Chapter Text
The throb is steady, a dull thumping in the back of her head that refuses to cease. It isn’t unbearable but it is just painful enough to wake her and make her feel queasy. Clarke takes several deep, cool breaths to try to quell the nausea, and it seems to help. The familiar, continuous beeping of machines becomes clearer as Clarke becomes more aware, aching her way more fully into consciousness, and she determines that she must be in the medical bay.
The memory of the fight comes swiftly back, much more swiftly than consciousness had, and Clarke nearly groans at the thought of the wound on the back of her head. It will likely be paining her for days. Eyes still closed, she lifts a hand to the side of her head and feels the rough material of the gauze bandage wrapped around from the back.
She braces herself for the sting of overhead lights when she blinks open her eyes, but thankfully, the sharp, sudden prick of brightness never comes. The room is dimly lit, dark enough that the patients scattered throughout the bay can easily rest but still bright enough for Abby to have clear visibility of each and every one, and the first thing that pulls Clarke’s attention is the chair pressed to the side of her own cot and the person sleeping in it.
Lexa sits rigidly in the chair, far too rigidly to be terribly comfortable, with her arms crossed over her chest and her head slightly slumped against her shoulder. Her eyes are closed, though her lashes flutter a bit as if she is dreaming or on the verge of waking, and her fingers twitch at her side under her crossed arms like they are searching for a weapon that isn’t there.
A rush of relief floods Clarke’s body at the sight, seeing Lexa whole and unscathed beside her, having undoubtedly remained at her side since their return. Warmth brews in her chest and spreads through her belly, and Clarke’s first instinct is to wake her, to see Lexa’s eyes blink open, sleepy and beautiful, and urge her to crawl onto this small cot with her so that they can sleep uncomfortably together instead of uncomfortably apart. She keeps quiet instead, knowing Lexa needs the uninterrupted rest after too many days of here-and-there sleep that never quite managed to make the shadows under green eyes disappear.
Clarke takes her in like this, every visible inch. Her gaze lingers on the lines of Lexa’s face, the way her brow just slightly furrows, the gentle slope of her plump bottom lip, and the high arches of her cheekbones. Clarke imagines mapping her out on canvas, pressing the organic beauty of the woman onto paper.
Thin lines of dirt and grime are visible at the edges of Lexa’s face, pushed up toward her hairline. It is clear that her face has been only quickly, messily wiped clean, but Clarke is glad to not see her covered in the thick evidence of what they have only just gone through. A part of her still yearns to clear away those last bits of the fray from Lexa’s face, to dip her down into clean water and wash away what remains of yet another war, however small.
Releasing a soft sigh, Clarke shifts to take in the rest of the room, or as much of it as she can from her small cot. She winces as she quietly rolls, the back of her head pressing to her pillow and sending a jolt of pain through her skull, and Clarke quickly takes a fast, deep breath to push her through it. Bending on her cot, she does her best to make out the people on the other beds around the room, but some are covered in thin blankets and some are partially blocked from view by machines. Clarke does see Bellamy, though, asleep in a chair like Lexa’s on the other side of the room. His upper body is stretched awkwardly over from his chair and onto the cot next to him, one arm slung over the occupant and his head lolling atop his arm.
Clarke can only assume the person on the cot is Octavia, and her stomach lurches with concern. She recalls Octavia’s unsteady stance, guarding Miller on high alert and unable to lean her weight on her left leg, and Clarke hopes she has landed herself in the medical bay with nothing more than a bad sprain.
She can make out her mother’s pacing shadow on the window panes of her enclosed office, likely too eaten up with worry to sleep, and Miller’s figure is visible on the cot nearest the office door. The cot closest to Clarke is only a few feet away, and she feels a rush of relief run through her at the sight of the woman atop it but is surprised to see that she, too, is awake.
"Can't sleep?"
Echo doesn’t turn at Clarke’s whispered words, doesn’t even look at her. She keeps her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her right hand stretched over to a cot that has been shifted over and pressed against hers. Her fingers rest atop her sleeping brother's forearm as if she needs that constant light touch to remind her that he is present and alive.
She is silent so long that Clarke thinks she won't answer, thinks maybe Echo would rather have her sleepless silence than any tired conversation Clarke could offer, but then—
"Sleep rarely comes."
Clarke shifts more fully onto her side, her back turning entirely to the chair where Lexa still sits upright, eyes closed and lips slightly parted around her easy breaths. The soft swishing sound of Clarke's cheek against the pillow as she nods seems almost loud enough to echo in the quiet medical bay, and Clarke whispers, "It's like that for me sometimes, too. It's easier, better, with …" Clarke pauses, catching herself. She isn't sure she should finish that sentence, should reveal things about her relationship with Lexa that perhaps Echo doesn't know, that perhaps few people outside their inner circle know. Echo, however, seems to have already figured it out.
"With the Commander," she says quietly but clearly, shifting just enough to send a pointed glance in Clarke's direction.
Clarke lets out a gentle breath, a smile tugging up one corner of her mouth. When she nods again, the swishing sound is paired with a quiet, raspy laugh. "You're observant."
"You are obvious," Echo counters, and Clarke sees her smile reflected on Echo's lips. It is small and brief, but it eases the tension in both their bodies. Echo's shoulders relax more against the cot, her body seeming to almost melt into the thin padding beneath her.
They lapse back into silence for several long moments, long enough that Clarke thinks she could fall back asleep were it not for the steadily growing throb in the back of her head, and then Echo surprises her.
"It was better with Bellamy as well."
There is an ache that rings clearly through the quiet words, a sorrow that can't quite slip into regret but teeters along the edge of it, and it makes Clarke's chest burn. The first response that jumps to Clarke's lips is 'maybe it will be again' but she doesn't say it aloud. Echo's words sound like an open wound, and Clarke doesn't want to press it. She doesn't want to offer any sort of hope that she can't guarantee will ever become a reality, because that would only hurt Echo more in the long run.
So, instead, Clarke asks, "You have nightmares?"
"A voice," Echo tells her, the words grainy and rough as they slither into the quiet. She licks her lips, and they tremble in the dim lights of the medical bay. "Her voice in my head, as clear as yours now."
Stomach lurching with her understanding, Clarke whispers, "Nia's voice?"
Echo gives one gentle nod. "It has been there all my life, a compass with only one direction. To stray is to fail. Even now, I wait."
"For what?"
"Her wrath," Echo murmurs, and Clarke feels her throat tighten to the point of pain when the soft lights overhead reflect on a single tear as it slips from the corner of Echo's eye and slides down her temple to disappear into her hair. She doesn't wipe it away or even seem to notice its presence. She hardly even blinks, simply staring up at the ceiling and speaking to Clarke almost as if she is speaking to herself.
"You don't have to worry about that," Clarke tells her, clearing her throat. "You're safe now, you and your brother. You don't have to be afraid of her anymore."
"I am not afraid."
Eyes stinging, Clarke murmurs, "It's okay to be afraid. It doesn't make you weak. It just makes you human."
Echo turns her head then, her wet eyes locking onto Clarke's in the dim light, and when she speaks, her voice is a broken whisper so rich with the fear she claims not to feel that Clarke physically hurts for her. "She will die because of me."
Clarke shakes her head against her pillow and reaches out toward Echo's cot. They are close enough that Clarke can just barely graze her fingers along the edge but not quite close enough for her to touch the other girl. She doesn't know why she does it or what she expects. Echo doesn't seem the type to hold her hand or even to be physically comforted by another, but the action is instinctual, and Clarke can't help herself, so she touches the edge of Echo's cot and hopes that the effort conveys what a touch to skin might from someone Echo loves. "She will die because of her, Echo," she says firmly. "Don't feel guilty for that. She's a monster."
"She is," Echo whispers, tremors dancing through her words like the dying remnants of a disaster that leveled her towering body to ruins, "yet I yearn for her forgiveness still."
"Why?" Clarke asks, brows knitting together. She is unable to understand. "After everything you've seen, everything you've been through, how can you want forgiveness from someone so cruel?"
"She is my kwin, a god," Echo says simply, as if those few words are explanation enough. "This is what I have always known."
"But it's a lie."
"Yes," Echo whispers, "but a lie given as truth to a child is a truth no matter how time exposes its nature." She licks her lips again, releases a sigh heavy with burden. "When I was a child, I worshipped her. I thought her divine. I thought her cruelty just. As a warrior, I saw more. I heard more. She took pleasure in her cruelty, even against the innocent. I began to question her in silence …" She raises a hand to tap her finger against her temple. "… in here, and even those silent doubts bred guilt."
Clarke wants to ask her why she didn't just leave, why she didn't just take her brother and go, but then Lexa's words ring in her mind. Even those who do not believe, rarely question. Fear of the unknown is too powerful a foe. Echo had doubts, but she never had proof, and the fear of what could have happened to her, to her brother, if she were to go against everything she had ever known or been taught about Nia, a 'truth' so integrated into who she is and her way of life that she has literally never lived without it, must have been overwhelming and terrifying. Clarke cannot imagine the struggle, and to have done what Echo did to help them—brave, Clarke thinks, doesn't even begin to cover it.
"I finally did what needed to be done," Echo whispers, "for my brother, for our freedom, but her voice remains.”
A ragged sigh releases from her lips before Echo turns over on her cot to put her back to Clarke, and Clarke burns with the sting of that sigh, the sting of those words. She burns with the realization that a part of Echo may never truly be free.
"She feigns sleep, you know," Echo says then, startling Clarke as she hadn't expected to hear anything more from the other girl.
It takes a minute for Clarke to realize who Echo is talking about, and despite the pain that shoots through the back of her head when she presses it to the thin pillow again, Clarke rolls quickly over and pins her sharp gaze on Lexa. The Commander hasn't moved, her body still positioned upright, though slightly slumped, in her chair, and her eyes are still closed.
Clarke narrows her eyes, now suspicious. "Lexa," she hisses quietly, "are you faking?"
There is no response for several dragging moments, but then a tiny, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips, and without opening her eyes, Lexa says, "Yes, Clarke."
If Clarke had anything to throw at Lexa other than her pillow, she would, but there is nothing and she is unwilling to sacrifice the cushion beneath her injured head, so when Lexa opens her eyes a moment later, Clarke can only offer up a forced glare that quickly dissolves into quiet, raspy laughter.
When the sound fades, Clarke lets the silence linger for only a moment, lets Lexa’s gentle gaze envelop her like a warm embrace and remind her that all the good is far from gone, before whispering, “I’m glad you’re okay.” The words catch in her throat with a sudden surge of emotion, and Clarke takes a deep breath that escapes her again in a wet, shaky sigh. Her next words are even quieter than the first. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Lexa’s responding smile is small, lovely, melancholy, like she is intimately familiar with the sensations whirling through Clarke’s system. She knows the chaos of loss and love tangled up inside the same breath, the same beat—occupying the same sacred spaces inside in ways they were never intended to but do all the same. Her fingers dust over Clarke’s forearm before Clarke has even registered movement, and then Lexa murmurs, “I am sorry for the loss of your friend, Clarke.”
Closing her eyes, Clarke sees a flash of the fight, the haunt of Jasper’s widening eyes. The scream torn from Miller’s throat still throbs in her ears like the ringing of her gunshot, the thud of two bodies hitting the ground. Clarke feels the loss spread through her chest like wildfire, burning, burning. Her eyes ache with tears she barely keeps at bay as Clarke swallows down the thick lump in her throat and croaks, “So am I.”
She shifts her arm so that she can tangle her fingers with Lexa’s. “Nia?” she whispers, and Lexa gives a short nod.
“She is bound and being held in the stockade. Your mother has given her a medicine to induce sleep. Indra and Lincoln have taken guard as well as two others. We will leave for Polis after dawn, once your mother deems both you and Algor fit for the journey.”
“Is he okay?” Clarke asks and Lexa nods.
“He is gaining a collection of arrow wounds,” she says with a small grin, “but this one was shallow, little more than a nuisance. He is well.”
Clarke releases a silent breath of relief and nods. Letting the silence slip back in again, she runs her fingers over Lexa’s, one by one, and revels in a quiet moment of physical connection. It keeps her grounded despite the way she feels inside—unsteady, shaky.
“It isn’t over, is it?”
“No,” Lexa answers honestly. “There will be trying times ahead, Clarke, but nothing compared to what would have been without this victory. Only rogues of the Azgeda or those seeking vengeance for Nia’s capture will dare challenge me with their queen not at their helm, and once they are disposed of, this war will be finished.”
“And then what?” Clarke asks quietly, and Lexa squeezes her hand.
“Then we can have peace.”
“Clarke.” The hand on her shoulder jostles her, pulling her up and away from images of Jasper shouting victoriously on the other side of the water, his arms in the air and his smile as wide as the river; pulling her up and away from the sounds of young, wild laughter as Jasper and Monty bump each other’s shoulders and finish each other’s sentences, keep everyone feeling light and alive; pulling her up and away from a goofy grin suddenly morphing into a gasp of surprise, eyes going wide with a final breath. “Clarke, honey.”
Groaning, Clarke slowly opens her eyes and blinks her mother into focus. “Mom?”
“It’s me,” Abby says with a nod still slightly blurry in Clarke’s misty vision. “I need you to sit up for me so I can look at your wound.”
Clarke shifts up onto an elbow and holds still as Abby quickly flashes a penlight in front of her eyes and then gives a satisfied nod. Blinking, Clarke notices that the chair next to her cot is now empty. Reaching up with one hand to rub at her eyes, she murmurs, “Where’s Lexa?”
“She is with her people, preparing the horses for the trip to Polis,” Abby tells her, helping Clarke sit fully up before unwinding the gauze from around her head.
“Our people,” Clarke corrects, the words slipping from her lips almost instinctually, and Abby pauses in her ministrations. Clarke thinks, for a moment, that she will argue, that she will say something along the lines of ‘not yet’, or that maybe she will simply ignore the words and change the subject.
She is taken completely by surprise when Abby only clears her throat and quietly repeats, “Our people.”
A flood of warmth spilling through her chest, Clarke lets one hand fall to her mother’s knee where Abby sits on the edge of the cot. She gives it a small squeeze, and Abby clears her throat again. “It took a while to clean the wound out,” she says, pulling the gauze free from Clarke’s head and holding her hair aside in order to see, “and you needed quite a few stitches. You’re going to have one hell of a headache for a while, but I’ll give you some acetaminophen to take with you. I’ve already packed a bag for you with extra bandages and ointment. You know the drill, and you also have a mild concussion, so you know what that means.”
“Lots of rest,” Clarke says, and Abby nods as she applies a fresh coating of antibiotic ointment to the sutured wound.
“Yes,” she confirms, “so take it easy. I know there are things that have to be done in Polis, but try to be as inactive as possible. I’ve already told Lexa what symptoms and signs to watch for just in case.”
“You talked to Lexa about this?” Clarke asks, amused.
“Well, she is obviously the one who is going to have eyes on you day and night,” Abby says, leaning back to pin Clarke with a knowing look, “so yes.”
A snort of laughter escapes Clarke and she pokes her mother’s knee, evoking a quiet laugh from Abby. “She’ll take care of me,” she says, and Abby’s laughter slips into a gentle sigh.
“I know she will.”
Those words spill into Clarke like a fresh shock to her system—rushing, relieving, thrilling, comforting. They sound like a new beginning, and Clarke can’t help but to smile.
“I packed sedatives for you as well,” Abby says, clearing her throat, “in case you need to keep Nia sedated.” She applies a new, smaller bandage to the back of Clarke’s head. “The sutures look good. I trust one of the healers in Polis can remove them for you in a few days as well as the ones in your arm?”
“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” Clarke tells her as Abby drops two small pills into Clarke’s hand and passes her a cup of water from a small bedside tray.
“I had to shave a bit of your hair away,” she says as Clarke swallows the medicine, “but you can hide the spot with the rest of your hair.”
“That’s okay,” Clarke murmurs, setting the cup back on the tray when she is finished before dropping her hand back to her mother’s knee and squeezing it again. When she catches Abby’s gaze, she lets a sad smile touch her lips. “Thank you, Mom.”
“You’re welcome,” Abby says, her voice wobbling a bit. “But if you want to properly thank me, you can stop getting yourself injured. I’d really prefer to see you conscious on a more regular basis and without a gaping wound, Clarke. Doctor’s orders.”
With a quiet laugh, Clarke says, “I’ll do my best,” and then she is being pulled into her mother’s arms, a tight embrace that says all the things they’ve never been very good at saying aloud.
Clarke braces her hands against Abby’s back and lets herself sink in, a heavy rush of breath pushing through her lips as she burrows her face into Abby’s neck and breathes in the familiar, comforting scent of the woman. “Jasper’s gone,” she whispers into her mother’s hair after a while.
“I know,” Abby mutters, holding Clarke more tightly to her. She begins a gentle stroking up and down Clarke’s back. It is rhythmic, familiar, soothing, and Clarke nearly lets it lull her back to sleep before she blinks herself fully awake again and slowly pulls back.
“Have you told anyone about the union yet?” she asks, and Abby shakes her head.
“Marcus and I will inform everyone later today,” she says with a sigh. “I’m sure there will be a few who won’t be on board, but I think they will come around once they realize what all we will be gaining.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“No,” Abby says, “but I know that, at the end of the day, most of them just want to feel safe. They just want to know that there is going to be a roof over their heads and clothes on their backs, food in their stomachs and in their children’s stomachs. For most of us, it’s about security. This union will give us that, even if it takes some getting used to.”
“It will,” Clarke agrees with a gentle nod. “Thank you for supporting this.”
“I should have supported you, Clarke,” Abby says, shaking her head and cupping a hand around Clarke’s cheek. “I should have supported you sooner. I’m sorry.”
Tears prick in Clarke’s eyes as she scoots closer and pulls her mother into another tight embrace. “We’ll do better,” she whispers, and Abby nods against her shoulder, holding her close.
“You will come back, Clarke,” Abby mutters. “Won’t you?”
“I’ll come back,” Clarke promises, “and you can come to Polis.”
“I think I’d like that.”
Clarke presses in, sinking further, and for just a moment, she is small again. She is small and young and taking refuge in her mother’s arms. She feels Abby’s lips press to her forehead, hears her father’s easy laughter in her memory like a soundtrack, and Clarke thinks maybe they really can live again; not just survive, but live.
“I think you would.”
Thumb swiping through a thick track of tears on Monty’s cheek, Raven releases a ragged breath before pulling a thin blanket over the sleeping boy and letting him sink back into the small couch. Clarke watches every move, watches with her heart bobbing painfully in her throat and her arms crossed tightly over her chest, holding herself. She watches without being seen, having slipped into the station just as Raven was pulling herself up from the couch, gently shifting Monty’s head from her lap.
When Raven stands and turns around, she freezes in place at the sight of Clarke. They stare at one another for one long, tense, silent moment before Raven quietly says, “He was up all night. He finally exhausted himself.”
“It’s better that he’s sleeping,” Clarke says, squeezing herself tighter. “Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t see me for a while.”
She can’t bring herself to say any more, doesn’t want to risk a break in voice or composure. She doesn’t want to risk opening the floodgate and allowing herself to be swept up in all she is currently holding at bay. The tightness in her chest, the way her insides jerk beneath her flesh with hidden, silent sobs are like warning signs of the disaster she could become if she does.
Her silence must be as clear as any verbal response, though, because Raven lets out a quiet sigh and shakes her head. She swipes a hand over her face, lingering to rub her knuckles against her visibly tired eyes, and then reaches for the crutches leaning against the wall nearest her. In only a few short strides, she is right in front of Clarke, brown eyes locking onto blue. “It’s not your fault, what happened to Jasper,” she whispers, reaching out to squeeze Clarke’s arm before letting her hand drop to the handle of her crutch again. “You understand that, right?”
Clarke’s nostrils flare with the sharp breath she takes, and she gives a quick shake of her head. Casting her gaze toward the ceiling, she blinks rapidly and swallows against the stinging sensation in her throat. “I’m trying,” she croaks, “but it might take a while to sink in.”
“Yeah,” Raven whispers, moving to lean against the wall beside Clarke. She sets her crutches beside her and pulls her hair down from her ponytail, crosses her arms over her chest as she rests her head back against the wall. “You got a little banged up, I see.”
“Yeah,” Clarke says with a quiet laugh, “not that that’s surprising.”
Raven’s laugh melds with hers for a moment before both drown into silence, and Raven whispers, “Do you think it will always be like this?”
“No,” Clarke says and then lets out a shaky sigh. “I don’t know. I hope not. I think it’s going to get better. With the union, I think … I think things can finally get better.”
“Are you coming back?” Raven asks after another beat of silence, and Clarke turns to look at her.
“Yes,” she says, “but I don’t know when. It might be a while before we can perform the union ceremony. All the clan leaders will have to be informed, and they will all have to travel to Polis not only for Nia’s execution but to take part in the oath, so it could take several days.”
“And you like it there,” Raven says, giving Clarke a knowing look, and Clarke lets out a soft laugh.
“Yeah,” she admits. “I do.”
“When you came back, you weren’t the same,” Raven says, “but you were better, better than when you left. So, you should go, and you should stay there, at least for a while. I mean, don’t forget about us or anything, but if that place helps you, then you should take some time to just be there, Clarke. We’ll be okay here.”
“Actually,” Clarke says, clearing her throat, “I was thinking that you should come with me.”
Raven’s eyes widen. “To Polis?”
Nodding, Clarke says, “You don’t have to, but I think it would be good for you. I’ve learned that sometimes you have to get away in order to get better, and there’s so much you could do there, Raven. There’s so much you can learn and so much you can teach them, so many people you can help, and it’s beautiful there. It’s free, and everyone is so alive.”
Raven’s mouth moves wordlessly, and Clarke smiles. “I know it’s a big decision, but you can always come back. You can come back whenever you want.” She reaches over to squeeze Raven’s arm. “Just think about it, okay? I mean, don’t take too long, obviously, but think about it.”
It takes a moment for Raven to respond but then she gives a quick nod and pulls Clarke into a tight hug. “I’ll think about it,” she promises, and Clarke smiles into the embrace.
Lexa, Indra, Algor, Lincoln, Octavia, and Bellamy are all waiting by the gate when Clarke and Abby shuffle their way outside. Three horses are lined together, and the fourth holding Indra is slightly separated from the others and attached to what looks like a makeshift sort of carriage, though it is more like a wooden plank with wheels, ropes attaching it to a strap that has been braced around the horse’s chest. They must have built it that morning.
Nia is unconscious on the wooden plank, sedated and turned on her side with her wrists and ankles secured to the plank. A thin blanket has been secured atop her, covering her body and most of her face, and Clarke tries not to stare, tries not to think about the fact that the woman will be dead in a matter of days. Nia deserves her punishment, Clarke knows, but she is ready for this to be over. She is ready to move on from all this pain and punishment and death. She is ready for peace.
Octavia lingers on the ground beside Lincoln’s horse, the only one other than Bellamy and Lexa who hasn’t mounted. Her sprained ankle is visibly wrapped, and she is avoiding putting too much weight on it as she slips into Bellamy’s arms. He wraps one arm around her, braces one hand on the back of her head, and buries his face in her hair. They remain that way, just holding onto each other, long enough that Clarke has reached them by the time they separate. When they pull apart, Bellamy helps hoist Octavia up onto Lincoln’s horse, settling her in right behind the warrior, and then pins Lincoln with a hard gaze.
“Protect her,” he says, voice gruff and stern, and Octavia only rolls her eyes as Lincoln gives Bellamy a firm nod of promise.
Clarke places a hand on Bellamy’s shoulder, drawing his attention, and his gaze softens when he turns to her. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” she asks, and Bellamy’s lips pull up at one corner—a sad smile that tugs at Clarke’s insides.
“I need to stay,” he says quietly, “take care of Monty and the others. We’re going to take Jasper back to the Drop Ship, bury him there. I think that’s what he would want.”
Clarke feels her throat begin to tighten again. She has become all too accustomed to the feeling, and as she glances up to Octavia, cheek resting against Lincoln’s back, Clarke sees tears in the younger girl’s eyes. She knows they will begin to coat her own eyes soon as well.
“Yeah,” she whispers, turning back to Bellamy and squeezing his arm again. “I think he would.”
They hold each other’s gazes for a moment before Bellamy opens his arms and Clarke walks into his embrace, wraps tightly around him. “Take care of yourself,” he mutters, and Clarke sighs.
“You too,” she whispers against his shoulder. She hesitates a moment before adding, “And Echo.”
Bellamy doesn’t say anything but the extra squeeze of his fingers at Clarke’s sides is all the confirmation she needs.
When they pull apart, Clarke turns toward the waiting warriors and realizes that there are only four horses for six riders, and she looks to Lexa who gives a nod to her unasked question.
“You will ride with me, Clarke,” she says, lingering by her white horse, waiting.
“Okay.” Clarke gives her mother one last hug before sliding the small bag of medical supplies Abby gave her into one of the horse’s saddle bags, and then she turns to Lexa. “Are you going to mount?”
“You will mount first,” Lexa says quietly, moving closer to help Clarke lift up onto the horse. Once Clarke is settled, Lexa swings swiftly and smoothly up onto the steed and eases into the space behind Clarke. Her thighs embrace Clarke’s hips, her chest pressing snugly to Clarke’s back, and she reaches around Clarke’s sides to take the reins. “Your mother bids you rest,” she whispers, lips hovering near the back of Clarke’s ear. “This way, you may rest against me.”
Clarke bites her lip to tame her smile, and her cheeks flush with her affection. “Thank you,” she murmurs, wriggling a bit on the saddle so that she can lean more comfortably against Lexa’s chest.
When the gate is opened, they begin to make their way out, Lexa and Clarke at the front, then Lincoln and Octavia, followed by Indra with Nia, and then Algor at the rear. They only manage to make it a few clopping steps out of the gate, though, before a voice calls out behind them.
“Wait!”
Lexa turns their horse so that they can look back, and Clarke smiles as she sees Raven making her way out from the Ark, a small bag slung over her shoulder. She is wearing her brace again but is carrying her crutches with her.
“I asked her to come with us,” Clarke says. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course, Clarke,” Lexa tells her, not a hint of hesitation in her voice, and then motions to Algor, who immediately jumps down from his horse and goes to meet Raven. He takes her bag and crutches and secures them to his horse while she walks the rest of the way, stopping to hug Bellamy and Abby, and then her gaze locks with Clarke’s, and she gives her a small nod. Clarke returns it, still smiling, and then Raven lets out a soft, laughing yelp when Algor literally scoops her off the ground to put her on his horse before carefully climbing on in front of her.
Once everyone is settled again, Clarke gives a small wave to her mother and Bellamy, and Lexa clicks her tongue and kicks her heels and sends them off again. Clarke sighs as she lets her head carefully fall back against the crook of Lexa’s neck, revels in the warmth of being pressed against her, and lets the rhythm of the horse shifting beneath them quickly lull her back to sleep.
The trip to Polis takes slightly less than three days as they make minimal stops and only take one short night to rest. Clarke sleeps most of the way, mostly only waking off and on to eat or stretch or take a new dose of pain medication. She has to sedate Nia more than once, but it keeps the woman quiet and docile, so it is worth it.
Lexa is a warm constant behind her throughout, pressed to her body, sometimes murmuring quiet words in her ear in Trigedasleng. Clarke doesn’t understand them but the lilt of Lexa’s voice when she says them is a universal language, an affection that is as clear to Clarke as the cool, cloudless sky on the final day of the journey, and Clarke lives in them. She lives in the words, in the lilt, lets them soothe and promise, paint the world in ways not colored with suffering.
The woods begin to thin a bit around them as they draw nearer to Polis, and Clarke is awake, alert. The thrill of returning has sparked in her chest, and she is no longer content to sleep. She takes in the colors, waning in the slow arrival of winter; the way so many trees thin to naked branches, sprawling through the forest, unprotected, and Clarke thinks of the days after Mount Weather. She was the same—bare, unprotected.
She remembers the way the forest embraced her, swallowed her up so that she couldn’t find her way out and didn’t want to. She remembers the ache in her stomach, in her head and eyes and feet and flesh. She remembers the press of the hard ground beneath her body, the way sleep never came warm or welcoming, but cold and lonely.
She remembers the way she hated herself, the way she resented herself and Lexa and Dante and the world. She remembers the way the beauty died, the way the colors ceased to matter and the breath in her lungs felt more like fire than fresh air. She remembers all the shades of giving up, the stages of slipping away, and Clarke’s chest grows tight with the realization that that could have been the end had Lexa not come for her. That could have been her end, and all of this wouldn’t matter because it never would have happened.
She never would have felt the joy in Javas’s deep laughter or the heavy beat of festival drums in her ears, the fierce loyalty radiating out from Algor’s gentle gaze. She would have missed the pulse of Polis—the generosity of strangers, the wild play of eager children, the spray of the sea against the city’s edges. She never would have felt the oily grit of paints beneath her fingertips, seen the way each color pulled up the pain like a siphon and made something new, something healing, something beautiful.
She never would have learned the curve of Lexa’s spine, the swells of her breasts and hips, the bubbled flesh of her lovely scars. Her fingers would never have marked the paths of Lexa’s tattoos, would never have run the lines of her lips and the arches of her cheeks. She never would have known the press of Lexa’s chest to hers, pulses racing in time. She never would have known what it meant to truly be loved by Lexa and to love her in return.
She never would have learned all the ways the suffering fades, all the ways the roads can turn to lead you back to good.
“Lexa?” she whispers, her head resting against Lexa’s collarbone as they ride the last leg of the road to Polis.
She receives a soft hum in question, and Clarke leans more fully back, pressing her body to Lexa’s chest. Her eyes sting with tears, and she lifts her hand to briefly brush her fingers over Lexa’s cheek and jaw before letting it fall back to her lap. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”
Lexa doesn’t make a sound beyond her quiet breathing, and Clarke doesn’t expect her to. She, like her people, is comfortable, expressive even, in the quiet. Lexa says so much without words. She lives in the subtleties, and Clarke has learned to read her, learned to appreciate every quiet, lovely expression.
A gentle sigh escapes Lexa, rustling across Clarke’s ear, and she feels Lexa tighten around her, thighs gripping Clarke’s hips and arms encasing her sides more fully. Lexa’s fingers dust over Clarke’s thigh and her nose brushes carefully against the back of Clarke’s head, just above her bandage, and then Lexa releases the reins with one hand to point ahead of them.
Clarke follows with her eyes to see the towering wall of Polis coming slowly into view in the growing dark of the early night just as Lexa whispers, “We are home, Clarke.”
Polis welcomes them like an old friend, pulling Clarke in like she is being embraced by the city, and she revels in it, in the feeling of familiarity and home. She revels in the glowing lights brightening up the night, in the children’s faces at dawn, running about with their wooden swords and leaf-armor, in the smells of cooking meats and the lively chatter of the mid-day market. She revels in the comfort of a hot bath, the feeling of being clean and new, and the familiar scent of Lexa’s room and clothes and bed.
She revels in the awe on Raven’s face when she takes in Clarke’s old room where Lexa has decided she will stay, when she takes in the city and all it has to offer. She revels in the way Raven smiles like she isn’t broken inside when one of the blacksmiths marvels at her brace before showing her the one he made for his son’s arm and asking for her help in improving it.
She revels in the way Octavia slips into the city like she was born there, like she has finally found somewhere to belong; in the way she finds Octavia and Indra together and content after days and days of awkward avoidance and clipped sentences.
She revels in the way Lincoln laughs with his people, laughs like they were never lost to him, laughs like he was never gone; in the way he and Octavia find their place among the people of Polis, solid and secure.
She revels in the way Algor plops himself onto a stool day after day in the market and winds his fingers through countless strands of hair; in the way he walks with Clarke sometimes, like being close to her is a comfort to him, the way he shoves her with his shoulder or bops her on the head when he wants her attention, always grinning like a child afterward.
Clarke revels in the way Lexa’s body eases inside the walls, how she becomes loose and liquid in ways she never can outside the city. She revels in the salt of Lexa’s skin, the wet press of her lips, the arch of her back off the bed; in the way Lexa slips into her arms at night, murmurs in words Clarke is slowly beginning to understand, and wakes her with gentle fingers and tender eyes.
She revels in being here again, being home.
A sigh escapes her as Clarke wraps her arms around her knees and digs her toes down into the cold sand, her gaze fixed on the waves rolling out ahead of her like they extend into eternity. The sight pulls something up from within her, all the losses, all the struggle, but it doesn’t overwhelm. It is almost as if each aching memory is rocking out away from her with the water, and Clarke feels gloriously small and empty.
She startles when a voice suddenly breaks through the quiet rhythm.
“I feared I would follow you into the woods again,” Javas says, his tone light and teasing as he drops gracefully onto the sand and into the space beside Clarke. His broad shoulder presses to hers. “Another stubborn week of suffering as before.”
Wiping at her damp cheeks, Clarke lets out a quiet, raspy laugh and bumps him. “You wouldn’t have put up with it again.”
“No,” Javas says, shaking his head with a laugh. “I would put you on my shoulder and carry you home.”
“To Polis?” Clarke asks, arching a brow and earning a smile from the man.
He nods, his braided beard brushing against the material of his tunic. “To Heda,” he says, grinning. “Let her deal with you.”
Clarke’s cheeks flush with the same warmth that floods her chest when she thinks of Lexa as home, and she laughs with Javas. “She wouldn’t put up with it either.”
“This is my point,” Javas says, and Clarke laughs even harder.
When the shared sound filters into silence, Javas sighs and asks, “You did not want to be at the execution?”
Shaking her head, Clarke says, “I didn’t need to be.”
Clarke had been at the beach since earlier that morning when the proceedings for Nia’s execution had begun on the outskirts of Polis. The clan leaders, having to actually be present themselves rather than sending in representatives, with the exception of the Ice Nation, which sent in a general, had all finally arrived in Polis the night before. After listening to the recorded evidence of Nia’s treason, they had all agreed she must be put to death, and the execution was set for the following morning.
Clarke and Lexa had stayed up most of the night talking about it, about the leaders’ reactions to Nia’s treason, about their unanimous agreement to a union with the Sky People, and about how much better things would become once this was finished. Clarke hadn’t wanted to be present for the execution, so Raven had agreed to stand in for her as a representative of the Sky Clan.
“The people call me Wanheda,” Clarke whispers, shaking her head. “I’ve had enough death, even justified death. I just … I didn’t need to be there. I didn’t need to see it.”
Javas nods beside her, and they lapse back into silence with only the sounds of the waves filling the air. “We are like the serpent,” he says after a while, and Clarke turns to look at him.
“What do you mean?”
“The serpent sheds its skin,” Javas tells her. “He keeps his color and markings so he is the same, but he leaves the rest behind.” He looks to Clarke. “We wear a skin until it does not fit, and then we shed. We keep our markings, but we begin again with new skin.”
A soft groan escapes him as Javas pushes up into a crouch before placing a hand on top of Clarke’s head to ruffle her hair. She still has a bit of tenderness at the back of her head but her stitches have been removed, and she is healing well, and the playful touch doesn’t sting a bit. “Shed this skin, Clarke,” Javas says quietly. He wipes at a lingering streak of wetness on her cheek before rising to his feet and holding out a hand to help her up. “Begin again.”
Their room is dimly lit with the soft glow of candlelight when Clarke steps quietly inside and finds Lexa on the other side of the room, facing the massive mural Clarke painted for her. Lexa stands on the tips of her toes with her hand stretched over her head, reaching up toward the winding branches of Costia’s name. She turns at Clarke’s entrance, her fingertips still brushing the letters, and a sad, gentle smile touches her lips.
“It is done,” she says, and Clarke hears the relief in those words, the release. She hears the pieces of Lexa spilling free in the wake of them, feels the wash of letting go, and Clarke is overwhelmed with how sad and beautiful this moment is—this moment of justice finally being obtained, of closing the door to the haunting past and opening another to a brighter future.
Clarke crosses the room and wraps her arms around Lexa’s middle, kissing the backs of her shoulders as Lexa eases down into her embrace and presses her hands over Clarke’s arms. Nuzzling her nose into Lexa’s hair, Clarke breathes her in. She smells like sweat and wood smoke and winter air, and Clarke sighs. “Bath?” she whispers, and Lexa nods, her braids rubbing against Clarke’s forehead.
Water beads atop Lexa’s collarbones, slips down her back in thin trails that Clarke follows with her lips and then with her hands, with a soapy washcloth to scrub away the day. She unwinds Lexa’s braids and runs her fingers through the strands before using a small wooden cup to wet it down. Soap bubbles up in Lexa’s hair, forming a foam crown that Clarke blows off the top of Lexa’s head. She laughs when Lexa grabs some from the air and plops it down on top of Clarke’s head instead.
Her breath catches in her throat at the soft sound of Lexa’s laughter, at the exposure of precious pieces that only Clarke can see, that only Clarke is given.
Lexa is the overgrown expanse of ruins, devoured by the wild of her world, of burdens and baggage and ages of loss—lovely in her decadence. She is a cathedral, ancient and hidden and speckled with cracks and crevices, stone and color, shadows and sun, and she is beautiful. Her doors push open with echoing groans, her hinges straining against the sudden pressure of letting someone in again, but what lies within is breathtaking, a wonder deserving of a tender care.
Clarke discovers more of her with every touch, every breath, rustling the thick dust with her presence. It refuses to settle the same as before and Clarke’s cheeks warm with the thought — warm like the flush of intoxication, the dizzy suddenness of stepping into the heat of a house from the cold.
She knows she has been in ruins as well, all her pieces cracked and crumbled, devoured in darkness, but Lexa’s touch is a restoration. Her gentle guidance, her tender gaze, her raw way of loving are like the sun spilling through Clarke’s chest, illuminating all her shadows. Together, they are growing into their brilliance again.
They lay together in the bath until the water goes cold, having washed each other clean. The past slips away into droplets and suds, and Clarke feels free. She knows they have such a long way to go, but the gaping wounds inside no longer yawn and ache. They close with every peaceful day, every tilt of Lexa’s lips, every winding of their bodies; every quiet confession in the dark of their room.
Clarke thinks that this is what living is supposed to be—learning and loss and love, and all the little moments between. It is the sharp air of winter in her lungs and the chaotic chatter of the city. It is the sound of Raven’s tinkering and Octavia’s steadily improving Trigedasleng. It is the morning sun across her face and Algor’s meticulous braids. It is paint on her fingertips and soapy water on Lexa’s stomach.
It is the way she knows, without doubt, that she has so much to look forward to.
When they crawl into bed, Lexa’s back presses to Clarke’s chest, and Clarke watches the way the moon casts its glow through the balcony door. It dances over Lexa’s damp hair, over her bare shoulder, and Clarke feels sleep come so easily, so freely.
“Our people will be joined as one tomorrow,” Lexa murmurs into the quiet, stirring Clarke from the cloudy edges of slumber. "We can have our chance."
Clarke nods against her pillow as she runs her hand down the length of Lexa’s side. Lexa’s body always seems to wind on for days and days, and Clarke loses herself in it, loses track of beginning and end, but the in-between is everything so Clarke is content to be lost.
She feels Lexa’s hand slip over hers, and Clarke tangles their fingers together. Smiling into a sleepy kiss that she presses between Lexa’s shoulder blades, she whispers, “We can begin again.”