A/N: Lexa is one of my favourite characters of The 100. She is so tragically beautiful and complex with a devastating backstory, and I wanted to honour that by writing a fanfic to really shed some insight on this broken, misunderstood woman. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Note: Some details may deviate from the established canon, since most of this will be based on my imagination. This is one of my first attempts at fanfiction, so please be kind :P In my mind (and apparently Jason's as well), Costia will resemble Adelaide Kane.
The girl is two years old when she first begins training. At five, she can throw a spear and hit its target. At six, she learns how to strategize, where to strike to disarm the opponent and how to avoid altercation entirely. Eight, and she's able to spar with the most seasoned of warriors for several minutes at a time. By the age of ten, she knows how to wound a man with deadly precision – and strike to kill if necessary. She is the pride and joy of the Woods clan, and they call her Lexa. Bright, quick, strong and full of life, she roams in fields of wheat with wildflowers in her hair and almost always emerges victorious from a fight.
Lexa is twelve when her fate is sealed forever.
The council of elders seem to revere this feisty storm of a girl, this small spitfire with an adventurer's spirit who climbs trees at dawn to watch the sun rise and bathe in its glow. Sometimes she would gaze at the heavens as if she belonged there. Lexa's superiors look at her with quiet affection, notice how she defends the weak and plays fair with the children of the village. They say Lexa's best feature is her laugh: triumphant and melodic, it carries a contagious quality that immediately rouses all those who hear it. If her laugh is the sound of glory, her smile is the canvas of peace. But her emerald eyes, how they shine with radiance and light. She is a sight to behold, but it is a temporary gift. Soon that spark of euphoria in those eyes will be doused in misery, dimmed into oblivion.
The elders are ignorant, despite all their wisdom. They do not know that someday life will steal her smile. They do not know that their plans for her rise to power, like so many leaders of ages past, will surely bring her to ruin, and that the flames that burn the brightest fade away the quickest.
And so they plot and scheme and conspire, evaluating this girl like a hawk scans its prey, until all have reached a consensus.
All, that is, except for one.
Anya sits at the end of the conference table, silent and stoic. She does not dare disapprove. Strands of dirty blonde hair unravel from its braid and slip in front of her weary hazel eyes, irritating them, but all she can feel is dread. She cannot ignore the sensation of it pooling at the pit of her stomach. As Lexa's mentor, she is acutely aware of her skills in combat, her expertise in the art of war and proficiency in its tactics. Hell, she taught her. Lexa may boast endless potential with her wits and prowess but she is still so young. And Anya knows from experience just how fragile youth could be. She is only twenty-four herself, but the Grounder life has rendered her face haggard well beyond her years, with hollow, sunken cheeks replacing a formerly rosy complexion, eyes once so lively diminishing in its fire.
Innocence never lasts in a land as cursed and desolate as theirs, and it is as fleeting and transient as what some people call happiness – neither belong in this culture built on chaos, one that thrives on the need to fight to survive or be hunted and left for dead. But one cannot navigate this cutthroat landscape with a steely resolve alone.
And there is no pain quite like that of being smothered by a life lived in the shadow of death.
Anya does not want to see that happen to her Second, to the child she thinks of as a sister: not now, not ever. But duty is cruel, and the people need a Commander.
~~~[I]~~~
Night falls on the Grounder campsite. The youngest warriors scurry into their tents for the last meal, many of them exhausted from the laborious training sessions held earlier that day. The forest trees loom over them like dismal specters, their branches jagged and barren. The sky was perpetually the colour of smoke; punctuated by increasingly rare appearances of the sun and rainwater that nourished the crops. These were remnants of a world that demolished itself in a nuclear war, hundreds of years ago. The Grounders are one of the only tribes left in their region, and they subsist on what little they have. The elders make it a tradition to tell stories about their ancestors. They would narrate tales of how they lived and left behind a legacy of violence in scriptures and tattered chronicles; how they bought things with money and stayed connected to each other with technology until the reckoning; how their home was once known as a city in the United States, before everything associated with civilization was swept away like the currents of the sea and their people were forced to start anew from its ashes.
The darkness that shrouds their village would make for a terrifying visual were it not so common. Who knew what kind of creatures awaited in the dark, just beyond the barriers of sight?
Lexa leaves her fellow trainees to relax her aching muscles, content after a long day of archery and sword fighting. She had just defeated her top rival in the class, a burly boy twice her size who had a penchant for taunting her. It took years of practice and a tremendous amount of patience, but Lexa won nevertheless. Anya would be so proud of me, she thinks to herself, adorning her damp face with a grin. She forgets to watch her step as she takes off her chest-plate and nearly crashes into an unfamiliar body.
"Oh! I am so sorry." The stranger says. Her voice is pleasantly soft, and far too delicate to belong to someone born to kill. Lexa narrows her eyes, trying to ascertain this person's identity. She can just barely make out long, flowing curls and a pretty face bare of tribal markings. She must not be one of them, then.
"It's alright. I should have gotten out of the way. Who are you, if you don't mind me asking? I don't think I recognize you."
"My name is Costia. And yourself?"
"Lexa." The girl holds out her hands, palms facing upward in a formal greeting. Staying on her guard, Lexa simply inspects them, suspended in mid-air, with wariness and the faintest hint of intrigue. They did not look like warriors' hands. She cautiously lays her own over them, feeling the difference. Costia's skin is dainty, smooth and polished, where hers is rough and calloused. No, these were the hands of a healer. Someone who mended open wounds with herbs and worked wonders with elements of nature. Lexa's hands were built to conquer and maim, to take life where Costia grants it. But somehow, their hands fit perfectly together. Lexa does not know why her heart starts thrumming in her chest at the contact, but it does and never relents.
Costia clears her throat, slowly removing her hands. Immediately, Lexa feels their absence as her own hands shift into a neutral position and rest against her sides. "I was sent to observe your training today, in case anyone needed medical assistance."
Lexa's eyes widen at the information. She was too lost in the thrill of the sparring to notice any bystanders. For the first time in her life, she suddenly feels…nervous. "Really? What did you think?" She presses self-consciously. Was she impressed? Repulsed? Was I too harsh on him? Or was I too soft? Costia tilts her head, assuming a contemplative pose and Lexa mentally chastises herself for caring so much about this newfound acquaintance's approval.
"I believe you left him a whimpering mess on the floor. I even had to stitch up a few of his cuts. He's definitely going to be sore in the morning." Costia smirks at her, ever so slightly. Hearing this, Lexa juts her chin out with satisfaction.
"Serves him right, I say." Lexa declares in thinly veiled contempt. Costia cannot hide her curiosity but restrains herself from asking for details, and Lexa is grateful that she never probes. She decides to spare Costia the truth - how that bastard accused her father of being a deserter, a coward, a disgrace to the Grounder people. It had been eighteen days since she last saw him, standing tall and austere in his primitive suit of armour, spiked javelin in one hand, wooden shield in another. Lexa's father would have been handsome were it not for the lashes that damaged his weathered face; but they were emblems of war, held in the highest of honours. And soldiers were needed – paramount, even - in this time of chaos and despair. Ragnar had bidden his family farewell with a salute and a promise before he rode off with legions of his men at sunset, on a confidential operation. Her mother grew more apprehensive with every night that passed without his return. But Lexa was confident that he would come back eventually, if not anytime soon. He always did.
Costia's expression turns serious as she moves closer, her features becoming more prominent in the evening light. Lexa can see her face clearly now, in its lovely and ethereal form, and it is one that deprives her of breath. "You were excellent. I mean it."
Lexa barely has time to thank her before the sound of a horn blasts through the air, signaling the official end of her routine. I must report to Anya. "That's my cue," she sighs. "May we speak again later?" She concludes her question in a hopeful tone, unsure of what the answer would be, or if it was even in her place to ask.
Costia smiles, revealing two dimples at the corner of her cheeks. "Of course. I'll be here tomorrow; same time, same place." Lexa fights to suppress a smile of her own and instead gives her a single nod of affirmation. Their fingers brush again as she passes by the aspiring healer, whom as far as she's concerned, emanates the only source of light that guides her path down the village. How could one person be so luminous in the nighttime?
"May we meet again, Lexa."