She eyes the entrance for a long, quiet moment, her gaze steady as she traces the cool bite of the metal that sits within the stone of the Mountain. Her fingers tap lightly against the sword at her hip as she flicks her eyes towards Kane who stands not far from her, his own gaze staring at the small box in his hand, the red light blinking lightly.
And she waits.
Her army spreads out around her, their eyes turned out into the trees, their eyes peering up at the Mountain, ever careful, ever watchful for attack. And she knows it will be soon. She knows the dam will fall in the next few moments and she knows the main entrance will open. And she knows her warriors will be slaughtered. She knows the Mountain will no doubt spit metal fire out of the entrance at the first wave she sends forward, perhaps even the second and third waves that follow. But she knows eventually they will enter. She knows eventually her sword will taste the blood of those that have taken her people, that have killed them, have tortured them and spit them back out of the Mountain, nothing more than a hollow, empty shell that kills, that slaughters and feasts on their own families.
And so she waits.
She hears a quiet hoot echo throughout the clearing, her hand coming up as she flicks her wrist, a number of Lake Clan warriors breaking off from her army as they go to investigate the scout's call.
It only takes a few short moments but she hears the horn echo through the trees and she hears the distant clanging of metal and the cries of battle.
And she knows.
She raises her hand again, her ears picking up the sound of Rock Line warriors breaking off from the army, she hears their feet rush over the ground and she hears the drawing of blades as they move to support the Lake Clan warriors in whatever battle they have found themselves in.
And she waits.
Her skin prickles, her skin itches and tenses and she knows what it means even before it happens, she thinks she even feels the thundering, she thinks she even feels the rush of air and the crushing of tech before she hears it. And it's distant, it's close, it's too near and not soon enough. But she hears the echoing thunder, the explosion and the crashing. And it goes silent.
The quiet whirring of the Mountain as it breathes over the lands stills, it quiets and it halts. The warriors behind her hold, too. Their breathing slows, their eyes narrow at the entrance and their movements cease.
And she knows.
Her eyes glance to Kane and she sees his eyes glance to the box in his hand. And she watches. She sees the warriors surrounding him glance down to the box, she sees them tense and she sees them wait.
The light blinks once, the red a piercing glow that focuses her attention. It blinks once more, her eyes hardening to the movement of the light in his hand. And then it returns. And it holds. It's steady, it's constant, and it's green.
Kane's eyes snap up to her for only a moment, for long enough that they ask a question, that they reaffirm a plan. And so she nods. And his thumb presses against the button.
And it's a quiet click, her eyes snapping to the entrance, the hole drilled into the door holding the small bomb that will gut the Mountain open now the focus of her attention.
And it explodes.
And she knows.
Her hand comes up, her fingers clenched into a tight fist. And so she smiles as her hand comes down, as her warriors rush forward, ropes slung over their shoulders.
And as the warriors race across the open ground, as they crouch low and as they begin to unfurl the ropes she hears the rustle, she hears the faint clicking and she hears the movements.
And it explodes, the air around her crackles, the air around her hisses and burns and whizzes, her hair flings up around her as the dirt kicks up at her feet and she spots the fire that flashes on the ridgeline above, signalling where the Mountain Men lie in ambush.
And she knows the battle for the Mountain has truly begun.
"With me!"
The words rip from her lips as she watches the warriors in the clearing race forward with the rope, and she sees some gunned down, some tripping as bullets rip into them, yet she sees them push forward, she sees one fall, her leg smashed backwards as a bullet pulverises her muscle and flesh, and so the wounded warrior cries out another's name, her hands flinging the rope towards a warrior who turns in answer before a bullet silences her forever.
Warriors break off with her from the main army, a thundering roar of bullets ripping through the trees as she ducks, as she crouches low and as she races forward, her eyes snapping to a trail that leads up the Mountain towards where the first of her enemy lies. Anya races besides her, the Trikru warrior's eyes glinting furiously in the waning light as she fires an arrow up towards where the flashes of flames spit out destruction upon her army. She hears the thundering of warriors as war cries explode from lips, as the first wave races forward and as the main doors are slowly pulled open, the rope straining and creaking under the weight.
Lexa feels the warriors at her back, the most fierce of her guard, their eyes snapping to every movement they hear, every sound they detect, their blades glinting cruelly in the setting of the sun, their leathers and furs a bloodied orange glow as the sun shines against them.
She rounds a corner, the trees thinning out behind her and she sees the Mountain Men. She sees them, back to her, their weapons firing down upon her warriors. And so she lunges, she snarls and she feels her lips pulling up into an eager smile as she pounces on the nearest figure, her sword piercing through his back as blood spills from the wound and as air hisses through the suit, and she hears the boil, she hears the crackle and she smells the burning of flesh.
And then it's a crash of bodies, of metal against flesh and bullets ripping into warriors. Lexa rips her sword from the first, the Mountain Men turning at the noise, their eyes widening in shock for only a moment as they come to realise they are surrounded. Lexa throws her sword forward, the blade spinning through the air as another raises his gun, the barrel aimed at a warrior who throws her own spear forward. And so Lexa rolls, she hears the rip of a bullet over head and she feels the bite of the ground beneath her, and she comes to a running stand, her hand ripping the sword from the Mountain Man's chest as Anya fires an arrow past her shoulder, and Lexa watches as it strikes another enemy, as it smashes into his exposed face, his clothes the same as that of Skaikru, and she watches as he topples backwards, as he falls over the ridgeline and as he plummets down onto her rushing army.
There's a shout, a loud growl and a fierce screaming of noise as she whips her head to the side, and she finds gustus flinging a man over his shoulder, his sword cleaving another's arm clean off as blood and boiling flesh spills from the gaping wound. She feels the cracking whip of a bullet as it whistles past her head and so she shifts her body, she falls to her knees and she lets her momentum carry her forward as she slides, and as she nears the next enemy she brings her sword forward, the edge piercing the man's suit and she hears the hissing of air as it rushes out of the gaping slash.
She comes to her feet, her chest heaving and she eyes Anya ram an arrow into another Mountain Man, she sees Anya lash out with her foot sending the dying man toppling backwards only for another warrior to slam an axe into the Mountain Man's chest.
Gustus shouts out a warning, his arm coming to shield Lexa's shoulder before he moves fully into her vision, his eyes aflame as he snares a Mountain Man by the throat, as he pummels his fist into the face plate before he kicks harshly into the Mountain Man's stomach, tossing him aside for another warrior to plunge a knife into the Mountain Man's back.
She slices out once more, her blade sinking into another's flesh as she meets the eyes of a wounded warrior, his hands clutching at his thigh as blood pours between his fingers. And it's a quick nod, a quick acknowledgement before another Trikru races forward, grabbing the wounded man under the arms as he drags him backwards.
And it's one last throw over her shoulder, one last slash of her sword and one last bubbling, thrashing mess of a body before the ridgeline stills, before the sounds of gunfire halt and her warriors pause in their motions as they search for the next enemy.
And before her lies the dead of the Mountain, their bodies still slowly bubbling as air rushes into opened suits, blood pooling against face plates. She casts her eyes quickly over her own warriors, some breathing hard, some with wounds dripping and some with wounded and dead slung over their shoulders.
"The ridgeline is secure, Heda," and she turns to find Anya wrenching her sword from a dead Mountain Man's chest, her eyes only briefly looking around her as she wipes her sword on the man's suit, cleaning the blade of the dripping blood.
"Tristan," and Lexa looks around her for the bald warrior. "Return the wounded and dead to the rear and then take the rest of your men and find the Lake and Rock Line clans. Support them if they need help and then return to the Mountain."
And Tristan nods his head quickly before barking orders to those around him.
The rush back from the ridgeline lasts only a few pained breaths and then Lexa breaks free from the trees. She finds a number of Skaikru standing by the entrance to the Mountain, their weapons screaming down the gaping hole in the Mountain's side as they fire at whoever defends the tunnel. The door lies opened, ropes tied to it that have pulled it open, the fibres straining and bloodied and twisted.
She feels the crack of a bullet as it snaps overhead and so she ducks as she races to where her warriors lie in wait, where they pause in their advance until an opening or an order is given.
"Heda," and Lexa turns to find Indra racing up to her, "we wait for your order. Those with the shields are preparing to advance with Skaikru."
And so Lexa nods her head, her eyes briefly flicking to the spattering of blood that clings to Indra's cheek.
"Send them in."
There's a stampede of feet and clanging metal as the first wave of warriors rushes forward, their shields held in front of them as Skaikru continues to fire down the entrance, the smoke and the fire of battle raging around them.
And Lexa watches.
She stays crouched low to the ground as warriors huddle around her, their hands gripping their weapons tightly as their eyes focus on the entrance, as they eye the retreating backs of the first wave of warriors that disappear into the depths of the Mountain. The gunfire echoes inside for a moment, she hears the shouting and the screaming and the clanging of metal for only one more breath. And then it stills, it quiets and it pauses.
Her eyes turn to Indra to find the older woman glancing around her briefly, her eyes scanning the trees and the ridgeline before falling back to her, an uncertainty in her eyes.
"Heda," and Indra grips her sword tighter, her eyes snapping back to the entrance. "The first wave has fallen," and Indra turns back to the warriors behind her, their eyes fierce and eager in the waning light. "I will lead the second."
And so Lexa nods once, her hand clapping Indra across the shoulder.
"Go, Indra."
And then Indra growls out orders, warriors, Trikru and other clans coming to rise with her as she rushes forward, her sword glinting in the burning of flames as she screams forward.
It lasts long moments, the second wave of warriors swallowed by the open maw that is the Mountain's entrance, the massive door hanging open, blackened by smoke, reddened with blood. And so Lexa peers forward, her fingers gripped tightly around her sword as her breaths come full and slow, her mind focusing slowly, calmly, soothingly on what her next actions will be.
She feels Gustus near her, she feels Anya growl out quietly behind her and she knows who approaches. And it's a careful gait, a quiet crunching of feet against ground and the low rustle of furs against furs.
"Heda," and the voice comes gruff, low and cunning. "What are we waiting for?"
And so she turns to find Roan facing her, Azgeda warriors flowing behind him, their faces whitened and deathly, their hair, braids and beards streaked with the white paint of Azgeda.
"We wait until the fighting silences, or until Indra calls for reinforcements," comes the shrugged answer, her eyes peering out at the other warriors behind the Azgeda. "But it would seem that your Azgeda forces have done well inside the Mountain," she continues as she turns back to peer into the Mountain. "There has not been as much fighting outside the Mountain as was expected."
"They serve well," Roan answers quietly, his own gaze turning towards the Mountain's entrance. "I would expect nothing le—"
And a horn echoes out of the Mountain, it shakes and rattles against the stone and the ground and through the warriors waiting their turn. And Roan's eyes snap to Lexa's, his hand gripping his own sword firmly as the Azgeda around him begin to smile, their eyes eager and ready.
"Indra calls us," and the words leave Lexa's lips smoothly, and she finds them wending calm and quiet through her mind.
And so her hand raises, her fist clenched tightly as she begins to move forward, her breaths coming more rapid, her eyes darting left and right, and her muscles tensing, ready for whatever she will face.
And so Lexa races forward, the dark of the Mountain swallowing her as she descends into its depths with a scream upon her lips and an army by her side.
She ducks, the blade whistling over head and she rolls, she spins on her knees and she brings her knife into the reaper's leg as she rises and then she darts left, her shoulder brushing against the smoothed wall of the Mountain's corridor, and it's just a quick glance behind her to see Gustus cleaving the reaper's head from its shoulders before she finds Indra locked in fierce battle with her own foe. Indra flips her blade, the edge coming to rest against her forearm as she slashes out with her elbow, the end of her sword severing the reapers throat and spraying her face once more, a geyser of blood painting the wall behind her a sickly browned ruin.
Anya roars out, her fist colliding with the bleeding mess of a reaper's throat as she, too, drives a sword through its stomach before rushing forward, her eyes searching for the next.
And so Lexa takes a moment to search the faces she sees. And it had been a rush, a frantic sprint through the entrance, she had seen Trikru warriors, some wounded, some dead, all lying before her, blood had dripped from the walls and pooled at her feet, bullet holes had buried themselves into the walls and flesh. The second corridor had been worse, Skaikru had lain dead there too, wounds left gaping and jagged upon their bodies. But she had found Indra, she had found the other Trikru, all locked in a deadly battle with reapers as they moved further and further into the Mountain.
And so Lexa turns at the calling of her name, her sword quickly disarming a lone reaper as it lunges for her before she spins out from its outstretched hand, the white feathered arrow of an Azgeda archer piercing it in the eye as it tumbles back.
"Heda," and she comes face to face with Anya, the other woman's face smeared and dripping. "We have secured the main entrance," and it comes out victorious, it comes out vibrant and eager. And it comes out a smile.
"There were no Mountain Men, Heda," and she turns to find Indra picking her way through the dead, other warriors already beginning to move the wounded and their own dead back out of the Mountain. "Only reapers, Heda," Indra finishes as she casts her eyes down the hallway until they land upon the sealed doors where Skaikru crouch.
"I believe Clarke and Octavia have done their part," and Lexa thinks a small smile must flit across her lips, if only by the narrowing of Anya's eyes. "The Mountain has had their forces divided. We will push this advantage."
And so she moves down the corridor, her hand still holding her sword as she comes to a stop by Kane's side, his eyes peering down at another Skaikru who inspects the glowing red light that sits within the wall.
"It's almost open, Heda," Kane says as he looks up at her, a cut running down his cheek, blood pooling across his knuckles. "How long, Sinclair?"
"Any moment now, Kane," the man replies, his own hair singed and dirtied from the fighting.
And she feels the anticipation build as she stares at the sole guardian to what she has sought for lifetimes. The doors stand still, quiet and lonely before a sea of her warriors, their eyes trained on the small opening that will soon be granted them, and she feels the restlessness, she feels the anxious beat of their hearts and the eager breaths they find leaving their lips.
And she feels it too.
"We must be prepared for anything," and her voice carries over the sounds of her warriors. "We must be ready to aid our allies who already fight the Mountain Men, who already bleed for us, and who may have already lost their fight," and she lets her voice echo, she lets it linger and she lets it build.
Her legs tense, her body lowers as she moves into a crouch and her eyes narrow as she gazes once at Kane, and her eyes find Sinclair, the man giving her one last nod as his finger pauses over the flashing light that will be the gutting blow to the Mountain.
"I am with you, Heda," and she turns at the quiet words she hears breathed besides her to find Anya by her side, bow and arrow in hand as she aims it squarely in front of her.
"I am with you, Anya," and she thinks a small smile graces her lips as she holds Anya's gaze.
And then the doors open.
It's a roar that leaves her lips, it's a thundering stampede as she crashes forward, Anya and Gustus shadowing her movements, Indra behind her crying out a battle cry of her own.
And it's silent.
It's too still.
It's too dark.
It's too damp.
It's too wet.
Her feet come to a skidding stop, her eyes squinting in the harsh darkness she finds herself in. The Mountain's hallways darken themselves, the shadows live long and cruelly against the floor and walls and ceiling, the only light she finds the quietly burning flames of the torches carried by some of her warriors and the flashing red of the lights that sit recessed within the ceiling of the Mountain.
And it's a stench she thinks familiar.
Her feet take her further and further through the hallway, the only sound she hears the cruel wet step of the warriors as they stalk forward, their own eyes searching wildly. She passes a door on her left, the hinges charred and so she flicks her wrist sending a number of warriors through it, their weapons readied. She passes a door to her right, more warriors peeling off from the army that snakes and slithers forward.
And it's a cross road she comes to, an intersection in the hallway. It's a choice. It's left or right, her only two options. But that isn't the thing that gives her pause, the choice isn't the thing that makes her still her steps.
It's the burning, boiling, bubbled mess of stench that lies in the pooling red of a light overhead. And as she nears, as she approaches it she smells it. She smells the roasting flesh, she feels her stomach churn and she feels her feet continue to suck against the floor.
And she comes to a stop, between her and the pile mere paces, mere moments away, but enough to turn the churning of her stomach into a heaving mess. But she bites her lip as her eyes settle on what lies before her. And she hears a warrior gasp, she hears a warrior retch and gag behind her and she hears a warrior empty her stomach.
It's charred, yellow, it's melted and broken and roiling and moist as it seeps into the floor. It's flesh, muscle, skin, blood and human. And it's a body, it's the burning, festering remains of a roasted person. And as her eyes peer at it, as her gaze settles on the figure she realises she knows not what she looks at. And perhaps it's a head, perhaps it's a face, perhaps it's the roasting stump of a leg, the lower half already melted off, already burnt and ruined.
Her eyes trail over the seeping liquid that pools around the body, and her eyes follow the blood and the puss and the sickening green boiled flesh as it drips around it in larger and larger trails. And she thinks she gasps. She thinks her eyes widen and her feet step back and her heel slips. And as she raises her foot, as she brings it from the ground and as she moves it a sickly stringing mess comes away, and she realises she stands in what was once a human.
Lexa sends her eyes down the left path then, her stomach clenching painfully as the smell lingers, as it festers and builds and seeps into her nostrils. And maybe she thinks she will be sick, maybe she thinks her stomach may never rest after today. Maybe she will never taste the roasting of a deer as it turns slowly over a burning flame, as it's charred flesh melts in her mouth and as the juices drip between her lips. And there's more. The hallway to her left carries others. Their bodies melted and burnt and charred into the ground. And she turns to her right, and her eyes see a melted mess scratched and boiled into a door, a pile reaching up to what she thinks is a handle, the legs having melted off, both merely a mess that lingers a pace behind the melting body.
And she hears another warrior heave and retch and curse and splutter as their stomach empties.
"What happened here?" and it comes out sickened, it comes out shocked and quiet and broken.
"I don't know," someone answers quietly, their voice hoarse and broken and awed.
"What could have done such a thing?" and she thinks she hears disgust, she thinks she hears fear and anger and remorse and hurt.
"Who did this?"
And the question lingers in her mind, it festers and grows and spreads and claws into her thoughts and into her heart.
But she knows what happened. She knows what could have done such a thing. And she knows who did this.
And so she turns to face her army, the words already on her lips.
"Wanheda has returned."
Her feet take her faster and faster and further and further through the winding mess of the Mountain. The smell breaks against her nose and burns across her face, but she races forward. She ignores the calls of her name as Wells screams out to her, she ignores the pounding of Torvun's feet as he runs behind her, and she ignores the heaving of Monty as he empties his stomach in the room she leaves, the smell and the stench and the crackling flesh leaving him weak and sickened.
She rounds a corner, her eyes meeting an Arker, his eyes widened in horror as he stares at another, a figure, a man, a woman, maybe even a child, but Clarke eyes him for only a moment as she sees him look at the writhing mess that twitches and contorts and convulses on the ground.
And she hates it. It makes her sick, it makes her angry and furious and it breaks her. And she is sure tears burn from her eyes, and she is sure the blood will stain her heart as she rips her knife through the Arker's neck and she races onwards as blood sprays out across her face, as it drips into her hair and ruins her furs.
And her heart aches, it burns and it screams out at her.
I'm coming, Ontari.
She feels her feet slip under her, she feels her legs buckle and her balance run from her. And she feels the impact, she feels the softened blow as she falls forward, as her fingers slip into the burning flesh of a dying figure. And she screams out, she spits out a mouthful of whatever it was her face smashed into and she gags and retches as she comes to her feet, as she continues forward and as she rounds a corner.
A knife whips past her, the blade glinting in the burning red of the emergency lights as Echo throws a dagger forwards at another Arker, this one staring horrified at her hands as she looks at the slowly bubbling remains of a figure before her. And Clarke barely registers the pained thump, the quiet gasp, before she moves past the now dying Arker, the sound of a sword ripping through flesh all she hears before she comes to a heaving stop, her mind screaming out to her as her chest shakes, as her legs burn and her eyes sting and water and as her fists come crashing against the door.
She isn't sure how long her fists slam agains the metal, she isn't sure how long she screams and cries out, but her fists ache and throb and burn with the repeated motions. And as she brings a fist back, as she readies it for one more slam forward the door creaks, it groans and it snaps open.
And she stares at the first person she sees. And her eyes flick over the white of their warpaint, her eyes focus on the furs that line the woman's shoulders and the scars that linger down her chin.
"Clarke," and it's surprised, it's awed and feared.
"Is everyone alright?" and Clarke snaps it out at the woman before her, the flame haired Azgeda stepping back as her eyes trace the blood and wet that lingers against Clarke's heaving body.
"We have dead," the woman replies, her eyes turning to the bodies that lie on the floor. "We captured Mountain Men that didn't burn," the woman continues quietly as she gestures to a number of Arkers, their hands tied, blindfolded and gagged, and Clarke's eyes snap to Thelonious who thrashes against his bonds, his head swivelling left and right to any sound he hears. "We are trying to free the captured," and the woman whispers these words out quietly too, her voice horrified and broken as her eyes fall to the captured grounders that still remain caged. "We can not open the cages," she finishes mournfully.
But Clarke doesn't hear her, or she ignores her, she discards the words the woman gives. And maybe it's selfish, maybe it's cruel, uncaring, unkind. But, as her eyes settle on the figure lying on the ground, she thinks she knows.
And it hurts.
It screams out at her and ruins her mind as she sees the blood that pools underneath.
And she knows.
Her eyes trace over the body, her eyes move to the woman who cradles the bloodied mess in her arms and her eyes meets Entani's. And the other healer looks up at her, and it's a quiet gaze they share, it's a mournful thing and a desperate thing. And Entani's nose is broken, it twists and bends and sits painfully across the healer's face. Her eye remains swollen, bloodied and a mess of puss and drying blood.
And Clarke only meets her gaze for long enough to know she stills breathes, for long enough that she knows her attention isn't needed. And then her eyes settle on the woman in Entani's arms.
And it's a choked, broken sound that breaks in her throat as she rushes forward, as her eyes find the blood that seeps through Entani's fingers and that ruins the white furs that lie across the shoulders of the person in Entani's arms.
And Clarke comes to a skidding halt by Entani, her eyes watering as she peers down and as she falls to her knees and as her hand comes out shakily.
"Ontari," and it comes pained, whispered and broken as her fingers brush against Ontari's cheek, the sweat and blood and white of her war paint coming away with Clarke's fingers.
"Ontari," and she whispers her name again, and her fingers brush against Ontari's forehead before tucking a strand of her hair behind a too cold ear.
"Ontari," and she is sure her lips tremble, she is sure her eyes water and burn and let the pain flow cruelly.
"You scared me, Ontari," and she wipes a hand across her nose, the sound undignified, and broken. "You scared me, Ontari," and she whispers it again as she settles next to Ontari.
"You scared me," and Clarke says it again and she thinks her heart aches at the sight before her.
"I thought you died," and she knows she cries, she knows she lets her shoulders shake and her heart heave painfully in her chest. "I thought I lost you," and she smiles as Ontari reaches up tenderly, as a shaky hand comes to lay atop Clarke's own as it cards through the furs on her shoulder.
"I am hard to kill," and the words come quiet, broken and full of pain, but Clarke smiles. She lets a laugh escape her lips as she gazes at Ontari, the woman's face a pale white, even behind the smeared paint she still wears.
"Rest," and Clarke whispers the words out as she casts her eyes to Entani's hand as it still presses firmly to Ontari's shoulder, the blood beginning to slow and steady between her fingers. "You're going to make it, Ontari," and Clarke brings her hands up to Ontari's head as she moves it into her lap, a quiet sorry falling from her lips as Ontari winces, as she whimpers and as she clenches her jaw painfully.
"We won, Clarke," and she looks up at Entani's words, a smile, awed and unbelieving living in the healer's eyes. "We defeated the Mountain," and Clarke is sure a broken smile splits her lips.
And so she lets an ugly laugh rip through her chest, she lets a quiet sob break through her throat and she lets the cruel shaking of her shoulders bring her into a quiet turmoil as the stench of the burnt bodies reach her senses once more.
And they won.
And it hurts.
And so she turns carefully, her eyes falling onto the door she had come from as she hears the approaching footsteps, as she hears the clanging of metal as it brushes against metal. And her eyes fall on a figure that stands in the door way.
And it's only a moment that their eyes meet, it's only a quiet breath, only a moment's beat of her heart.
But her eyes lock with the green that stares back.
And it's a strange thing, she thinks, as she holds Lexa's gaze, as she shares a moment that she thinks only for them. And it's understanding. She thinks she sees an understanding that lives in Lexa's eyes, that breathes on every exhale and every contraction of her lungs.
And maybe it's an understanding of the choices Clarke has made.
And maybe it's acceptance as Lexa's gaze falls to Ontari, still cradled in Clarke's arms,
And maybe it's acceptance of the things Clarke has done, that Clarke has dared to do.
But maybe it's an acceptance of the not yet that lingers somewhere between them. And maybe it's a sadness, a guilt, a burden that Clarke thinks Lexa holds upon her shoulders. And maybe, if Clarke looks hard enough, if she lets her eyes linger for long enough, she thinks the sadness within Lexa's gaze is for her. Is for the things Lexa must understand now torment Clarke's mind— that will torment her waking thoughts.
And the words they shared echo in her mind.
Maybe life should be about more than just surviving.
Don't we deserve better than that?
But perhaps surviving isn't for her. Perhaps all she's done is survive, all she's done is wait for her turn, for her moment. For the time when she's flung from the Ark, for her time when she spins through space, for the long, painful moment when the oxygen she breathes is ripped from her lungs. Maybe all she's done since coming to the ground is wait, is steal a breath not for her to have. Not for her to breathe.
And maybe she doesn't deserve it. And maybe she thinks, and maybe she knows that she deserves nothing more than the hollow ache that spreads through her thoughts and whispers and taunts her mind. And she thinks these thoughts that she now thinks of are senseless, are pointless, she thinks them rambling and broken and disjointed.
But she thinks she knows the answer now.
She thinks she knows the outcome.
She thinks she knows the game.
And as her eyes fall to the bloodied strap around her wrist, as her eyes settle on her father's watch, she hears the words more fully.
She hears the question more clearly.
And so that question?
What is survival?
And that answer?
Survival is a fool's errand.