When Clarke woke the next day she knew she wasn't in Lincoln's burrow. She didn't expect to feel cold earth and solace in the cave walls. In the charcoal and paint and the images of life etched into rock. And she knew she wasn't alone. She didn't expect to hear the hollow and empty echo, or the wind tunnelling through the tight passageways. Or the silence and peace that came with the birds, and the distant sounds of the river.

She was in Polis. She was surrounded by stone and wood and burning flame. Sounds and voices crept in through the slats of her window, stirring her as she combed fingers through warm furs. Her nose was met with the smells of the nearby marketplace, and her eyes with the blinding sunlight.

She contemplated staying in her room, shutting the door and blocking everyone out. But her room was cold. And empty. And she was alone. And even after last night, that was the one thing she didn't want to be.

It was some time before she'd picked herself up off the floor of her room and moved to the bed. Her back ached from leaning against the door. And her face felt swollen and puffy from tears. She didn't expect them to come so suddenly after her door shut behind her. To feel the sudden and overwhelming grief that engulfed her, racking her body. But she let them fall, the weight lifting with each wave of tears.

Clarke couldn't remember a time in the last two months, since she'd left the camp and her friends and family, that she'd let her emotions get the best of her. They fell for what felt like hours, for Finn, and Mount Weather, and TonDC. For her people. For Lexa.

She didn't come back.

Clarke didn't expect her to, nor did she expect to see Dontania as she stepped into the throne room. The guards were still there, like statues, the grips on their spears like steel and their eyes following her every move.

She walked past the broken fountain, still seeing Lexa's expression when she'd slammed the door, her eyes like glass and her hand grasping her sword. Guarded. It was the reason Clarke had held so tightly to her words. Those eyes and those lips, etched in pain. It sent her head and her heart at war with each other again, wanting and never wanting to see that expression laden on her slight features.

The skies were clear. Clarke pulled her thick coat closer around her against the crisp morning air, retracing her steps to the front gates. Her boots crunched the loose gravel as warriors started arriving for the festival, camping just outside the city walls.

The heavy steel gates were open when she passed, grounder warriors flowing through them like a constant stream. She could see the sea of tents beyond the road, reminding her of the war camp at the bottom of the mountain. But she knew only the Trigeda would be beyond the wall, their armour distinct against those of the neighbouring clans. And now the possible enemy.

Clarke turned down the street just before the gates, filled with boot makers and tailors and wood shops. Hammering and the high keen of metal drifted through the crowd, Clarke hearing the constant babble of Trigedasleng from the camps behind the adjacent wall.

Warriors stared at her as she passed, but they didn't approach, their eyes always cautious. But elders nodded, bowing their heads, almost in respect. It was unnerving, Clarke dismissing the gesture and walking further up the road, taking the steps to the library two at a time.

And then she was alone, just as Lexa said she would be.

She descended into the dark basement. The morning light provided limited guidance as Clarke retrieved a torch from the flat barrel at the bottom of the staircase. Its flames licked orange over the crumbling spines that sat neatly in their shelves. She didn't recognise any pattern or order to the books, walking slowly past each section, her eyes scanning the titles.

Clarke stepped through one of the holding cells toward the back filled with classic novels she remember reading on the Ark. Jane Austen and Emily Bronte. Hemingway. Her free hand grazed over a copy of Pride and Prejudice, the paper so dry and brittle Clarke thought it may crumble under her touch.

She pulled it free of its shelf. She remembered reading it in school. Remembered thinking how things seemed so simple back then; balls, courting, and innocent love. Where the touch of a hand was enough to show affection and intention. There was no manipulative Queens, or infuriating Commanders who held the heart of Elizabeth. She didn't have to worry about anything beyond the stubbornness of her own future husband. She had no war to win, or a world of impossible decisions, or weight of a whole people.

They were simple decisions. Marry. Don't marry. Have children. Don't have children.

"Simple," Clarke huffed, placing the book back on the shelf.

She chose instead a copy of a novel without a cover, its paper stained and worn with age. Leaving the torch in the barrel, Clarke walked back up the steps. She took a seat in the far corner, letting the sun warm her skin and letting her mind be lost to a world beyond her own. Beyond Lexa and Polis. Beyond her mind thinking over and over the words she'd let slip and all the words she wished she could say, the ones she was too scared to say, losing herself instead to the words on the written page.

Clarke stayed in the library until the sun was high in the sky, moving from morning to afternoon. She knew if she kept walking further up the street she would reach the water, and the beach and the farmlands beyond. But she slowed her pace, her eyes on a solid building, its foundations completely intact.

It's windows and doors and roof were hollowed out, but what caught her eye were the colours. Bright greens and blues and reds assaulted the grey concrete of the walls, with images of life and war, of stories. She took to the steps, her eyes wide at the sketches covering every surface of the building.

When she reached the arched entrance an elderly man was sitting on the cold floor, his legs crossed and his hands shading one of the pictures. It was of a waterfall and a lake, so real that Clarke felt she could almost hear the sound of the water. The man's fingers were stained with charcoal, and his hair was a wisp of white.

Clarke approached him cautiously. He must have known she was there, his eyes not surprised when he turned his head before inclining it. "You are the one they call Clarke, no?"

Clarke smiled, and nodded gently. "What is this place?"

"It's where people come to tell stories." The man's eyes were on the walls, his voice like rough stone. "Elders. Warriors. It's a place of reflection and peace."

"It's beautiful."

He smiled. The movement creased his face, showing the deep lines upon it. "You draw?"

Clarke nodded.

"Maybe one day we may see your life on these walls, Clarke of the Sky People."

And Clarke couldn't speak. It was the second time that day that an elder had suggested she was anything more than their enemy. She knew she wasn't a threat to these people. But they didn't. Yet she felt like they trusted her beyond just mere courtesy.

"What happens when it rains?"

Clarke indicated toward the rafters and to the sunlight streaming in. But the man didn't turn or move as he spoke, "Then the memories wash away, and we start again. We breathe new life into the walls and tell new stories." He's voice was wise and kind. "We accept that the past is the past, and that it cannot be changed."

"And then what?"

"And then we move on."

The man kept his eyes on his work as a silence settled over them. Clarke moved to sit next to his sketch, leaning her back against the hard brick. The man didn't seem to mind, smiling at her again and continuing to shade, his fingers smudging charcoal over the brick.

Clarke's eyes roamed the walls, seeing a world she scarcely knew. The drawings held so much detail, Clarke almost being able to hear the stories they each told. Of warriors and cities. Of vast oceans and the creatures they hid. It was beautiful, like so much of this new world.

And it was there, among the stories of a hundred years of war and life, that Clarke finally felt a small piece of home. For the first time since she'd left the Ark, left her dad and Wells. And left the memory of the mother she knew before she lost everything to the lie that had her sent to the ground. The walls and the old man's words had brought a sense of clarity and comfort that no amount of time had brought. She felt safe.

He had later told her that his sketch was an image from his most peaceful memory, before the war of Mount Weather, of a lake outside his village when he was a boy. Clarke had watched on as the deep lines on his face settled and his eyes closed, his lips telling the story of the cool water and the sunlight. Of the innocence he once knew, of a time before war.

Clarke could have stayed in his presence for the rest of the day. But the sun was beginning to set and more elders had begun to arrive, charcoal in hand. He was still cross-legged in front of his sketch when she left, his eyes closed and his face peaceful. Clarke didn't disturb him, walking further up the street toward the beach.

But before she could reach the sand, Clarke turned down a section that Lexa hadn't shown her the day before. It led into the heart of the city, the streets growing more crowded the further she walked. The buildings were closer together, towering over her and blocking out the sky. There were dining halls and healers and jewellery makers lining the roadside. Raised voices and laughter spilled out of one of the more crowded buildings, the strong smell of a distillery wafting into the cool afternoon air. A grounder warrior stumbled down the steps to her left, leaning against the brick wall outside. His hulking frame slumped to the ground, a wide grin on his face as two more came calling after him.

Clarke smiled at the sight as she let her legs carry her further up the street, the pavers opening out into a fork in the road. Nestled on the crest of a hill in front of her was the large church with peaked roofs and a large circular glass window, cracked and missing shards. It was surrounded by high-rise buildings and paved alleyways, the setting sun turning the grey stone a deep orange, reflecting off the clouded glass.

It was cold when Clarke entered, the torches hanging from the walls doing little to provide any warmth. Rows upon rows of wooden benches took up the entire tiled floor with a throne of twisted branches and swords toward the back of the church.

Clarke only faltered a moment when she noticed Lexa.

The girl's long fingers were worrying her brow, her eyes cast down. But she looked up at the sound of footsteps, surprise colouring her features. "Clarke."

Lexa stood from the large throne, her hand automatically going to the hilt of her sword.

"Lexa," Clarke replied curtly, taking a seat in the front row of benches. She knew she couldn't leave the conversation. And a part of Clarke knew there was nothing Lexa could do to gain her forgiveness.

They were at an impasse.

She watched as Lexa cautiously approached, sitting down next to her.

"Did you have a dispute to settle?"

"Something like that," Lexa offered, her eyes forward. Her voice was thoughtful, silence following her words. They sat, listening to the wind rustle the loose leaves at their feet and tunnel through the church. But after a moment she broke it. "If I was to say sorry-"

"Please don't," Clarke cut in, not wanting to hear those words leave her lips. "You have nothing to apologise for. You did what was best for your people. I get that." She took a breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say, for what she was scared to say. "…I was falling for you, without even knowing or wanting to-"

"You were?" Lexa sounded hopeful.

"Don't be cute."

Clarke could sense the smallest of smiles playing on her lips.

"You told me love was weakness, and I listened. But then you kissed me and I started to believe that life could be about more than just surviving. And it turns out I listened to your actions louder than your words." Clarke was looking at the broken pavers beneath her feet. "It was a stupid mistake, and it shouldn't have happened."

She felt Lexa shift closer, "It wasn't stupid. Or a mistake."

Clarke had to take a breath, their proximity and that voice making her heart race beneath her thick jacket. "I don't regret anything I've done, Clarke. Kissing you. Leaving you. I wish I could tell you that if I had the chance to go back and stay, that I would. But my people will always come first."

Clarke just nodded, her hands gripping the bench tightly.

"But I am sorry that it ended the way it did. That the duty to protect my people caused you pain." Lexa paused, taking an uneasy breath. "And I'm sorry I walked away. The second time."

"Me, too," Clarke breathed. "But you were right. I would have killed you."

Lexa laughed softly, nodding to herself. Clarke felt the tension that separated them slowly dissipate until it was just the two of them. The pain was still there, and the hurt. That was a scar Clarke didn't think would heal any time soon. But the weight was gone, and the suffocating words had left her.

"Ironic, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Before the bombs they used to use these buildings for absolution. People would sit in these tiny boxes, and a man would sit next them and absolve them of all their sins. Believing that an all-seeing God was listening," she told her, a humourless laugh on her tongue. "They called it confessional."

Lexa smiled, clearly seeing the irony in their conversation. "I've read about religion. Of the wars it started. And the hate it spread. The society before this one was so…foolish."

"You believe in reincarnation. Is it really such a stretch?"

Lexa shrugged; a small lift of her shoulders. "You never did tell me how your leaders are chosen."

"By a vote," Clarke laughed. "Though not all voices are heard equally. It has its flaws."

Lexa nodded gently, before glancing at her. "Not you though."

"I don't know how it happened. People just started listening to me. Guess they figured I knew what I was doing or something. Truth is I was just as scared as the rest of them. I honestly don't know how you and Dontania do it."

"We do what we must." The look on Lexa's face was contemplative, but there was a tinge of sadness just below the surface. Her eyes weren't looking at Clarke, her stare far off.

"That woman's a manipulative bitch, by the way," Clarke remarked.

Lexa laughed. It wasn't a sound Clarke thought she'd ever get used to, nor did she ever want to. "She's a queen, what were you expecting?"

Clarke hesitated. "…she told me about Costia and her son."

"Donte," Lexa provided. "He was a good warrior. He would have done anything for Costia. And did." She swallowed hard, "I've found solace in that. That she didn't die alone."

Clarke could see her eyes turn to glass and her lips set in a hard line. An ache flooded Clarke's chest not related to her own pain. She nudged Lexa with her shoulder, only inches separating them now. "Careful, Commander. You're weakness is showing."

Lexa smiled sadly, still not looking at her. "I've come to accept that."

"Accept what?" Clarke asked, confused. Her eyes searched Lexa's features, those lips still pressed together.

"That a part of me, no matter how hard I try to fight it, will always be weak." Her voice was soft. Small. And then Lexa looked at her with that reverence and for once it didn't hurt to see those eyes, Clarke not turning away. "Especially when it comes to you."

"Lexa." It was a breathless whisper, Clarke feeling weightless under that gaze.

But then Lexa stood, her voice still small as she fought for control of it, like she didn't just bare herself. "I have to go welcome my warriors that are arriving for the ceremony."

"Okay."

Clarke barely had a time to catch the breath that Lexa had just taken from her. She hated that she sounded disappointed, suddenly not wanting to see Lexa leave; feeling like the quiet moment they'd shared had been ripped away.

Lexa shifted, "Would you like to join me?"

Clarke's heart beat in her throat, a genuine smile stretching across her face. She tried to suppress it but she knew Lexa had caught it, her own lips quirking gently.

"Lead the way, Commander."

Clarke was sitting on a small wooden stool as two sets of hands combed through her hair. It was calming more than anything. She watched the two women in the reflection of the tarnished mirror that sat against the wall. They were weaving thin vines through each braid, soft and green like wildflowers. Lexa had told her it was customary for the marking ceremonies, the vines symbolising life and rebirth. Each was held together by a small metal band, the thin braids lining each side of her head.

The rest of her hair crested and was left to fall over her shoulders, framing her face. It was a look that Clarke was slowly getting used to, turning her head to see the intricate detail.

Lexa had dropped her off earlier that morning. She was only donning a light coat and her sword when she'd left, wandering off in the direction of the gates. She'd given Clarke a smile before she did, those heartbreakingly perfect lips pulling at the corners. Clarke had done her best not to stare as she'd taken her seat in front of the women. But ever since the weight had eased somewhat it was getting harder for her to hide the affect the girl had on her.

She'd stayed by Lexa's side the afternoon before, the Commander walking through the sea of tents that spread out in front of the capital. Each of her warriors had bowed their heads in respect as she'd approached, the girl acknowledging them with a nod of her head or even grasping their forearm in some cases. It was a surprising sight, and a gesture Clarke hadn't ever seen her do.

Clarke knew not to expect Lincoln as they walked through each section. She knew he'd made his choice the day he'd decided to defy his commander. He chose Octavia. He made the choice that Lexa did not; the one she could not. But it didn't stop Clarke's eyes from seeking out his, a small hopeless part of her still holding on to the possibility.

But those dark eyes weren't among the tents and the trees. And Clarke knew she'd be waiting a long time before she saw them again.

Clarke shifted in her seat. She watched the woman behind her, those kind eyes always meeting Clarke's in the mirror. But then she looked to her fingers and to the familiar braids pressing firmly to the sides of her head. "Aren't these only meant for your warriors?"

The woman smiled warmly, speaking softly in Trigedasleng. Clarke continued to watch her in the clouded reflection. It was a moment before she spoke again. "…you are a warrior." It was stated simply, her fingers combing through her hair. "My son is alive because of you. He was taken by the Mountain many moons ago. The Reapers came into his village, leaving only a few."

"I think you have your commander to thank for that." Clarke gave her a smile, trying to brush off the mix of sadness that was wreaking havoc beneath the surface at the suggestion.

"I have full faith in my commander. I believe she'll keep us safe against any enemy, just like Nori before her. But she wouldn't have even been able to open the door if not for you. You saved us as much as the Commander did."

Clarke caught the woman's eye and she couldn't speak, or find words. She reached up a hand, running her fingers over the thin braids. "They're beautiful, thank you."

Clarke swallowed hard, her throat tight. The woman inclined her head, tying a metal band over the last of the long braids just as there was a light knock at the door. All three of them shifted their eyes, Lexa leaning gently against the doorframe. Clarke had to catch her breath. Lexa's shoulder guard was back on, but the long veil had been changed from red to green for the ceremony.

And those eyes.

They were shaded in darkness again, long black streaks running down her cheeks. But she was still Lexa beneath it all, her face relaxed.

"Trigeda suits you."

Clarke's face flushed as she cleared her throat, her hands touching her braids again. "Thanks," she said, her voice tight.

Clarke stood from the small stool and paced to the wall, letting Lexa sit down. The women slowly began to release her hair from its bands, Clarke seeing it for the first time out of its braids. It was wild and untamed, falling in cascades over her shoulders.

She was beautiful.

Clarke couldn't help but stare as she watched them, leaning against the wall in front of Lexa. Watched the careful detail of the new braids, and those green eyes that had turned soft in the afternoon sun, shrouded by warpaint.

And those lips.

"Clarke?"

Lexa was looking at her, eyebrows raised.

Clarke's face flushed again, the blood rushing lower to her neck as she straightened up. "Yes, Commander?"

But Lexa just continued to look at her, not saying a word. Out of the corner of her eye Clarke saw the old women drop their gaze, the hint of a smile touching their lips as they continued to braid their commander's hair.

It was afternoon, Clarke guessing 2 o'clock by the sun, when the women finished threading the last wildflower stem through Lexa's hair. She'd thanked them both, leading the way down a quiet street that joined up with the main square. There were only a few grounders still not at the festival, elders and children walking slowly in the same direction.

As Lexa turned them both down a narrow street, Clarke could begin to hear the sounds of drums and the cheers of a growing crowd. It was getting louder the further they went, butterflies hitting Clarke's stomach.

"Should I be nervous?"

"I wouldn't think so," Lexa murmured. Her tone was teasing, making Clarke look at her. "After all, you're not the one that is having bone fragments shoved into her back repeatedly."

"That sounds like a enjoyable afternoon."

"It is, actually," Lexa countered.

"I'll have to take your word for…"

Clarke didn't finish her sentence, her words trailing off. On the other side of the street, a group of four girls around their age were giggling and staring at them as they walked by. They were all wearing flowing robes, and beautiful intricate braids. They were whispering to each other in Trigedasleng, one even smirking at Lexa as she got closer.

Lexa smiled a ghost of a smirk back at them, and inclined her head in their direction. The girls blushed, turning and hurrying up the street ahead of them.

Clarke stared at them with a quirked eyebrow, waiting until they were out of earshot. "What was that all about?"

Lexa shrugged lightly, "I'm not entirely sure of the word in your culture."

"Try me."

She glanced at Clarke a moment, and was silent for longer than that. "You might call them admirers, I suppose."

"Oh," she breathed, her eyes going wide with realisation. "Of course."

Clarke hated the pang of jealousy that ran over her skin and settled beneath her chest, her eyes firmly on the four girls ahead of them.

Stupid.

"Does that bother you?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Commander."

But Lexa smirked again and walked further up the narrow street, leaving Clarke a step behind.

So stupid.

It was drawing in on dusk. Clarke was sitting with her back pressed tightly to her chair, her eyes on the crowded square. Dontania was seated next to her, the surrounding rows lined with war chiefs and other dignitaries, all of them watching the festival from a raised platform. The Queen had been commenting on the proceedings for Clarke's benefit, telling her the whats and whys of what was happening. But mostly Clarke tuned her out, keeping her attention on the festival and the inked skin of the Trigeda warriors in front of her.

Clarke had been more than a little surprised when a familiar set of dark eyes had approached her earlier in the night. Indra still didn't fail to send a chill down her back, the woman's stare lethal and unwavering.

"Good to see you alive."

"Is it?" Clarke had raised her eyebrows at the woman.

"I was being polite." Her tone was dry, Indra's attention on the festival.

Clarke had laughed humourlessly, "It's nice to see you too, Indra."

"Is it?" she'd countered.

"I was being polite."

Indra had smirked at that, nodding at Clarke, a level of understanding passing between them. She'd moved off, taking her seat on the other side of Dontania, her grasp firmly on her sword.

The crowd was getting thicker as grounder warriors started joining their families and friends from the middle of the square, and the sky was growing darker.

"It is almost time."

"For?" Clarke said tightly, not looking at Dontania.

"The Commander will be here soon," Dontania stated. "Once the others have moved on she will receive her mark."

Clarke nodded, out of courtesy if anything else. She'd already seen the reveal of the warrior marks, all of them with bare skin against the cold. Clarke realised none of them cared much for modesty, as comfortable in their skin as if they were wearing armour. The large fire in the centre of the square would have provided little warmth, but there was no sign of discomfort. If anything they welcomed it.

Most of the ceremony had been lost on Clarke. There was dancing and drums and flame. Each warrior had passed in front of Dontania, each standing proud, their right hand over their hearts. But Clarke couldn't stop looking at the marks on their skin. Some were simple, a band around their arm, or a spike that ran up their neck. But others held so much intricacy, vines and branches stretching over their backs, spiral like shields cover whole shoulders. It was an art form as much as it was about pride and honour; Clarke again wondering what kind marked Lexa's skin.

The warriors had all but moved off from the square, weaving through to join the crowd. The drumming had continued as people chanted into the night air, Clarke seeing a sea of green and black by the orange light of the torches and the bonfire.

"Braids suit you, Clarke."

"Thanks," Clarke accepted reluctantly. "Your commander insisted it was customary."

"It is," Dontania agreed. "I take it this means you two have buried the hatchet, as your people would say." She kept her eyes forward, looking at the ceremony and the crowded square. "Or should I expect another scene outside my chambers?"

Clarke bristled, shifting in her chair. "You might be Lexa's queen, but you're not mine, Dontania." Clarke kept her eyes on the proceedings. "So excuse me when I tell you that if there ever was a hatchet, that you wouldn't have a say when or with who I bury it." She glanced at the Queen, her teeth gritted before adding, "Your Highness."

Clarke expected a lot of things from the Queen. Hostility. Distain. But not a smile. "I can see why the Sky People elected you."

"I was never elected," Clarke bit back, glaring at her. "I never chose this."

"None of us ever do."

Dontania merely looked at her, those eyes demanding her attention. But after a tense moment she started to clap, Clarke breaking to look back at the square just as Lexa came into view.

Cheers of Heda roared into the darkened sky, over and over again. The sound vibrated the ground. Clarke watched on as Lexa walked purposeful to the centre of the square where two men waited. One of them helped Lexa out of her shoulder guard and her coat, her torso now completely exposed. Doing so showed Clarke the tattoos that covered her skin, and she had to catch her breath.

Black ink swirled over her back and down her right arm. They appeared like spiked wings that surrounded strange symbols that ran down her spine every few inches. It was incredible. Every spike was sharp like a razor, and curved. But the band on her arm differed from the ink on her back, like she received that mark before any of her others.

Lexa sat down on a small chair, the tall rest pressing against her front. Her chest was bare except for a narrow wrap that covered her more intimate areas. From where Clarke was sitting she could just see her shoulder and the side of her face. It was neutral, relaxed, those lips set in a firm line.

Once Lexa had taken her seat the other man sat behind her on a small stool. He was brandishing a white tipped rake and a long stick, his assistant placing a wooden bowl of what looked to be dark ink at his feet.

Clarke shifted uncomfortably in her chair as the crowd continued to cheer, watching as the assistant stretched out a patch of skin on her shoulder, the other man bringing down the rake on her skin and drawing blood. It left behind ink, it seeping into Lexa's skin. Clarke could see Lexa wince every now and again. But other than the contorting of her features she didn't show any other sign of discomfort of having her skin punctured, over and over. She was strong, Clarke being reminded of when she'd dislocated her shoulder a few months before.

It took close to two hours for the man to completely the pattern. It was a flowing continuation of the rest of her mark, a new spike licking over her shoulder and touching her collarbone.

It wasn't long before a feast started, once Lexa had stood and moved off. People had cleared from the square, now crowding the city and into the streets of Polis. Drink was flowing, and meats and breads and fruits were in abundance.

The music continued, the drumming melding with the constant chatter of Trigedasleng. Clarke had noticed after her second plate of food that Lexa was nowhere to be seen. She hadn't re-joined their table with Dontania and Indra and the other war chiefs. She'd been sitting by her side for a time, taking her leave to speak with some of her warriors. But now that she looked, Clarke couldn't see that familiar warpaint among the crowd.

Standing from their table, Clarke bid goodnight to Dontania and Indra. The Queen had a knowing look in her eyes. But Clarke ignored her, keeping her features neutral to the Queen, before weaving through the crowd and heading for the harbour.

Clarke didn't know why it was the first place she decided to look or why she was even looking in the first place. Why she didn't just stay at the feast and return to Dontania's chambers later in the night, alone. But as she neared the barracks, she could see the soft glowing coming from that second floor balcony close to the waters edge, letting her legs continue to carry her.

Warriors were already drunk and stumbling between buildings and sitting around tables as she walked through the alleyways that led to the Commander's quarters. They didn't pay her any mind, too consumed with their drink and their conversation.

The doors to Lexa's home were open, light seeping out into the darkened street. Clarke entered without knocking and into a living area filled with couches and tables and chairs. And weapons, endless weapons. There were canvas' hanging from the walls, with a kitchen to one corner. It was amazing. And warm.

Clarke could hear voices, soft and in Trigedasleng coming down the staircase to her left. They creaked as she neared the top, announcing her presence to Lexa and a woman with her back to her. Lexa was only in her cloth wrap and plain dark pants. But she didn't cover up when she noticed Clarke, staying bare. Like she didn't see the need, or the want.

As Clarke neared them both she saw that the woman was a healer, Lexa leaning her hands against a nearby table as she tended to the new mark.

"Leave us."

The healer nodded and walked down the stairs, passing Clarke without a word.

"Do you mind?" Lexa indicated towards a jar of ointment resting on the table.

Clarke wordlessly took the last few steps, not being able to take her eyes off Lexa's tattoos. Or her muscles that rippled over her stomach and back, taut and perfect.

"Sure," she murmured as an afterthought, already washing her hands with alcohol.

Clarke dipped her fingers into the ointment, gently spreading it over the tattoo. It was smooth with an earthy smell, it covering the new mark evenly. After she was done, Clark wiped her hands on a nearby rag, but she couldn't help but keep her hands on Lexa.

Lexa's skin was warm to her touch. She could see that she was a little nervous. Clarke could feel it under her fingertips as her eyes roamed over her skin. She had so many scars. Clarke ran her fingers over them, Lexa shivering. Each scar seemed to tell a story, of a battle fought and won. Or lost. Some of them looked deep.

Clarke brushed her fingertips over Lexa's kill marks that stood jagged against her shoulder. "Why so few?" Clarke asked. "I've seen you kill more than half of these."

"As Commander, I've lost count." A sadness tinged her voice. "Commanders aren't marked in that way for this reason. Those marks were given to me when I was Anya's second."

There were still so many for how old she was when she ascended. Clarke smiled sadly; nodding even though she knew Lexa couldn't see the gesture.

She moved her fingertips to Lexa's tattoos, looking at the detailed ink that took up her entire back. They were even more beautiful up close. But there was a mark that seemed out of place, catching Clarke's eye. It was of an eight-point star in the middle of her upper back. It looked fresh, the ink darker than the other marks.

"What's this one?"

She shivered as Clarke's fingertips brushed the mark.

Lexa didn't answer right away. "It's yours."

Her voice was small but sure, a thick silence following her words. Clarke was taken aback. "I-I thought you could only be marked as a sign of battles won, or as a Commander or a Queen, or a warrior."

She was rambling softly, Lexa cutting her off. "Not all wars are those fought with a sword, Clarke," she said gently. "Some are of the heart."

Clarke sighed, letting her words wash over her skin. She leant her head against Lexa, closing her eyes, her hands gripping at her sides. "I want to forgive you. I know all too well the decision you made for your people." Clarke swallowed, lowering her voice. "I want to forgive you."

"But?"

"I need time."

"And you can have that time, Clarke."

Lexa turned in her arms so her back was against the table, looking at her earnestly, lovingly. Her eyes drifted to Clarke's lips, hers parting lightly.

Her pupils were completely eclipsing green in the light of the nearby torch. Clarke gripped her hips, stepping closer, so slowly it was almost painful. She just stood, breathing her in. She smelled of leather and wildflowers, like she always had and did the last time she was this close.

Clarke rested her forehead against Lexa's cheek, feeling intoxicated by her. Lexa's hands were gripping the edge of the table at her back. And Clarke could feel herself falling, Lexa drawing her in, like gravity. And she could do nothing to stop it.

She was so close.

Without a second thought Clarke tentatively captured her lips, the softest of sounds escaping Lexa's mouth. Lexa pushed forward gently, taking her bottom lip, her rough palm cupping Clarke's cheek.

The kiss was sweet and full of promise. A promise that Clarke would try. Try to forgive her. And it was full of the apology that Lexa would never give.

But before her lips and her kiss had the chance to burn, Clarke broke it.

She rested her forehead against Lexa's, her eyes closing as she caught her breath.

"It's late." Lexa's was still so close, Clarke feeling her warm breath hit her lips. "I'd feel better if you stayed here the night, at least until the morning."

"Lexa, I-"

"You can stay here, I'll sleep downstairs."

Clarke didn't want to say no, so she didn't say anything.

Lexa moved out of the embrace, grabbing a blanket off the nearest chair and a shirt. "Goodnight, Clarke."

Clarke was touching her lips absently, still tasting Lexa. "Goodnight."

It was said softly, but this time she made sure she heard it. Lexa smiled, those perfect lips pitching lightly before she disappeared down the stairs.