Work Text:
“I'm not a stranger
No I am yours
With crippled anger
And tears that still drip sore
A fragile frame aged
With misery
And when our eyes meet
I know you see..."
- Cut by Plumb
Time passes slowly with her in your arms, yet each escaping second fills you with growing dread. You are aware this cannot last, that soon her tears will end and with them her need of you. She will pull away then and you’re afraid (a commander cannot be afraid), afraid she will never draw near again. Perhaps her anger will return and with it her need for blood or maybe-and this you fear even more-she will realize the mistake she has made and leave, never to return.
If this happens, you will not protest. You will not cage her here, or try to convince her to stay, to give you more of her life than she already has.
Nor will you run after her.
There would be no point.
Outside this tent, you cannot be Lexa. You cannot seek her, you cannot apologize, you cannot try and make this right. Outside this tent, among your people, there can only be the commander. And the commander cannot beg for the scraps of someone’s attention, cannot succumb to remorse, cannot try for forgiveness. She must pull on her clothes and battle armor, hide her eyes with war paint, gather all her sins and and wear them as a badge of honor. She must be proud of the blood that cakes her like a second layer of skin.
When Clarke leaves, this ends. Lexa ends.
But for now she is in your arms, her breath fluttering against your chest and the skin of her cheek hot and damp against your neck. Her hands grip you just as tightly as yours do her, maybe even tighter; and as her breathing calms, you match the thump thump of your heart to hers.
Even after you register that her crying has ceased she clings to you. You wait but she does not move.
You do not understand it. All you know is that it’s a gift.
Your skin burns beneath hers but the sensation is almost euphoric. You feel alight at the touch of her, dizzy at her closeness and relieved at her steadfast grip.
Your mind wages another of its battles with your heart. You should not feel these things. You should not feel for her as you do. Having her in your arms should not be the most alive you’ve felt in moons. Your heart should not catch when she shudders, or race when she nuzzles deeper into you.
You have spent so long putting back into place the pieces of yourself that you once tore out to give to her; repairing the damage done to your walls. You cannot let her back in. You cannot fall for her again. Especially when, this time, you know there is no chance of her wanting to catch you.
Yet though your mind persists, your heart knows its victory. It picked up arms when you found her in your tent, aimed its spear when she kissed you and landed the killing blow as she came apart in your arms. The battle has already been lost.
You realize it’s been lost for some time. You’re not in danger of falling again. You don’t think you ever picked yourself up from the ground after the first time, just fooled yourself into thinking you had.
You cannot fight your feelings for Clarke, cannot slay them-and this terrifies you. Almost as much as the knowledge that your feelings are ultimately irrelevant. Soon she will leave. Soon you will lose her and still you will feel . . .
So much.
Just as with Costia.
There was a lesson in her death that you forced yourself to learn, thought that you had-
but then Clarke showed you for a failure, and continues to do so now. She doesn’t even know it.
You grimace, tighten your hold-
And wait.
Too soon she pulls back, her arms sliding from around you, and you can’t help the frown as your shoulder loses the comforting heat of her head. Her hair brushes past your cheek and you shiver, closing your eyes for a moment to savor this last touch-
just one moment . . .
When you open them again, she has stepped back from you and, although it is only half a foot, you feel the space between you like an abyss, ever expanding.
Her cheeks are red from crying. She scrubs at her face, only worsening the shade as she tries to erase all evidence of tears. An impossible task: the air is cold against the wetness she’s left behind on your collar and you know the feel will persist like a phantom long after she is gone. There will be no forgetting this, at least not for you.
She sighs and rubs a hand at tired eyes before pausing to take you in. You harden your jaw as her eyes scan you over, determined to regain some semblance of fortitude. Both of you have been undone by the events inside your tent, airs of indifference broken, defenses shaken, but it is you who stands most vulnerable to attack. You have no desire to hurt Clarke, to use her moment of weakness against her, but you doubt that she suffers the same reservations in regards to you.
You cannot fight her, cannot run, and a part of you longs for any blow she will deliver, but you must at least try for defense. You cannot allow yourself to be broken by her. Punished yes, but your people deserve more than a broken commander.
Her attention catches on the trail of blood crusting your ribs and although she does not move her expression--flinches. Her fingers twitch at her side and your own hand clenches on the table beside you, fighting to reach out and cup hers. You resist and, after a moment, her face clears and she moves on.
As her eyes continue to scan you over, you are reminded of one other benefit to having her in your arms. The heat. Without her, you are naked to the elements and the fire in your tent is not nearly enough to keep the chill off your skin. Your nipples are hard, your flesh pocked with goosebumps, and you fight to ward off the occasional shiver. Another battle you lose.
And despite Clarke’s own state of dishevel, she does not miss a thing. She squints at you, judging. When another shudder rips through your body, she bites her lip, draws a few inches closer before retreating again.
Eventually, she sighs. “Come on.”
She steps away, avoiding your questioning gaze, and rakes a hand through her tangled hair. You watch as she heads towards your bed, frowning with confusion as to her intentions. After a minute has passed and still you have not moved, she calls back to you.
“It’s OK.” Though she will not meet your gaze.
You wait for her to veer off course, to head for the exit, and when she doesn’t you can only stare.
Sighing, she forces herself to look back at you. Her eyes are red, tired, and her mouth hangs worn at the edges. When she speaks, it is an effort. “Come here.”
You frown, still uncomprehending.
Tugging at her bottom lip with her teeth, she takes a seat on the bed, glances up at you. “It’s cold. You’ll get sick.” Noticing the confusion in your stare, she attempts a smile that dies the moment it’s born. “It’s OK. I won’t bite.” She pats the space beside her and you stare. It takes a little longer for things to slide into place.
You flinch.
She watches you carefully as you eye her in disbelief, brow furrowing as you attempt to decipher the reasoning behind her actions. You can find nothing logical to suggest why she is still here, why she not attempting to leave, and certainly not why she is sitting on your bed, asking you to join her. If this had been earlier, you might suspect that she was attempting to move your activities on the table to the bed, for the sake of comfort maybe. But she looks neither lustful nor angry. There is no passion in her gaze, only exhaustion and . . .
Something else that you cannot decipher.
It hints at sadness but the emotion does not fit, not really.
You can determine this, though: it is not release she is after; nor is it retribution.
You do not know what she wants and it scares you more than when she’d driven you into the table. It is harder to defend against what you cannot understand.
It is only when her gaze turns somewhat pleading that you move.
Whatever she wants, whatever her intentions-
You do not have it in you to deny her.
“You know, I imagined how this would go a thousand times-punched you in a lot of them, too,” she adds and you can’t help the smile that quirks at your lips, and by the wryness of her own she shares your amusement, dark as it is. “But this,” she waves her arm vaguely at the two of you, “never came up.”
You’re both a heap on the bed, she fully clothed and you still . . .not. Though, some of your discomfort over that fact has lessened-somewhere between holding her sobbing form against you and climbing into bed with her. You’re still not entirely comfortable but gradually your muscles have begun to loosen. It helps-having the blankets to hide you.
You don’t understand why she’s still here. You expected her to leave at first chance when her crying ceased-are still waiting for her to remember herself and flee-but she seems content to remain, huddled against you under the covers. There is still a distance between the two of you, a wall, but she seems less reluctant to breach the gap.
It gives you hope, when you know you shouldn’t have any.
Her eyes are red, her voice hoarse but that anger and desperation have disappeared. You wait for their return, holding your breath almost as you study the small details of her face: the two indentations that appear between her brows when she furrows them, calling to be smoothed away; the mole in the left corner above her lips, shadowed by fine white hairs; the matching freckle that crowns her left eyebrow; and the flecks of iron in her blue eyes that become less apparent as her pupils dilate. You doubt you will have this chance again, that she will ever be this close to you again, and you will not waste it.
You know how elusive memory can be. You can still feel the unusual smoothness of Costia’s skin; smell the herbs that clung to her clothes from hours spent concocting healing poultices; and the taste of berries she would leave behind after a kiss; but you cannot remember the exact brown of her eyes; the placement or number of freckles on her nose; or the exact shape her mouth made when she smiled.
You do not want to forget these things about Clarke.
You know you will.
You lie next to each other and she traces the bare skin of your arm with a finger that occasionally trembles. You do not touch her-you’re still not sure how much she will allow-but you don’t protest the paths of her hand or when she tangles your legs together for warmth.
Even now, with her beside you, you can’t understand how her resentment has broken way to care, can’t fully believe or trust in it.
She seems intent on your tattoos, avoiding the burn scars on your chest and back. She traces the symbol on your collarbone with a gentle finger, and spends longer memorizing the the twist of the brand on your upper arm. If she asks, you will tell her what they mean, why you have them, and the cost of earning each. But she doesn’t ask you are relieved-there are some things you are not ready to talk about.
“I share in your surprise, Clarke,” you admit.
Her lips twitch in response, eyes attempting lightness, and then sighs. Face sinking into the pillow, she watches you and as the minutes pass, the corners of her mouth turn further and further down.
You wait for her to speak. You know she will.
“What I said before-about hating you-it’s not true,” she confesses and you can’t help the way your heart clenches, the warmth that branches out through your chest. It shouldn’t mean so much-her words-they shouldn’t hold such weight and yet-
She shakes her head. “At least, not really. No more than I hate myself.”
And you’ve known this from the moment you learned she had walked away from Camp Jaha, yet the words still prove to be a blow. You think they might hurt more than any level of contempt she could ever hold for you.
You know then that you are lost to her.
Her breath catches. “They’re all dead, Lexa. I killed them. All of them. Not just the guilty but the ones who helped us. Maya.” She chokes. “I killed children.”
You watch her carefully for a moment and nod your head. “I know.” You know and, for all the lessons you have given her, for all the times you tried to prepare her for exactly this, you still wish it was not so. You wish Clarke was spared. You wish you could transfer the blood on her hands to your own. There is already so much there, what’s a little more?
What’s a little more if it means Clarke will not have to look at you like this: like she has destroyed an entire world and can’t understand why she was not blown away with it; like she has been sucked under by the force of the river that cuts through your land, and hasn’t decided yet if she wants to struggle for the surface? She looks at you for answers, for a way to make this easier, but you have none. There is no easier.
If you knew a way to make it so, you would have used it years ago.
You can speak of choosing not to care, of easing the pain by closing your heart, but you’ve since found the lie in your words. There is no such choice. You and Clarke will always care. You will always feel the pain of your sacrifices. It’s why you were chosen for this.
“And I can’t,” she bites her lips, “I don’t know how-” She pushes away a strand of hair, pushes back the renewal of tears in her eyes. “How do I handle that? I don’t think I can. I mean, I’ve tried. I’ve spent almost a year trying but…”
You struggle to keep your expression blank, to let nothing of the turmoil that rages within you break to the surface. “It’s the price, Clarke-of our people’s survival. And we’re the ones who have been called upon to pay it. Because we’re the only ones who can. The only ones strong enough.”
Her eyes drift away, mouth thinning. “Strong, right. Strong. That’s us.” She looks back, and you’re surprised by the hardness that appears in her gaze, even though it should have been expected. “Betraying the people who trust you is strong. Killing children is strong.”
You swallow. “Yes. It is.”
And some of that anger, that resentment has returned. “Then maybe I don’t want to be strong.”
And you understand the sentiment.
“Whether you want to or not, you are.” You gaze off to the chest that sits at the end of your bed and think of the braids of hair entombed within. 6 in total. All that remains of your love. You have lost much, sacrificed much, but you have never let it beat you. Those times when you wanted to scream, to give up, to run from the thankless life of a commander, to die-
But you are here.
Because you are strong.
Whether you want to be or not.
And Clarke is the same.
There is relief in this-
to know you’re not alone, to see your burden reflected, to be understood
-and heartache.
You breathe in, refocusing on her once more. “The dead are gone, Clarke.” You recite the old diatribe, repeated to you time and again by Anya, until it became the prayer you would rest your head on at night; the words that would soothe your aching soul to sleep. “There’s no undoing what’s been done, no water that can wash off this blood. We can’t go back. We can never go back. Only forward.”
“To what, Lexa? Forward to what?” she demands. “Do we just keep going like this? Choosing who lives and who dies, again and again? What will we be at the end of all that?” What are we now?
You swallow, eyes flickering, struggling to remain firm. “I don’t know.”
It’s not something you can afford to consider.
We are what we are
“The things we do to survive don’t define who we are,” Clarke muses, voice edged with bitterness. “God, I was so wrong when I said that.”
You can sense that you’re losing her, that she is pulling way from you, descending into a darkness and hopelessness that you can’t let yourself follow. Desperation makes you reach out, grab her hand. It is hot in yours, surprisingly soft. All these months on the ground and yet her hands keep their innocence. Your own were hardened in calluses before you knew the proper way to swing a sword. “Listen to me, Clarke. Whatever we are right now, whatever we become, we do so because we must,” you stress, clenching her hand. She does not pull away. “It is demanded of us. The things we do are inexcusable but we do them because we are the only one’s who can. Because our people need us to.” You lick your lips, taking in the way her eyes watch yours so intently, a plea in them that you hope you can somehow answer. “They are our responsibility, our only priority. We cannot save everyone. We cannot shoulder the entire world. We can only save our own. And have that be enough.”
It is a lesson you’ve learnt the hard way and one you no longer wish to turn from. You have accepted your role in this life and what you will be expected to do before you are released into the next one. You have accepted it. You only hope Clarke can too.
There is silence as she considers your words. Her finger traces patterns into your palm, almost soothing, and you wonder if she is aware. If she knows what she does to you. “Is it, though? Is it enough? Has it been enough for you?”
Your immediate answer is ‘yes’. It is the one you are expected to say, what is demanded of you. It is what Clarke needs to hear and what you need to say.
But it is a lie. And you do not want to lie to Clarke.
“Some days,” you murmur. “Some days it is enough.” Some days it is a struggle to even breathe. “You survive.” You squeeze her hand, soften your gaze. Comfort. This is what she needs of you. This is what you need to give. This is what you can give. “You will get through this, Clarke. I have no doubt of that.”
She smiles weakly, perhaps in thanks of your feeble comfort. “Because I’m strong?” Her tone lacks venom this time around, replaced with an attempt at wry humor, and you meet it with an upturn of your lips, the closest you can give to a smile.
“Because you’re strong.”
She allows that to sink in, thinks on it, then lets out a breath. “I’ll never stop seeing them will I?”
There is no need to ask what she refers to. You know Clarke like you know yourself. At least in this. “No. But it’s important that you do. It means you have not lost yourself to your actions. It means you care.”
Her mouth quirks and something dances in her eyes. “I thought caring was weakness.” Her mocking is light, meant in good nature, but you keep yourself hard. This is important.
“And it is. But to have no care at all, not for your people or for the lives lost, would also be weak.” You learnt this after Costia died. With vengeance in your heart and all compassion lost to grief, you wanted to wage war on the ones who had done this to you. You would have slain hundreds-of theirs, of yours, it did not matter-to drown your hands in the blood of her killer. But that was weakness. Instead, you waged peace, and saved thousands. It is a hard strength to bear. “We would not be very good leaders, Clarke, if we didn’t care.”
She thinks it over, nods weakly, and you feel that the storm has passed. There is still much left unsaid, still so many things that need to be talked about, but it has been a long night and the two of you are exhausted. Both physically and emotionally. There is no conversation that can be had, that either of you are ready for.
So you squeeze her hand once more and relax into your pillow. She shifts closer, tucks that hand into the space between your chests, and moves her face nearer to yours. Noses inches apart, she closes her eyes and waits to fall asleep.
You watch her well into the night, studying the lines of her face, the tangle of her hair, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Her being here is still such a wonder-a gift you’ve not done anything to deserve-and you’re still not entirely convinced that she won’t disappear. You watch and wait. You watch until you can watch no more; until your eyelids surrender under the pressure and you fall asleep to a warmth and comfort you have not been allowed in . . .
You sleep and for once you do not dream.
When you wake, it’s to her leaving.
She is stealthy, quiet, her body taking pains not to touch yours as she climbs over your still form. Still, the bed shifts under her weight and your heart seizes, lungs trapping air in your chest. As you listen to the soft pad of her footsteps on the floor, you force your breathing to steady and will your heart to calm. You do not open your eyes as the sound of her grows ever more distant.
You pretend at sleep and keep your eyes shut as she sneaks away, though you would have liked to see her one last time.
You do not hope for her return.
"And I have seen all that you've seen
And I have been where you've been
No, our hands will never be clean
At least we can hold each other...”
- When You Break by Bear's Den