you'll make it worse," she finishes, a knot tied quickly.
And so she leans back on her heels, her eyes quick in their appraisal of the wrapping around Lexa's shoulder.
"So…" she trails off, her eyes moving around the room once more, "how long are we going to be here?" and she looks back to Lexa, shoulder now firmly wrapped, arm still held to her chest.
"A while," and she shrugs with her uninjured shoulder, "there will be a horn when the acid fog clears."
Clarke lets the silence hang between them both again and she finds herself moving around the room, her fingers trailing over the dust that sits heavily on the table, her mind tracing the patterns she imagines forming before her. As she pads across the room she still feels the burn in her nose and the gentle itch against her skin and so she shrugs off her furs, her nose wrinkling at the clothes she now wears, the softness chased away, a coarse, rough feeling left behind by the acid fog.
And so she continues to pace around the room slowly, her mind content to just wander, but as she comes to a wall, as her fingers brush against the rough of it, cold to the touch, she can't help but to grimace, the steps she now takes a familiar thing that ushers in memories of a time trapped in the cold of an empty room, the cool of metal all she had for company. And so she pauses. She stops and closes her eyes for a moment, her hand coming to rest against the watch she still wears around her wrist, her finger brushing against the leather straps and she lets a breath settle quietly before she breathes in deeply, her mind stilling and her thoughts twisting painfully.
"You do not like being trapped," and she looks up at the words, her eyes finding Lexa's from across the small room, the faint light of the outside word a careful curtain that bleeds into the space between them.
"Bad memories," she shrugs.
"Rest, Clarke," Lexa says then, her eyes just a quiet shining in the light. "You do yourself no good pacing."
"I'm surprised you care, you seem content to let me and the other Azgeda die," Clarke retorts, frustrations from earlier rearing once more.
"I do care, Clarke."
And so Clarke snorts at the words, her chin coming to rise in challenge.
"You've got a funny way of showing it," and she turns to face Lexa fully, "you tell Trikru to help attack the reapers, yet they don't. And you don't punish them," she takes a step forward, her eyes holding Lexa's gaze. "Quint attacks me, yet you seem content to let it happen," she finishes, her eyes burning just a tone warmer than before.
But Lexa stands then, barely a wince at the motion as her shoulder is jostled slightly.
"Azgeda is foolish," she begins, her eyes hard in their gaze. "You attacked the reapers without waiting for Trikru to meet with you," she takes a step forward, the orange light of the fog casting a dark shadow across her face. "You provoked Quint, even after I told you to not do so," she comes to a stop before Clarke.
"That's bullshit, and you know it," and Clarke knows she is angry now, and she feels her fingers curl into fists by her side. "You're a hypocrite, Lexa. You think Azgeda is cruel? Unthinking? But you send us to do your dirty work while the other clans do what? Sit at the camp? What do you expect us to do when you say go kill reapers? Wait? Sit by and twiddle our thumbs while others bleed?" and she sees Lexa's jaw clench for a moment, she sees her eyes narrow. "What if an Azgeda warrior had attacked Quint? Or Anya, Gustus or even Indra? Would you allow that to go unpunished?" and her voice comes out quiet now, a small burning that finds its way into the timbre of her voice.
"So yeah, maybe you aren't evil, but you don't care. You just use people. You think we're all pieces on a chest board for you to move and command. And you know what's funny? At least Nia has the decency to tell people to their face that she's using them. Unlike you. And what was it? I'm a weapon to be wielded? I'm not a fool, Lexa. You'll try and get rid of me as soon as my use is finished," and she finishes, her voice harder, her gaze steely and her breaths coming rapid and angry. "You think you're so different than Nia?"
"I am not like Nia."
And the words come out seething, they come out cold and angry.
"You've done little to prove me wrong," Clarke answers.
Lexa holds her gaze for a long moment, the silence stretching out painfully between them then. And maybe it's only seconds, maybe it's not even a minute, but Clarke thinks their words have ceased, their exchange has ended and so she goes to turn, goes to move away from Lexa but she hears it quietly. She hears it gently. And so she pauses.
"You do not know everything, Clarke."
And she meets Lexa's gaze once more.
"I know enough," Clarke says. "You only see people as tools. You don't care about them regardless of what you say."
And as the words leave her mouth she sees Lexa turn thoughtful for just a moment, she sees her eyes move across her face, and she is sure they trace the scar that sits across her forehead, that slash down her cheeks and that mark her as Azgeda, and then she sees them meet her own eyes again.
"It is weakness, Clarke," and it comes out just a bit more quiet, just a bit gentler than she has heard before.
"What is? Caring for people?" she questions, her hands coming to rest on her hips.
"To be Commander is to be alone. To make sacrifices for the betterment of your people, even if you care for them."
But Clarke snorts, her eyes looking upwards briefly.
"But that doesn't excuse using people. It doesn't excuse ignoring and using Azgeda when it suits you."
"That is what it means to be a leader, Clarke," and Lexa holds their gaze for a long moment, she lets the words sit heavily in the air and her eyes move slowly across her face. "To lead well you must look into the eyes of your warriors and say go die for me."
"Yeah, well, maybe that would work if Azgeda actually liked you, yet you give us no reason to want to die for you."
"What we want is not important."
"I disagree. What we want is important. Who we care for is important," and she holds Lexa's gaze, her own jaw clenching painfully and her cheek stinging, blood slowly drying over the cut. "Azgeda wants to live the way we want. So we care. We fight for it. We don't roll over and show the other clans our bellies. So if that makes us cruel, if that makes us unkind so be it. And you know what? I care. I care about my friends. I care about my clan and the warriors I fight with. It makes us stronger," and as Clarke finishes she finds her feet having carried her closer to Lexa, only a small space between them now.
"You keep saying these things, Lexa, but you're a hypocrite. You say you care but you say it's weakness. You say that what we want isn't important, but it's clear you want something. Why would you have created the Coalition if you didn't want it? Isn't that important? Do you even believe what you're saying? Or do you just say what you think needs to be said to get your way?"
And Clarke pauses for only a moment to collect her thoughts and to take steadying breath before she pushes forward.
"I think you're afraid, Lexa. I think you're afraid to let people see past this image you think everyone has of you. I think you want people to think you're more than you really are."
"And what am I?" Lexa says, her eyes a cold stare that drills into Clarke and burns across her face.
"I think you're just a girl who's afraid."
They must sit in silence for long moments then, Lexa back in the chair and Clarke on the table, her legs swinging lazily back and forth. And she's angry, she's frustrated. She hates being stuck in this room. But she casts her eyes towards Lexa then, if only for something other than drab walls to look at, and she lets her gaze wander over the woman who sits in the chair, her eyes focused on the knife she twirls slowly in her free hand, and if only because she is a healer, if only because she has a patient she calls out gently.
"How's the shoulder?" the silence falls too heavily around her.
But Lexa looks up, her eyes snapping to Clarke's quickly, a moment's thought flashing across her face.
"Hurts," she shrugs once.
And Clarke once more lets the silence hang between them, once more lets their eyes meet.
"We should try and get along," Clarke says then. "At least until the Mountain is dealt with, and then you can go back to hating me."
"I do not hate you, Clarke," Lexa replies.
"But you hate Azgeda," she answers, "don't even bother denying it. I can see it in the way you look at my scars and the way you let others disrespect us."
And Lexa falls quiet, her eyes thoughtful, her knife stilling in its movements.
"Why?" Clarke asks, her voice carrying through the space between them. "I'm not stupid. Something had to happen. And I can tell Trikru hates Azgeda as much as Azgeda hates Trikru."
Lexa lets a quiet sigh fall from her lips then, a heavy breath finding its way into her lungs.
"The clans were at war," she begins. "Clan killed clan, warrior killed warrior," and she tilts her head briefly. "Azgeda and Trikru have waged war for generations. And would have continued to do so if the Coalition had not been formed."
And Lexa once more turns thoughtful in her silence, a finger tapping slowly against the wood of the chair.
"It is true, Clarke, that I wish to use you," and Clarke's eyes roll. "But to bridge the divide between clans. You are part Skaikru because you were born in the stars. Would I not be a fool then, to ignore that fact? To ignore that Skaikru has tech, has weapons that can destroy a clan. Would I not be a fool to waste what you are? So yes. I will use you so that Skaikru will not be a threat. And Azgeda? I will use you to bridge the divide between Azgeda and the Coalition. Is Nia not doing the same?" she says, an eyebrow raising in challenge. "Tell me, Clarke, did Nia not instruct you to weaken the Coalition some how? To use what you know to bring Azgeda strength?"
"You're no different then her," Clarke replies, "you just made my point."
"But I am," and Lexa lets a small smile linger across her lips, "Nia wishes to weaken all but Azgeda, Nia wishes to promote Azgeda strength and to sacrifice those not worthy. Tell me, is that not true, Clarke?" and she pauses for a moment, lets the words sit in the space between them. "Perhaps Azgeda is treated unfairly. But I wish for all clans to prosper. I wish for all clans to succeed."
"Wishing and doing are two different things," Clarke responds, her ire, though reduced, still burns just a bit.
"Then perhaps we can make a deal, Clarke," and Lexa stands carefully. "I will ensure that Trikru and the other clans respect Azgeda and in turn I expect the same from you and Azgeda."
And Clarke stands too, she brings herself to meet Lexa in the space between them and so she eyes her for a long moment, lets her gaze trail over her face briefly, her eyes flicking down to her shoulder before meeting her eyes.
"You might be heartless, Lexa," and she worries her lip for a moment. "But you aren't stupid. So yeah, if we can get along then we won't have any problems."
And so they share a small smile, just a small quirking of lips and a small twitching of cheeks. But perhaps it's enough for now.
But as Lexa once again turns to rest in the chair Clarke lets her mind wander, lets her thoughts turn back to earlier in the conversation.
"Hey," and she calls it out quietly, "you never said why you don't like Azgeda so much." and she lets her eyes follow the retreating back, and she thinks she sees the stiffening of shoulders and the tensing of muscles. "It's personal, isn't it?"
And so Lexa turns for a moment, and maybe if Clarke looks hard enough, maybe if she ignores the frustrations that still linger, maybe she can see just a moment's sadness wash over Lexa.
"It does not matter, Clarke."
It's her sleeping moments when her mind wanders freely, when her thoughts turn to times long gone or to places that no longer exist that she can find a comfort. But she wakes with a start, she wakes to the gentle squeezing of a hand on her shoulder and the dark of a quiet room.
"Wake, Clarke," and her eyes focus on Lexa's face hovering over her, "the acid fog has lifted. We must return."
And so she rises stiffly, her face still a painful thing that she is sure is bruised and swollen. And she grimaces when her eyes fall to her furs, the soft of them no longer present, all but replaced by the burnt, molten, charred remains left by the acid fog.
Exiting the room is a difficult task, Lexa's arm leaving her with the awkward task of having Clarke push her up from underneath. But as they exit Clarke lets a small smile fall across her lips at the fresh air and the quiet of a slowly rising run.
"When did the horn sound?" Clarke asks as she looks around.
"Before sunrise," Lexa replies, and so Clarke turns to face her, confusion flashing across her eyes. "You were tired," Lexa continues, a small shrug lifting her shoulders. "Come."
And so Clarke sighs heavily as she begins following Lexa, the swaying of her hair and the gentle breeze and rustling of the leaves the only movement around them.
They must walk for a long while, the slowly rising sun gradually sitting higher in the sky, the dark purple of the night replaced by the brighter, happier blue of a cloudless sky. And it's a colder morning, something that should bring a chill to her bones but Clarke thinks she likes it, she thinks she's missed the freeze of Azgeda, the constant chill of the ice and the careful buffeting of the wind that pushes against her furs. And so she lets a smile live and she lets her arms swing just a bit more carefree by her side.
Lexa stops quickly, her free hand coming to rest against the knife by her hip and her eyes scan around them. And Clarke hears it too. It's quiet, it's a rough groan, a pained whimper and a broken plea that reaches her ears. And so their eyes meet once before they begin moving towards the sound, Clarke's own knife coming to rest in her hand.
The smell hits her first. It's a foul thing, a burnt thing that assaults her nose, that brings bile to her lips and makes her stomach clench painfully. But she sees the figure lying on the ground, she sees the figure writhe and twitch against the hard cold of the dirt and she sees the figure still at the sound of them approach.
And a person lies on the ground, their skin a burnt, twisted, bloodied mess that melts and slips from their body. It horrifies Clarke, and it makes her rage and seethe and hurt at the person that lies before her.
"It is an Azgeda warrior," Lexa whispers quietly, her eyes following the furs that line the person's body.
And so Clarke reaches out tentatively, her hand coming to rest against the ragged rising of the person's chest.
"It's Clarke," she whispers, her eyes unable to discern a gender, the skin rotting and peeling. "The healer," she says, and she knows she feels a wetness cling to the corner of her eyes. "It will be over soon," she finishing quietly as she brings her knife to the person's throat.
And so she lets her hand slip forward, she lets the knife slice through the person's throat and sever the artery. And she follows the gruesome trail of blood that gurgles through the cut and wash over her fingers.
The sun sits high by the time they arrive back at Ton DC, and so she smiles when she enters the Azgeda war camp, and she smiles as she nears her tent. Torvun looks up from where he paces before the entrance, his knuckles white around the hilt of his knife.
"Hi," she says in greeting, her voice just a bit rougher. And she smiles as their eyes meet, as his body relaxes and as he sighs loudly, his eyes turning upwards.
"We thought you perished in the acid fog," he says, "Ontari is angry," he finishes.
"I almost did," she shrugs, her conversation with Lexa coming to the forefront of her mind, "but I managed to find somewhere to hide. Where is Ontari?"
"Training grounds," Torvun says.
The walk to the training grounds isn't far, and Clarke lets a smile linger across her lips when she hears Ontari's voice carry over the sounds of metal crashing against metal, and perhaps she feels just a moment sorry for whoever is at the receiving end of her tirade.
She comes to a rest by the edge of the training grounds then, her eyes quickly finding Ontari as she throws a warrior over her shoulder, her furs wrapped around her waist and her hair clinging messily to her forehead. She finds Entani there too, the healer crouched over a warrior, bandage in hand as she wraps a bloodied thigh.
Ontari sees her then, their eyes meet across the distance and Clarke winces as a warriors fist collides with Ontari's nose in her moment's distraction. And Ontari swears loudly, her foot coming up to collide with his groin before he drops, pained etched across his face. And then Ontari moves towards her, a smile lingering across her face and despite the blood that already drips over lips Clarke can't help but to think her vibrant in the morning light.
Ontari comes to a breathless stop before Clarke, her hands twitching out in front of her for a moment as if to embrace her before they still, her hands fisting painfully by her sides.
"I thought you were caught in the acid fog," she whispers, her chest rising rapidly. "I thought you died," she says, her eyes turning darker.
"I'm ok," Clarke answers, her own smile finding its way across her lips. "Let me look at that," she says as she gestures for Ontari to follow her away from the training grounds.
They find themselves back in the tent, the cool of the day a welcome comfort. A candle burns brightly nearby giving light to Ontari's face as Clarke brings a damp cloth to the blood that dries slowly across her lips.
"We lost a few Azgeda," Ontari whispers, a small wince finding its way into her voice as Clarke dabs her nose.
"I know," Clarke replies, the events of earlier still leaving her stomach a sickened churn.
"How did you survive?" Ontari asks, her eyes steady as they look at Clarke.
"The Commander," she replies and she sees Ontari's eyes narrow for a moment. "Trikru have places they use if the acid fog comes. We got stuck in there for the night."
"I was hoping she had perished," she sighs, just a bit of remorse colouring her tone and so Clarke laughs briefly.
"We've come to an agreement," she says, "Trikru will work with us now. But we have to stop disrespecting the Commander during the war meetings," and she smiles at the huff of annoyance that escapes Ontari's lips. "At least until the Mountain is dealt with, then we can go back to normal, ok?"
And Ontari shrugs, her hand coming to rest around Clarke's wrist, the damp cloth still held up to her nose.
And so they share a quiet smile before Ontari's eye move to her cheek, worry gracing her expression.
"Does it hurt?" Ontari asks, her hand pulling Clarke's away from her own face.
"No, not really. I've had worse," and she shrugs briefly, "the swelling makes it look worse."
And so Ontari lets the silence linger between them, her fingers warm against Clarke's skin.
"I am happy you are not dead," she whispers, the words resting comfortably between them both.
"Yeah," Clarke smiles. "Me too."