35

Friends

OCTAVIA

I find Clarke in the mess hall at a table with Jasper and Harper. And the three of them are laughing so freely, I half expect to find them passing a bottle of Jasper and Monty's moonshine around, despite the fact that the morning sun still burns brightly outside. Clarke spots me coming towards them and abruptly the laughter stops. And I almost feel guilty, like my mere presence is a party pooper. Part of me wishes I could sit down with them and drink and laugh and just fuck around like we used to, back when we were just a bunch of unwanted delinquent kids sent to Earth to die... Back when we were friends... Back when we were something like a family. But I feel like I barely know who Jasper and Harper, and even Clarke, are anymore. I feel like I barely know who I am anymore.

And the desire to sit with them is immediately stamped out by Jasper's small wave and Harper's even smaller smile and the look of understanding in Clarke's eyes. Because apparently I'm wearing the fucking sign taped on my back again. Because, just like everyone else, these three know that I am broken. And I just want to drink and laugh and fuck around, but I know that all I will get here is more awkward, uncomfortable attempts at sympathy and I don't think I can stomach anymore of that.

"Hey, Octavia." They call out to me in quiet, yet overly cheerful, voices, as if I'm some senile old woman on a sick bed.

"Raven here?" I ask, by way of greeting.

"No." Clarke answers. "She's at the mansion with Monty cooking up more serum. But she left Trishana's batch for you over in C Hanger. I'll walk with you." She offers.

"I know how to get to C Hanger, Clarke." I spit before I can stop myself, and my tone is venomous and immediately I wish I could suck the words back into me and swallow them down to where they can only hurt me. But whether or not my words stung her, Clarke doesn't show the hurt.

"It's a big batch. I'll help you get it loaded." She says with a shrug, as if accompanying me is nothing more than a way for her to earn herself a Girl Scout's merit badge. But I am not fooled. I know she is offering me so much more than just saving me a trip or two of hefting the jugs of serum out to the horses. I have plenty of Trikru men outside who could help me. I don't need Clarke. I could spit more poison at her until she leaves me. But I just hold my tongue and let her walk along beside me.

And I know I should be grateful for her company. Because, since Lincoln died, Clarke has been nothing but kind and compassionate and understanding to me. And maybe it is because I know that she is all of those things that I have been nothing but a shit to her in return. Maybe it is because I know only weeks ago she was broken just like me, but it seems that Clarke has somehow put herself back together just fine. Clarke can laugh and smile and fuck around without everyone around her worrying that she might just break or fall apart or explode if they speak too loudly or smile too big.

And Clarke knows how to forgive... Even shits like me. And I think of my last personal encounter with her and how I yelled and yelled. And I know I should apologize. I WANT to apologize. But still I just hold my tongue.

We turn a corner into an empty corridor and suddenly Clarke grabs my wrist and pulls me to a stop beside her. She releases my arm quickly, as if she knows I don't want to be touched. But her intense blue eyes hold me just as tightly as her fingers had.

"I have something for you." She says, swallowing hard, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of her shirt.

"It's from..." She pauses, now rocking back and forth between her heels and her toes as if fighting the urge to run down the hall and leave me confused and alone in the semi-darkness. "It's from... Well... It's from Lincoln."

"What?" I ask, completely taken aback. What does she mean she has something from Lincoln? Something he left with her before he died? Something she's been holding on to this whole time? Or is it something she just found? "What?" I repeat, stupidly.

"OK... I haven't really told everyone yet..." Clarke begins awkwardly, as I just stare at her in confusion. "But Raven helped me... Helped me... We put the flame in my neck." She finally blurts out.

"The flame?" I ask, still completely confused. What does that have to do with anything? "I thought you said the flame was destroyed along with the City of Light..."

"Well... It KIND OF was." Clarke confesses in a tone that suggests she's trying to reassure her own guilty conscience. "I didn't lie, EXACTLY. The City was destroyed. And both versions of ALIE. And I didn't know for sure if the flame would even work... But, the flame wasn't destroyed and the spirits of the Commanders are still in it."

"You kept the flame for yourself so you could try to visit Lexa." I say and it is neither a question nor an accusation. It's simply a realization. I still have no idea what this has to do with whatever it is that Lincoln left for me. "Did it work?"

"Yes." Clarke breathes. And she cannot hide the sheer happiness held in that tiny word. And now I understand how Clarke has been able to stitch herself back together so nicely while I am still just a broken, bloody mess. I imagine being able to see Lincoln again... Being able to speak with him... Being able to hold him in my arms. And I want to be happy that Clarke has found her way back to Lexa, but I cannot find any happiness in me.

"Anyway..." Clarke continues. "I can only speak with the past commanders. But Lexa... She can visit others. And I thought... I asked her to..." She pauses her stuttering to pull a tiny square of paper from her pocket. It's been folded and folded and folded again like a love note passed in class, right under the teacher's nose.

"Here." She finally manages to spit out. "It's from Lincoln."

I stare at the small square of paper in her palm, struggling to understand... Struggling to believe... Struggling just to breathe.

"I had to write it." Clarke says apologetically. "It was the only way I could get it to you. But the words... The words are all Lincoln's."

I finally reach out and my fingers are shaking slightly as I pluck the note from her palm. But Clarke doesn't comment on my trembling, or the shimmer of unshed tears gathering in my eyes, or the fact that I'm still holding my breath. I look at Clarke still standing before me, even though I did nothing but try to push her away. And my throat is tight... So tight... With everything I want to say to her. And everything I cannot say.

"Clarke," I choke out, forcing my swollen tongue into subordination. And now I'M the idiot who is stuttering. "I... I'm... I'm sorry... Sorry for..."

"Hey..." Clarke cuts me off quickly with a smile. And it is not another sad, small, sympathetic smile that I cannot stomach. It is the genuine smile of a friend... A friend who understands everything unspoken... A friend who forgives easily and just wants to smile and see me smile too. "You don't have to apologize, Octavia. Not to me. All you did was yell at me a little. Honestly, I should count myself lucky you never pulled your sword on me." She laughs as if I haven't been pushing and pushing and pushing her away for weeks. She laughs as if there is nothing to forgive.

I wrap my fingers around Lincoln's note and I wrap my arms around Clarke. And I hold her for one moment... Two moments... Three... Before I pull away again. And I finally, FINALLY, find the words. "Thanks, Clarke. Thanks."

...

The crumpled and creased sheet of paper quakes in my quivering fingers and I have to rest my hand against the solid stillness of my knee to make sense of the curves and straights of Clarke's letters. The loopy, wild cursive is so different from Lincoln's small, neat, no-nonsense print, that I struggle to get her voice out of my head as I read. But a few sentences into it and all thoughts of Clarke are gone. All thoughts of anything are gone. There is only Lincoln in my head now. And it is glorious. And it is painful, painful, painful.

Octavia,

I don't really know what to say or where to start. I have so much I want to tell you... And I'm not good at writing letters... And I'm probably just going to ramble... But here goes...

I know you are probably furious with me. Because this wasn't the way things were supposed to turn out. We were supposed to find peace together. We were supposed to build a home. We were supposed to have an apple tree out front and lilies by our door and a butterfly bush beside the back porch, and stupid chickens running around making a mess, pooping everywhere and scratching up the vegetable patch. We were supposed to have a big, loyal dog and a bunch of little warriors chasing each other around and driving us crazy. We were supposed to have a little girl with your stubborn will and dark hair and hazel eyes and my kindness and patience. We were supposed to have a little boy with my devilish good looks and irresistible charm and your courage and strength. We were supposed to have a home full of laughter and smiles. We were supposed to have a home.

And I know I took that all away. Because you asked me to run away with you, and I chose to stay. You asked me to fight, and I chose to end my fight. But you know I had to.

I couldn't run away. I had to make a stand against the hatred and the fear and the anger. Because life is about sacrifice and love and honor. And without these things there is only the ugliness.

And I didn't want our children growing up in a world of ugliness... A world where good, kind, honest people run away from the hatred and the fear and the anger. I didn't want our children to grow up in a world where they had to identify themselves as Kalia kom Triku, or Taiven kom Skaikru or Hollis kom Floukru, but rather in a world where they could just be Kalia, just Taiven, and just Hollis.

And I'm so sorry I had to leave you. I know what it is like to be left behind. I know the grief can make you feel like you're broken, shattered into a million pieces that can never be put back together again. I know it can make you feel like part of you is somehow missing, like you've been hollowed out until there is nothing but emptiness. I know it makes you feel like you'll never be whole, you'll never be filled again. I know it makes you feel weak... So weak.

But you are not weak, Octavia. You are strong... So stubbornly strong. I saw it from the moment you fell out of the sky and crashed into my world... You were always stronger than the others. And when I found you at the bottom of the ravine, a broken muddy mess, you felt so small and fragile in my arms, and I knew in that moment that I would do anything to protect you... I would suffer the death of a thousand cuts, I would take an arrow to the shoulder, a spike through my palm, a bullet to the temple.

But then you woke up in my cave and you bashed me across the head and tried to escape, more than once, and I realized that you were not someone who needs to be protected. You have fire in you and you have fight in you. And you saved my life as many times as I saved yours, because you were right... We fight together. And I'm sorry I stole that choice from you, because the ability to choose your own death is a rare gift. And I chose mine, because I knew that some things are worth dying for... And love... Love is always worth dying for. Love is more powerful than the anger or the fear or the hatred. And I had to die to fight the ugliness. And now YOU have to LIVE to fight it.

And I know you think if I had never met you, I would still be alive. But, Octavia, you were the very best part of my life. And my only regret is having to leave you.

And I know you feel all alone. But you are not. You are so loved, Octavia. Indra looks at you and she sees the warrior inside of you, and she sees herself in you. And though she tries her damnedest to hide it, I've never seen Indra as fond of anyone as she is of you. And Kane looks at you as if you were his own daughter. And Bellamy... I know you blame him for all of this and forgiveness might still be a long ways away... But Bellamy loves you as fiercely as I do, even if he is a total dick. And you are not alone, Octavia. You are loved... So loved.

And you are strong... So strong. There is no one and nothing strong enough to extinguish your fire, to put out your fight... Except, for yourself. You are the only one strong enough to destroy you. And you are the only one strong enough to put yourself back together, to make yourself whole again. When I was knocked down, you gave me the strength to get back up. And now it's your turn to get back up again. Get back up... Fight the anger. Fight the loneliness. Fight the emptiness. Get back up and fight.

You are strong enough. Fight for yourself, because you are worth fighting for. There is so much goodness in you... So much light... So much beauty. You are worth fighting for. You are worth living for. You are worth dying for.

I once told you I wanted you to remember me when I am dead. But I want you to know now, that every time you think of me, I am thinking of you. Because I am ALWAYS thinking of you.

It is always Spring here and every morning the lilies open, white and beautiful, and I think of you. And I watch children playing and laughing and running through the forest in a world without fear or hatred or anger, and I think of you. And when the nights are warm enough I sleep on the soft earth under the trees to feel closer to you. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I forget, and I still reach out for you.

Because I miss you, Octavia. I miss your soft warmth beside me. I miss my fingers getting tangled in your braids. I miss smelling the forest in your hair and tasting it on your skin. And I miss you nibbling on my bottom lip and your evil teasing giggles as you dragged your fingers so slow and soft along all the right places until I was crazy with my need for you. And I miss driving you to the point where your fingernails would bite into me hard enough to draw blood.

I miss counting all the colors in your eyes and telling you stupid jokes just so I could watch them roll at me. I miss the fire in your eyes and the stubborn clench of your jaw whenever we argued. And the way you'd pout your lips and make frustrated little huffing sounds whenever I tried to apologize. But no matter how angry you were you always let me plant a kiss on your forehead.

And I miss you leaping into my arms and letting me lift you until your feet dangled in the air. I miss your cocky little smirk and your mischievous grin and the sound of your laughter and the glint in your eyes when you'd flash me that look to say 'there's no one else around.' I miss being the one who got to hold you while you cry. I miss daydreaming with you and fighting off the nightmares with you. And I miss the feel of your hand in mine and the way it made me feel steady, and grounded, and strong. And I miss the squeeze of your arms around my waste and how it made me feel home.

And I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

But I know we will meet again. And you will join me here and this place will become even more beautiful with everything you add to it. And I want you to take your time getting here. I want you to make me wait and wait and wait. Because I will always be here, waiting and waiting and waiting for you.

I love you, love you, love you.

-Lincoln

PS... I should have told you this a long time ago... But like I said, I love your angry little huffs. And the way you'd mumble 'little shit' under your breath... well... It's so adorable I couldn't get enough of it. So, sorry I made you wait so long. But here it is... The secret to Helios's affections: Cucumbers. The damn horse loves cucumbers. I'd pop chunks in his mouth all the time when you weren't looking. That's why he always loved me best. And I'm really sorry. And I'm definitely NOT laughing right now, imagining the fire in your eyes and the angry crinkle between your eyebrows and the set of your jaw and the pout of your lips. And I definitely DON'T find your anger amusing, adorable, or sexy at all. Did I mention I was sorry? If you are still angry when we finally meet again, I will kiss you on the forehead. And once the anger passes, I will kiss you everywhere, everywhere, everywhere else. Give Helios a cucumber and a hard nip on the ear for me. I love you, Octavia. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I read his words a second and then a third time because I do not know what to feel inside. And though I know it is Clarke's handiwork, my eyes trace and retrace the curves of the lily drawn in the bottom corner of the page until its lines are as ingrained into the backs of my eyelids as the pictures from the pages of Lincoln's journal. And then I refold the paper along every crease until it is the tiniest of squares again and I hold it in my palm and stare at the trees and the sky and the forest floor. And I stare at nothing at all.

And I search myself. But I still do not know what to feel. And I do not feel the anger. I do not even feel the sadness. I know I should be crying or laughing or smiling, knowing that Lincoln is in a beautiful place and that he waits for me. I should feel strengthened or encouraged by his words. I should feel... Different. But I don't. I still feel empty. I still feel lost.

I open my palm and consider the square of paper. I could clutch it in my fist forever. I could tuck it into the folds of my coat and keep it beside my heart. Or I could let the wind carry it gently from my fingers and let it drift to the ground and become forever lost in the grass and the mud and the fallen leaves. It would make no difference. Because this paper is just that... Nothing but a piece of paper.

And Lincoln is still gone. And I am still broken. And, without him by my side I do not think I can find the strength to fight anything anymore. I cannot find the strength to put myself back together again. Because the girl in Lincoln's letter... The girl with the courage and the strength and the fire and the fight... The girl with the goodness and the light and the beauty inside... The girl that Lincoln loved... I think maybe that girl died with Lincoln, because I cannot find her inside of me now.

I do not feel strong or brave or good. I do not feel angry or sad or joyful. I do not feel anything. I just... I just miss him. I miss him. I miss him. And maybe I miss her too... The girl with both fight and light inside of her... The girl I was with Lincoln by my side.

I miss her. I miss her. I miss her. And I cannot find my way back to her any more than I can find my way back to Lincoln.

And I pull out Luna's shell and I smash the edges of the folded letter until I can shove it into the shell's emptiness, filling its hollows. And I just sigh and stare down at my hands and I wish I could ball Lincoln's words in my fist and shove them into the emptiness in me and fill all my hollows too. I wish it were that easy. I wish it were that simple. But it's not. It's not. It's not.

"Octavia? Octavia?" The voice is high, fragile, like the song of wind chimes gently colliding with one another as they dance in the breeze... Tiny and delicate like the mindless chirping of a finch, flittering from branch to branch, greeting the day. It's a voice I've never heard before, I'm sure of it. And yet it sounds so familiar, so hauntingly familiar.

I look up to see Eevie standing before me, eyeing me with wide, concerned eyes. And I am so surprised to hear her speak, that suddenly I'M the one who is struck dumb. I just stare at her, blinking stupidly, my mouth hanging open, my voice retreating into the depths of me. Because when Eevie speaks again, it hits me. It finally, finally hits me. It shatters against me like a Boudalan rock to my temple, making me reel, making me hallucinate again.

"Octavia... Are you OK?" The voice asks me, but I blink through the blur of my stinging eyes and it is not Eevie's face that studies me. The hazel eyes, the dark tangles of hair, the voice that is like wind chimes and birdsong... They belong to a different girl... A girl I have not seen in years... A girl I never expected to see again. They belong to a girl who was never wanted, a mistake that was hidden from the world beneath the floorboards... A tiny little shell of a person who whispered "I am not afraid" over and over again when the fear and the loneliness made it hard to breathe, and who never once believed her own lie.

The girl stares at me... Stares into me. Because I am bigger than her, and older, and I have warpaint streaked across my face and a sword strapped to my back... But this girl is not fooled. Because I am just like her. I am still just a tiny little shell of a person. I am still just a liar struggling to breathe.

"Octavia?" The girl says again. And I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head until my brain rattles, and I breathe in and I breathe out. And when I open my eyes, Eevie is staring at me again. Her hazel eyes aren't wide anymore. They're narrowed in thought. And she stares at me. And she stares INTO me.

"

Octavia... You know how you told me that Lil' Chief was lonely? And you asked me if I would be his friend?"

I give her a weak, dazed nod. It's all that I can manage.

"Well... I know I'm already your second... But... Would it be OK..." She pauses, biting her lip shyly. "Could I be your FRIEND too?"

At her words, the stinging behind my eyelids, the tightness in my lungs, the burning in my throat... It all becomes unbearable. And I barely manage another weak nod before the sob chokes out of the depths of me, wracking my empty shell of a body, until I am doubled over onto my hands and knees. And the tears collect in the corners of my eyes and spill down my cheeks and off my quivering chin. And I'm so shocked by their sudden appearance that I can't even say for sure why I am crying.

Maybe I am weeping for the girl who had the light and the fight in her with Lincoln by her side. Maybe I am weeping for the girl trapped in the darkness under the floor. Maybe I am weeping for the girl I am now.

Eevie stares down at me with a frown on her tiny face. And I think she wants to ask me to stop crying. And I think she wants to run off into the forest, far far into the trees until she cannot hear my sobs carried on the wind. But she suddenly drops to her own hands and knees before me and she crawls into the space between my chest and the ground.

And she puts one tiny hand on my shoulder so she can push me up onto my knees. And before I can even think to shrug out from beneath it, she pulls her hand off my shoulder and throws both arms around my neck instead. And She clings to me. She clings. She clings. She clings.

And before I know it, my own arms wrap around her tiny shell of a body. And I cling to her. I cling. I cling. I cling.

And I feel something rising out of the emptiness inside of me. It is not a heavy, fiery heat. It does not claw at my lungs or gnaw at my heart or burrow into my stomach. It is a warm tingle, a soft prickling. It moves through my hollowness gently, lightly like the quiet stirring of air. It wraps itself around my heart, but instead of crushing it in its fists, it cradles it in its palms. It moves into my lungs, but instead of constricting them, it opens them. And as the tingling spreads through my chest and into my fingertips, I take a deep breath... A miraculously deep breath. And I feel like I'm surfacing from water. It is like opening the door of the dropship, moving from the stale, recycled air of the Ark, and breathing in the scent of pine and bark and damp earth. It is like breathing for the first time.

And with the girl's tiny arms wrapped tightly around my neck, I breathe. I breathe. I breathe.

And I know that when she finally releases me, I will still be the same empty shell of a person that I am in this moment. But, for the first time, a tiny thought enters my mind... Maybe Atawa was right... Maybe you cannot know what it is to be filled until you understand how it feels to be empty. And maybe I NEEDED to become empty inside. Maybe that was the only way that I could ever be properly filled again. Maybe by becoming empty I was merely making room inside of me for something new, something better.

And the warm tingle is still rising within me and spreading through me like a drug. And I finally, finally recognize it. Hope... plain and pure and powerful.

Hope is erupting within me, gently running through me and finding all of my hollow places, the places of emptiness waiting to be filled. Hope is rising. And I welcome it.