Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun hangs bound and gagged on the last day of Michaelmas term, dawn slipping into day unknown amongst the gathering gloom of the morning’s low-hanging clouds. As the hours lumber on, the air catches in the lungs and only continues to thicken, only grows heavier and heavier as if swallowing the hundreds of held breaths from within the school.

By noon, the world outside Polis’ red brick buildings has faded away into a bleak blur, entire fields and forests suffocated in a veil of fog.

The official joining of Polis and Dominicus is scheduled for two o’clock, their annual Christmas celebration of life superseded by a macabre pageantry of death, but it’s still a half-hour before that happens, or at least the cloaked American reminds herself while creeping outside.

Clarke watches the Headmistress greet the local news crew at the front gate with a vigilant eye, a total of five crew members with an assortment of handheld and video cameras. After handshakes and parking directions, they’re led through the Quad and to the bottom of the double staircase flanking the chapel doors. Requisite small talk is made, along with general lamentations about the weather, mostly because the fog ruins the possibility of panoramic shots for their news-spread on the event, and it’s the first burst of joy Clarke’s felt all day.

And she’s not quite sure schadenfreude counts as joy. Not really.

At about twenty minutes to the hour, the vaulted main building doors swing open to reveal a huddle of businessmen, one brave scout risking the sleeve of his suit to check for rain before holding the door open for his colleagues. With grimaces, the troupe tiptoe along the covered walkway for the sake of their shoes, a tightly packed unit of nondescript older white men in dark suits—possibly the same dude cloned six times, in all honesty—but there’s no way Clarke could ever miss the gait of her second heart, surrounded in their midst.

The Head Girl is marched out of the cloisters and up the marble stairs to the chapel as if she’s not already going willingly. As the fog coalesces into a light drizzle, Lexa pulls the hood of her cloak over her head and the men look on enviously. Her face is pale and every step she climbs must be agony.

Her feet don’t falter. Not even once.

They reach the top and Lexa straightens her shoulders. She pulls back her hood and fixes her eyes on the courtyard below. Her posture and expression betray no sign these fucking villains have drained her of her fight.

No, Heda stands arraigned between the stone pillars of the chapel as tall and fierce as ever: born for this responsibility, be it victory or defeat. Neither the howl of the wind nor the wild of her curls dare disturb her plaits, tightly wound as they are, but as she draws her arms behind herself and raises her chin, Clarke can’t help but wonder if Lexa’s crown of braids feels more a crown of thorns.

The Headmistress and photographers join them on the terrace, Nia speaking to Lexa through the corners of her puckered mouth while they’re fitted with lapel microphones. The Head Girl nods in response, both sets of eyes straight ahead, but Clarke doesn’t miss the smirk festering around the corners of Nia’s mouth. The group are posed and rearranged for endless rounds of publicity shots by the news crew and Lexa complies without a word, dutifully raising the corner of her lips in the semblance of a smile when prompted.

Clarke imagines the sensation of her knuckles contacting with Nia’s gloating mug.

Partway through the pictures, the Dominicus Headmaster dashes up the other set of steps, panting heavily. A droplet of sweat rolls down his bald scalp as he thrusts a bag of some sort into Lexa’s hands and then grins at the Headmistress, chattering excitedly about something Clarke can’t hear and then frowning in suspicion when he realises they’ve been taking publicity photos without him. It’s evident that Lexa doesn’t share his enthusiasm because the shadows under her eyes deepen, but she bows her head and steps inside the chapel with the parcel.

When she returns, her beautiful scarlet Heda cloak is gone, replaced by a garish red and yellow striped blazer.

Titus claps his hands together and Nia grins like a fucking snake.

Clarke thinks she might throw up.

It’s a Dominicus school blazer.

They’ve stripped Lexa of the last symbol of her position—her late mother’s cloak, no less—and forced her into this polyester monstrosity. All for their fucking circus.

She may only be seventeen years old, but Clarke decides she may never be more furious than she is in this moment.

They're calling back the photographer to take more photos of this nightmare when Clarke can’t stand quiet another millisecond and storms up the staircase. The sallow-faced Advisory Board splutter and try to stop her, stretching out their hands, but they’re all too reticent to actually try apprehending the blonde fury.

“Miss, you can’t be here!”

“Young lady…”

“The ceremony hasn’t started yet, the girls don’t enter until—”

“Let her pass,” a stronger voice commands, powerful and steady even whilst shackled to her personal hell, and the business men gape in confusion, looking between themselves but none daring to contradict the Head Girl.

The Headmistress looks ready to intervene as Clarke pushes through to her girlfriend but then seems to change her mind. She simply makes a magnanimous gesture toward the Head Girl and then steps back, just far enough to give the illusion of privacy.

“Two minutes, Miss Griffin,” Nia says, her face the picture of a victor enjoying the sight of her victims wriggling on the end of a spear. “Then I’ll need you back inside for the ceremonial procession with the rest of your classmates.”

Clarke pays her exactly zero fucks.

“Lexa.” She wraps her hand around Lexa’s upper arm, speaking low; the muscles under her fingers are so taut they’re almost vibrating.

“Do you need something, Clarke?” she asks quietly.

“Just…” Clarke takes a deep breath to steel her aching heart. “Just to remind you that this isn’t the only solution. There are so many people behind you, Lex—we can stop this.” 

Any last remnant of Lexa in those haunted green eyes immediately shutter away and Heda’s eyes flicker away, back to centre again.

Clarke drops her hand and follows her gaze, tracing over the sprawl of red brick and cobblestone in front of them, the four buildings that border the courtyard and the patch of Holy Ground in the middle. Under the hanging cloud of fog, it feels as if nothing else could possibly exist outside these school grounds, as if they’re dwelling on their own earth, under their own skies, everything else a hazy mirage.

And then she looks at the girl at her side and she remembers—she remembers the breathtaking immensity of the universe.

“All it’d take is one word from you, just one,” Clarke pleads, not caring if she’s overheard anymore. “You protected Polis before, when you went against the Headmistress and united the Houses two years ago. You can do it again—we can do it again!”

The Head Girl lifts her chin and pulls her arms behind her back; it’s a gesture of power but all Clarke can think about is how exposed it makes her neck, how exposed her heart and throat are to the swing of her enemy’s blade. “It’s done. I’m sorry, Clarke,” she says softly. “I have to choose peace.”

With a nod she already knew she’d be giving before climbing the steps, Clarke turns to Nia and raises her chin.  “Headmistress. We’ve taken a schoolwide vote regarding the proposal to dissolve Polis and merge with Dominicus and—”

Nia bursts into laughter—or, rather, cackles—and turns to her Advisory Board to share in the hilarity. It takes most of them a moment, but they join in, too, if a bit stilted and confused, about as comfortable as they’d be if Clarke had asked them for their opinion on tampons verses sanitary napkins.

“A ‘proposal’? A schoolgirl ‘vote’?” the Headmistress gasps out, gnarly fingers forming air quotations around the words. “As adorable as that must have been, little Yankee, I’m afraid a boarding school isn’t a democracy. Dominicus and Polis will be joining together next year; it’s not up for discussion.”

“How can you possibly speak for us, we’re the ones—” Clarke starts but gets cut off again, this time by a long, dramatic sigh; Nia shoots an exasperated look over to the wary Board members as if they’re simply dealing with an over-tired toddler.

“Why don’t you step inside and I’ll explain,” Nia says sweetly between her teeth, digging her claws around Clarke and Lexa’s arms and towing them into the chapel.

Once inside, the Headmistress closes the door and then spins around to regard them both, eyes slitting in consideration before placing her hands on her hips.

“Clearly a tactical error was made by not involving your partner-in-crime in our little…agreement,” she concedes to Lexa while not sounding in the least bit conciliatory. Her tone isn’t one of resignation, either—it’s crafty, as if she’s expected this from the beginning.

Clarke’s not exactly sure what hackles are but if she has them, they’re definitely rising right now.  

“I’m impressed you managed to hold your tongue, in fact,” Nia continues, cocking an eye over at Clarke for only a moment before ignoring her again for the stiff-backed Head Girl. “I was certain she’d be your first confidant. Perhaps she’s less important to you than I thought.”

Clarke almost snorts, unsurprised when the Headmistress reverts to this strategy.

So predictable.

If Nia can’t get Clarke to submit by going through Lexa, she obviously has no shame in falling back on her contingency plan to pit the two girls against each other. It’s the same strategy she’s deploying at the whole-school level—counting on the girls to either fall into line under her puppet Head Girl’s command or to fall into fractionated chaos, weakening themselves from the inside out with Lexa as the scapegoat.

Nia’s an idiot.

“Of course I didn’t tell her,” Lexa snaps, tugging at her blazer sleeves in disgust while avoiding Clarke’s eye. “You may have been able to cow me into submission but Clarke never would have stood for it.”

“Is that so?” Nia turns to Clarke with mild interest, now, her expression predatory. “My son sends his regards, by the way, dear. It seems you two really hit it off last week.”

Clarke grins.

“We did indeed, thank you for ensuring we met, Headmistress,” Clarke enthuses without a trace of sarcasm. “I spent some time chatting with Roan yesterday, as chance might have it. Turns out we have a lot in common.”

Her sincerity sets Nia off-rhythm for a second, especially once the woman checks over at Lexa and receives only a bland expression in reaction to Clarke’s words. “Well. I’m glad to hear it,” she finally manages before clearing her throat and regaining her footing. “But let’s not get off-topic—the ceremony is due to begin in a few minutes and I need your assurance, both your assurances, that it will go ahead with no unexpected surprises.”

With a raise of her eyebrows, Clarke moves so she’s side-by-side with Lexa against the wall of the vestibule and crosses her arms. The familiar sensation of thick wool against her hand gives her the strength to meet the Headmistress’ glare of intimidation without flinching away and she knows without looking it’s the Heda cloak, hung on the coat hooks.

“It will, Nia,” Lexa sighs when it’s obvious Clarke doesn’t plan to answer in the affirmative.

Or at all.

Glaring is much more gratifying. 

Reaching into her black gown, the Headmistress pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to Lexa. “Furthermore, you will be reading this speech we’ve prepared word for word during the press announcement portion. No alterations, no translations into that embarrassment of a secret language of yours, not even an extra breath between sentences. Do I make myself clear?”

Shoulders only sagging for the briefest of seconds, Lexa slips the paper into the inside pocket of the blazer without opening it.

“Yes, Nia.”

The Headmistress lets out a long exhale in satisfaction. “Good. And why will be you be making sure everything proceeds without a hitch?” She leans in so she’s looming over them both and Clarke can smell the cloying stench of her perfume, sees every detail of the scar that stretches across her cheeks and the heavy layer of orange makeup caked over it.

Lexa sets her jaw and looks away, declining to answer this time.

Nia rolls her eyes to the ceiling in irritation and turns her attention to Clarke, currently attempting to hold her breath before she chokes on the sickly-sweet irony of the Headmistress’s ‘Angel’ brand perfume.

“Because the Head Girl knows that if she doesn’t cooperate, I will be taking the opportunity provided to me in the transition to revoke her beloved scholarship programme,” Nia answers for Lexa. “Polis is no longer a non-profit organisation as of last week, nor will the new partnership operate under such budget-hemorrhaging terms. We’re a business, not a charity.”

Clarke shatters as she finally understands the axe Nia’s been holding over Lexa’s head, the captive for which Lexa’s paying ransom.

Almost a quarter of students are funded through scholarships and part-bursaries, literally hundreds of girls unable to attend next year without financial support—girls from high-risk and vulnerable backgrounds, girls like Lexa and Octavia without a stable home life to fall back on, and oh fuck, Clarke should have known. How could she not have known?

“Lex…” she breathes.

“The agreement the Headmistress offered me protects all current girls on bursaries and continues the initiative for ten years on the condition that I ensure the deal proceeds peacefully,” Lexa confirms, voice leaden and eyes on her floor. “Otherwise the new Trust would rescind all funding offers for next year onward.”

Clarke can only open her mouth and then close it again, too angry and disgusted for her brain to form words in its white-hot cloud of realisation.

“Even if the merger doesn’t go through, the status of the school has already been changed,” Lexa goes on, correctly reading Clarke’s first objection once her sting of emotions begins to dampen. “She’d cut off their funding either way.”

“I don’t expect a child to understand, but the world isn’t run on inspiring words and happy thoughts,” Nia prattles on, her tone patronising as if she honestly believes they need it explaining. “A strong business model is the only way to make this school great again.”

“Polis is already great,” Clarke hisses. “And it’s only getting better. Money and prestige, they’re not power, we—”

“Clarke,” Lexa interjects quietly. “There’s more. A merger between two schools necessitates staff redundancies. Part of the agreement was the Headmistress also promising to protect each and every member of the Polis staff next year, either with full pensions or equivalent employment at the new facilities.”

Clarke looks at Lexa and tastes the salt of blood on her tongue, the sick of her stomach slowly dawning across her face.

She hadn’t considered the teachers and staff, either.

But Lexa has.

Of course Lexa has.

“This is extortion,” Clarke spits out and wishes she was literally spitting in Nia’s face. “How fucking dare you!”

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, eyes focused on the stonework. “Em pleni.”

Clarke pretends to have forgotten Trigedasleng altogether, far too furious to listen to Lexa’s plea to stop her tirade. “You should be in jail for this, you can’t just—she’s a minor, you fucking bitch!”

Lexa’s eyes widen but the Headmistress is unperturbed. “Language, Miss Griffin,” she drawls, adjusting her academic gown around her shoulders and straightening the fur-lined hood. “Your parents will hear about this insolence—oh dear, no, they won’t, will they? Consider yourself lucky, child.”

The sneer hits like a slap to the face and Clarke’s mouth falls open, stunned into silence.

There’s no delay in the way Lexa lurches forward, though, her body twisting into the personification of rage as she storms up to the vile woman. “Watch yourself, Nia,” she orders, voice low and clipped, and  Clarke’s gratified to watch the Headmistress take a hasty step backward.

The Headmistress recovers quickly, however, and Clarke feels her skin crawl as the woman smirks and then strokes a knuckle against a fuming Lexa’s cheek, acrylic nails just short of scratching perfect skin. “Oh, darling,” she coos. “Do you really think you hold the power anymore? You may have had the Governors twisted around your finger but their influence is over and along with it, yours.”

Revulsion saturates Lexa’s eyes but she holds herself ramrod straight, refusing to flinch away from Nia’s spiteful touch.

“Get your hands off her,” Clarke growls between clenched teeth.

“If you want to keep your freeloading welfare students and over-entitled staff safe, you'll learn your place and obey my orders,” Nia continues with flashing eyes, not even bothering to acknowledge Clarke. “As will your little friend over there, if she knows what’s best for her. Otherwise I’ll have no difficulty finding new budget items that could benefit from reallocations.”

Lexa sets her jaw but after a second or two she breaks their stare-off, dropping her eyes. “I will keep the peace, as agreed,” she mutters to the floor. 

Clarke takes a deep breath as the beady eyes of the Headmistress slide over to her, narrowed in expectation, and then exhales in a long whoosh. “I’ll do as my Head Girl commands,” she mumbles, gaze similarly falling to the ground.

“Now you’re thinking like rational human beings instead of over-emotional teenage girls. Perhaps you’ll succeed in the real world, after all,” Nia says with a nod, calm and collected as if they’ve been discussing last-minute scheduling changes. She cracks her knuckles and smooths down her gown, satisfied, before beckoning them both back outside.

“I get it now,” Clarke tries reassuring Lexa under her breath as they’re shuffled out the door. “I would have made the same choice.”

The green of Lexa’s irises is faded and they’re churning as she holds Clarke’s gaze for a long beat.  Her practiced countenance doesn’t waiver though and she responds using only a downward flicker of her eyes, as if she’s holding the muscles of her neck so tightly she can’t chance releasing them to nod.

Behind them, Nia leans against the wall next to Titus, the Headmaster blustering about something or other while the Headmistress seems content to let him rant himself out, busying herself with notes and locating her reading glasses.

Clarke holds her stare on Lexa long after she turns away to look out over Polis, watching her scan over each beam and every carved edifice with eyes long-graven with their shape.

The fog has only deepened while they were inside and a frosty wind moans across the courtyard, blowing Clarke’s hair into her face. Lexa’s braids remain steadfast, only the little curls around her temples showing any effect of the onslaught.

It’s a horrible, heart-wrenching decision Nia’s forced upon Lexa and Clarke truly does understand, now.

She understands and it changes nothing.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter what the Headmistress is holding over Lexa’s head—only that she has the audacity to do so at all.

Glancing back to make sure Nia’s still preoccupied, Clarke steps closer to Lexa, close enough that their arms are flush. “The thing is, Nia trapped you into choosing between two bad options, Lex. Sacrificing the staff and scholarships or protecting them by endorsing this merger…it’s a false dichotomy. They’re not the only choices.”

Lexa swallows but makes no other acknowledgement of Clarke’s words.

“She deliberately pressured you with time-constraints and then distanced you from the rest of the school; you didn’t have the time and freedom to pull together a third option.”

“Clarke…,” Lexa warns.

“You didn’t. But we did.”

Eyes widening, Lexa swivels her neck toward the Headmistress and back again. Clarke reaches over to give Lexa’s hand a quick squeeze and then clears her throat.

“Headmistress,” Clarke delivers, turning and facing the beast. “I’ll ask one more time. We as a school deserve a say in this decision. Respect our rights and we can all go home for the Christmas break without further incident.”

“You girls and your dramatics,” Nia sighs, bored now that she’s given her own monologue. “It’s over. Do yourself a favour and recognise when you’ve lost.”

Shrugging, Clarke raises her hand in the air and gestures toward the sky. “Drama it is, then.” She knew it wouldn't be quite that easy. Still, Nia had to be given the opportunity to do the right thing.

From the bell tower above their heads, the chapel bell rings out.

For a few moments, nothing happens and Nia scoffs. “If you’re finished embarrassing yourself, I’d suggest you queue up with your classmates. It’s two o’clock and we have a ceremony to get on with.”

“With pleasure, Headmistress,” Clarke chirps but she doesn’t move an inch, only shifts her gaze to the empty Quad stretching out before them.

Lexa is none so complacent and a flash of fear crosses her face. “What have you done, Clarke?”

“Not me. We,” Clarke clarifies, loud enough that everyone on the balcony can hear.

Noses wrinkle and eyes narrow in bafflement but Clarke doesn’t feel the need to elaborate. Not when the answer is already solidifying in front of them.

It starts with a single body.

A single body, but it marches forth out of the depths of the mist with a momentum too powerful to be marching alone.

Behind, more hazy shadows begin to take on human form, blurry and distant at first but growing in number, more and more, coming out in the fog like stars in the deepening sky.

Girls stream in from every direction, an entire host of them, shoulder-to-shoulder and cleaving through the empty courtyard.

At the front of it all marches Adenne, lightning in her step and a thunderstorm in her eyes that leaves no doubt why she is Lexa’s chosen successor. Flanking her back is an advance guard of twelve battle-ready Prefects, all processing straight up to the base of their acropolis. In unison, they salute their Head Girl and then split off to reform two staggered front lines that span the width of the Quad, building to building.

The rest of the school tread in at their heels, rectangular battalions organised by year that seamlessly converge with crisp ninety-degree angles into larger groups from opposite sides of the court. The younger Form Prefects mobilise to form the third row, each at the head of their respective infantry of classmates, and they all fall into formation behind their Heda-elect and behind her, the Senior Prefects and then the House Prefects.  

Heda’s warriors stand to attention at her feet, a multitude of them, all with arms clasped behind their backs and clad in identical brown regalia. Every uniform is immaculate, collars buttoned and neckties knotted, the heavy armor of their cloaks barely swaying in the chill of the wind. Their youth pulses through the courtyard, their eager enthusiasm and mess of hormones filling in the gaps between staunch bodies. 

Every single face is trained upward to her Commander, an army of fearless schoolgirls ready to fight and die under the banner of their battle general, their warrior queen.

The Headmistress surveys the scene with mild surprise but without visible concern, content in her power and authority as the girls fill the grounds. It isn't until they finish assembling, bronze cloak fastenings flashing as if pinions hidden in their wings, that Nia gets it.

These soldiers in plaid skirts have absolutely no intention of filing obediently into the chapel. 

Not yet, anyway.

“Good afternoon, girls,” Nia addresses them tersely after flipping the switch on her microphone so her voice can broadcast across the new speakers her Trust has set up for the event.

The Headmistress fails to receive her expected response.

In fact, she receives little response at all, other than several chins lifting higher in the air.

Shooting a tight smile over at the camera crew, one stationed along the cloisters and the other halfway up the steps, Nia weighs up the crowd below. “Thank you for your prompt arrival,” she tries in with syrup in her voice, as if she’s masterminded this exact scene. “As you can see,” she goes on, in the direction of one of the journalists now, “this new charter between schools is something we’re all thrilled to celebrate today.”

Cameras flash and Nia preens for them, no doubt imagining a front-page of herself at the helm of this army of dutiful students.

In her haze of hubris, she completely misses the subtle smirk from the lead cameraman.

“Alright, girls,” the Headmistress attempts again when several long seconds pass and not even a pinky finger twitches down below. “Your little display has been noted. File inside and find your seats. We’re expecting more guests and I’d appreciate you all being seated before they get here.”

Below, hundreds of eyes shift over to their Head Girl.

Titus begins spluttering and the Board members cast furtive glances amongst themselves.

Nia’s cheeks flush with anger and Clarke would be a liar if she didn’t admit to enjoying the sight of the Headmistress clenching her hands into fists at her sides, concealed by the folds of her scholar’s gown. “Inside, now!” she orders, demand sharp but still relatively composed.

The order affects the troops below about as much as a flaming arrow shot into the ocean. They maintain their unshaken array with the kind of solemn ferocity and gravitas only children can wield, awaiting orders from the only captain in their fight.

Heda stands in horror.

“Lexa,” the Headmistress snaps, hand muffling her lapel mic. “What’s this commotion? What did you just get done swearing wouldn’t happen?”

“I had no idea,” Lexa stammers, gaze frozen on the scene below. “I…” She looks genuinely terrified and it hits Clarke like a sucker punch when she’s confronted with the full force of dread swimming in those already breath-taking eyes. “You promised, Clarke.”

The ends will justify the means.

They have to.

“I promised you’d have the final word.” Her clarification is quiet as she reaches between the folds of her cloak in search of Lexa’s hand. Lexa’s fingers are clenched too tightly, though, so Clarke resigns herself to stroking the racing pulse point rather than prying them apart. “And you do.”

“We’re not fighting,” Clarke says, reluctantly dropping Lexa’s wrist and speaking loud enough that Nia and the board members can hear. “We’re awaiting orders. Yesterday’s vote was unanimous—we side with our Commander, whatever her decision in the matter. We elected her to represent us: she speaks for us all.”

“Do you ever stop blathering?” Nia snarls before the Head Girl can react to the proclamation, shoving Clarke away from the centre of the balcony; only Lexa's swift intervention stops her from stumbling.

The Headmistress places both hands on the balcony and learns forward, eyes dark with wrath. “That’s enough, ladies," she threatens from the loudspeakers, sharp and abrasive, her patience so thin by this point it’s basically non-existent. "This is your last warning; go into the chapel or there will be consequences.”

The warriors don’t flinch.

They don’t even bother shifting their gaze away from their Head Girl, following their Commander rather than the grey-haired head of school. Just as it’s always been.

Clarke watches Nia search the crowd for help from the teachers or other school staff but comes up empty-handed.

She’s not going to find any.

It’s only girls out here.

“Have your Head Girl order them inside,” Titus urges from where he’s been more or less forgotten at the Headmistress’ side, disgust curling his lips. “They’ll listen to her.”

“I don’t need a child to enact the obedience and respect I am owed,” Nia snaps and Clarke tries not to smirk as her words echo around the courtyard. “Chapel, now!” she barks. “Or the consequences will be grim!”

Once again, her threat fails to effect a single effect: the protesters persist and the soldiers remain ready for war, one and the same in their fight to defend what is theirs. 

“It’s the other one, the blonde,” one of the business suits calls out when the army stands their ground. “She’s the one in control of them, have her call them off.”

“They’re just girls,” another board member scoffs, “led by a child. It’s not as if they have any power here.”

“They’ll forget about their little riot by tomorrow,” agrees a non-descript white balding businessman, running his fingers across his scalp as if he’s forgotten there’s no hair there.

“Quite right. Shall we proceed without the girls?” Titus suggests and then gestures meaningfully over at the camera crew, capturing the scene with undisguised enthusiasm. “The longer we delay, the more attention we give this little temper tantrum.”

Following his gaze, Nia squares her jaw and catches a cameraman's eye, filming from the side cloisters, and beckons him and his colleagues go ahead and enter the chapel.

Instantly, the girls widen their stance, blocking their path, and the news crew shake their heads at the Headmistress’ request, the corners of their mouths twitching. The lead journalist winks up at Clarke and she shoots a tongue-tipped grin at their friend from Founder’s Day.

A vein begins to visually throb on Nia’s forehead and Clarke wouldn't risk a bet that the white cloud billowing out from the woman's nostrils is simply condensation and not smoke. 

“We’re behind you, one hundred percent,” Clarke reassures Lexa lowly when she notices a distinct lack of outbreath from her girlfriend, in contrast. Lexa hasn't turned her head away from her flock below, not since Adenne first appeared. “We’re doing this because you deserve to make a real choice—not to be extorted into the lesser of two evils. And whatever you decide, whether it’s accepting the new charter or fighting it, every single person here will back you. Because you’re the only one who’s considering our best interests.”

Heda's soldiers maintain their stalwart gaze on their leader, and though her eyelids flutter, Lexa battles every blink, refusing to look away.

Enough time elapses that Clarke's concerned Lexa might call them off before she has access to the full set of data. “But don't give your decision yet—there’s more,” she pleads in a whisper, tugging at Lexa’s sleeve. “Wait, okay? Just trust me.”

Lexa looks so torn that Clarke feels chasms between them even as they stand side-by-side, but before she can respond, a commotion rustles up in the background.

A horn sounds out, followed by the wail of brakes.

“There we are,” Nia trills, relief clear in the way she straightens her posture when red and yellow striped blazers appear in the distance, clustering together at the opposite end of the Quad. “If you’re so determined to make this a war, it appears my back-up has arrived,” she taunts. 

Clarke raises her eyebrows.

“Ignore the girls," the Headmistress calls out over the speakers and waves the Dominicus boys closer, teeth flashing in a terrifying facsimile of a smile. "They’ll soon be dealt with. Come on in."

The girls don’t turn toward the new arrivals; their faces remain on the balcony, much to Nia and the Advisory Board’s clear discomfit. 

There’s a bit of confusion as the boys—about a hundred of them, just a subset of the school—organise themselves and then fall behind their Head Boy. With a glance over his shoulder, Roan leads them down the steps and deeper into the barricade of girls until they can advance no further.

The Headmistress rolls her eyes when they come to a stop. “Go around—push through them if you must,” she orders Dominicus with a long-suffering sigh. “We’re running late and I don’t have time for this childishness.”

Lexa growls at the provocation and begins to protest the idea of anyone touching her girls but Clarke shushes her with a nudge of her shoulders. “We’ve got this.”

Adenne turns to face her army and raises an arm over her head.

Her warriors take a step forward, moving into a denser formation at the bottom of the chapel stairs. 

Once Polis is motionless again, still in their tidy rows, Roan’s contingent marches into the empty land behind the girls.

And then they halt in place.

Dominicus fold their arms in front of their chests, fasten their gaze on Lexa, and wait.

Titty leaps to the railing, making several odd and quite frankly indecipherable gestures before he finds his voice. “You will enter the chapel, now,” he shouts. His words disintegrate into the ether until he remembers he has no microphone and awkwardly crouches down to Nia’s chest to speak into her sound. “Demerits for everyone! Ten, no, twenty. Fifty!”

Their Headmaster looks around for his own teachers and staff but they, too, are nowhere to be found.

It’s only schoolchildren out here.

Rows upon rows of girls in identical plaid skirts, arms behind their backs and earnest faces glistening.

Rows and rows of boys in identical striped blazers, chins set and stances wide.

The Headmistress looks to be on the verge of an aneurysm.

“Roan Gaius, you will lead your school inside immediately! Otherwise you can’t even imagine the consequences you await at home, not to mention those for your conspirators,” she shouts, feedback screeching through her microphone and over the speakers. 

Roan only smirks and ignores his mother, raising his hand in salute—first to Clarke and then to the Head Girl.

It really hadn’t taken much convincing to get him on their side last night.

“Think about your actions,” Nia tries again, her voice melting into a sickly concoction she probably intends to be cajoling. “You know this charter will benefit your boys; order them inside and it’ll be your legacy as Head Boy.”

With a laugh, Roan shakes his head. “Don’t pretend you do anything for us, Mother,” he calls out, his voice effortlessly carrying over the arena. “What have any of you done to inspire our loyalty? We’re little more than assets to parade out in front of the Board’s investors and donors. They run our school like we’re in the military: no rights, no say, no freedom. Perhaps you shouldn’t be so surprised we’re ready to fight.”

On the balcony, a headmaster and six pasty-faced men perform a remarkable impression of gaping fish.

“We stand with Polis and their Commander,” the Head Boy goes on, calm and collected. “Their rights are our rights—a handful of ignorant, blinkered businessmen shouldn’t be able to speak over the stakeholders. We’re the ones all these decisions are affecting; we should be part of the process.”    

His words incite the first real judder of discipline in the troops, a cheer ripping through the girls and back toward their supporting echelons. Just as quickly, they fall back into formation.

It’s never been about the boys themselves; it’s always been about having a voice. The Headmistress is right in one (and only one) regard: the two schools have indeed joined together—Greek and Roman soldiers, united in one unstoppable phalanx against their mutual opposition.

The vein in Nia’s forehead pulses so violently that it looks like she’s acquired another facial scar. She looks back at the suited men around her, the men that dare to draft rules for angels.

The men avoiding eye contact and likely calculating the swiftest escape route.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Nia roars at Lexa when it becomes clear she’s not getting any backing from the Board. Clarke instinctively takes a step closer, pre-empting the furious woman’s path toward her girlfriend. “End this futility, now!”

Swallowing, Lexa looks down over the combatants, already back to their stoic stances, and then over at the Headmistress.

“Or have you decided to sacrifice the staff and scholarships,” Nia continues venomously, “as well as subjecting everyone involved to disciplinary action, all for the sake of this pathetic show? What would Oxford have to think about this, I wonder? If I called to update them on a prospective scholar being fired from her position as Head Girl? I can’t imagine them honouring those disgusting financial aid packages they’ve promised you. You can’t win; this is all going to end in tears.”

The Headmistress has already had the foresight to switch her microphone out of transmission mode, much to Clarke’s chagrin—she’s pretty sure everyone below would be very interested to hear exactly how Nia’s been threatening and extorting their Head Girl. 

(Next coup d'état, Clarke’s definitely having Raven rig up something sneaky with the sound system.)

“Look around you, Heda,” the Headmistress mocks, spitting out the Trigedasleng title like it’s bitter on her tongue. “This is who you have fighting for you? Schoolchildren? As impressive as this little rebellion might seem to your small-pond eyes, it’s the experienced adults that make decisions in the real world. I have been gracious enough to involve you in some aspects of the new charter but let these children continue to play-fight for you and I will revoke our deal.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Lexa forces out, hands fisted at her sides. “I would never ask anyone to risk themselves on my behalf.”

“Yet here they are,” the Headmistress says dryly. “And their sacrifices will be on your head.”

“There will be no sacrifices,” Lexa is quick to insist and then clenches her jaw, turning to Clarke with a desperate apology written across her features. “They don’t know the stakes, Clarke,” she begs. “If scholarship funding is revoked because of this…”

“You know the stakes better than we do; that’s why we’re giving you the final word,” Clarke reminds Lexa as gently as she can manage, unwilling to heap any more guilt onto those weary shoulders. “We trust you’ll only lead us into battles we can win. This is a peaceful show of power, to make sure you know the size of your armies, how many of us are ready to fight under our Heda’s command.”

There’s longing in Lexa’s eyes as she gazes out over the throng of beating hearts, her throat bobbing in place. “I can’t ask this of them; this is my responsibility. No one fights for me,” she whispers.

And it breaks Clarke’s heart because Lexa still can’t see it.

Lexa, who has always stood alone in her battles. Lexa, who never stops working to deserve her keep—to deserve her very existence, who had to earn a scholarship as a little girl so she wouldn’t be kicked out of the only home she’s ever known and who sneaks away to clean toilets so she can afford a toothbrush. Lexa, who's never breathed a word about everything she goes without, for whom pain and fatigue only make her stand up straighter and her ask how else she can help. 

Lexa, who is so good. Lexa, who gives all she has until she’s ragged with exhaustion and yet believes her treasury of offerings mere mites. Lexa, who loves the babies and comforts her little ones and empowers her girls, who elevates the lives of everyone around her. Lexa, who forgives every sin perpetuated against her, who believed in Father Christmas until the age of twelve and still believes in the goodness of humankind. Lexa, who willingly throws herself on the pyre of Nia’s evils, who offers herself up in sacrifice so that the girls on scholarships and the staff don’t blame themselves for Polis’ dissolution.

Lexa, who fights and fights and fights.

Lexa, whose only weakness is that she would never ask to be fought for.

She still can’t see that she’s no burden or obligation but rather the very cornerstone of the foundation they’re all standing upon, that she has legions ready to fight and die for her if she only gives the word. 

She still can’t see the entire universe stretched out beneath her feet, following the pattern of her breath.

Clarke pulls a microphone out of her skirt pocket, courtesy of their communications with the camera crew yesterday, and affixes it to the collar of her cloak before signaling up toward the sky.  

Above them, a deep chime sounds out from the steeple, deep and resonating. It’s powerful enough to carry across the school grounds and beyond, sluicing right through the fog that belies the isolation of their battleground.

The bells are ringing out and Polis is no island.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Lex,” Clarke tells her, finally coming up with the words that pull her half-drafted speech together.

“You’re not in this alone. We all fight for you.”

In from the West, a multitude of teachers and staff march forward into battle.

Dr. Peters leads the brigade, menacing in his unrelenting rhythm and gait. Their heavy footsteps vibrate across the cobblestones before they emerge from the fog, no small showing as they crowd into the Quad and take position along the cloister steps and under the vaulted ceiling. 

Several staff members clamber up onto the wooden benches to make space, Mrs. O’Brien and Ms. Daisy linking arms and glowering at the chapel balcony. The remaining fighters plant their feet and draw their arms behind themselves, chins high and proud—Dominicus and Polis staff as one body, dinner ladies and art teachers and administrative faculty, alike.

At Dr. Peter’s signal, hundreds of staff members raise their hands in salute to the Head Girl.

“We fight for you because you’ve always fought for us,” Clarke tells Lexa into her microphone, no note cards or prompts required for this liturgy; it flows from her lips as easily as those three little words and in some ways, it’s synonymous. “Because you’ve been our champion, time and time again, but we’re your champions, too. Because anyone who moves against one of us, moves against all of us.”

Lexa’s face stiffens but only Clarke knows the way her soft little hand grapples for a hand readily provided, fingers joining together in the hidden sanctuary between two seventeen-year-old girls. Her pulse is racing, dysrhythmic as her brain keeps fighting to regain control over her heart and failing, and Clarke can only rub apologetic circles with her thumb.

This close, Nia’s eyes are dark and furious, even if she’s projecting only amused patience as she casts her eyes over the circling camp. The Board members quickly adopt her stance, eyebrows raised as if they’re merely waiting for this foolishness to wear itself out.

But their fight isn’t over. Not yet.  

The bells ring out.

In from the South, a multitude of Old Girls march forward into battle.

Dotty leads the charge, their eldest member riding in on the chariot of her wheelchair, a spray-painted cardboard spear from Founder’s Day raised over her white-haired head.  The Old Girls' Union follow in the wake of their charioteer, thundercloud expressions and even angrier cloaks sailing in the wind as they fall into rank behind the boys.

Next come the former Board of Governors, fully regaled in academic gowns and various other pomp and circumstance; several appear to be civic or political leaders, judging by their medal- and fur-adorned livery and robes, none more than Helen Lawrence, who’d played a major role in mobilizing these troops and who Clarke will later learn from Lexa happens to hold the title of Lord Mayor of York.

(Later, because right now, Clarke’s girlfriend looks like she’d be unable to form a coherent syllable.)

The final alumni entrants could make up a battalion of their own, a larger contingent of former Polis students than Clarke could have expected in her wildest dreams, especially given the short notice.

Even in their plentitude, the Old Girls descend on the battlefield with precise and coordinated steps, still ingrained years after leaving the school.  It’s all unrehearsed, more or less self-organised, and Clarke wonders if any other school could possibly could pull off such a coup.

And then she looks at the girl at her side and she remembers—she remembers they’re just one group of empowered females, that this inheritance of power isn’t limited to this school or this small island.

Their numbers continue to grow, a never-ending diaspora of natives returning to fight for their homeland. As the Quad begins to overflow in its capacity, the rear contingent retreats undaunted into the main building. They reappear along the balconies and widow’s walk, even commandeering the roof, a line of pilgrims standing guard along the parapet.

Nia and her ill-fitting business suits are still shocked into docility, tight smiles all around. They’re basically strangled and bound now that they’re on show in front of people they deem more important than a bunch of schoolchildren, many of whom are probably amongst their investors and donors, and Clarke loves it.

Suddenly, Lexa sucks in a wobbly breath. “Is that...Anya?” she asks in a voice so small Clarke can hardly hear.

Following her gaze, Clarke grins once she locates her girlfriend’s childhood protector and mentor.  Anya and her fierce stare are positioned front and centre of the rooftop resistance, scarlet cloak flying behind her like a standard.

“She happened to be in the country for graduate school interviews,” Clarke whispers, pressing a subtle kiss into Lexa’s shoulder under the guise of adjusting her power pack. “Although I suspect she would have flown all the way from Australia once she heard about our plans.”

Lexa presses her lips together and her gaze moves on but the slight tremble doesn’t escape Clarke’s attention; she squeezes her Samson’s clammy little hand and gives her a moment to compose herself.

It takes some time, but the Old Girls eventually settle into the grand formation, alumni stretched back as far as the eye can see.

At Dotty’s signal, hundreds and hundreds of Old Girls raise their hands in salute to the Head Girl.

“We fight for you because it means fighting for ourselves,” Clarke tells Lexa after switching her microphone to broadcast again. “Because you are Polis, because you represent the spirit of all who have fought in the past and all who will carry on our fight in the future.” 

Lexa opens her mouth to respond but promptly closes it again when Clarke shakes her head. A smirk plays around her lips, one that almost transfers between the two girls, pulling at the corners of Lexa’s lips before dying down.

Because their fight still isn’t over.

The bells ring out.

In from the East, a multitude of family members march forward into battle.

The Parents’ Union heralds in this final group. They don’t form their own section of the battlefield, weaving through the ranks of warriors to stand behind their own daughters instead. 

For some reason, Angie Rudding stomps in with the families instead of the Old Girls contingent, but when she beams up at Lexa with the proudest of expressions burning across her face—her mother’s Second and chosen successor in more ways than one—Clarke understands.  

Lexa may not have any blood relatives in the supporters below but that doesn’t mean she’s not surrounded by family.

Because families are made up of more than just mothers and fathers.

Because they’re all each other’s family, because they’re all part of the great machine that is Polis and because they’re all in it together, right here and right now.

Because the family members joining the fray below are more than just parents. They’re housemistresses and choir directors, too; surrogate mothers and stand-in grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings, friends and —

Clarke’s mouth goes dry.

Marcus Kane strides in with an ear-to-ear grin, looking around himself at the scene with enthusiasm and not a little bit of awe.

It hadn’t occurred to Clarke to invite him—she has no clue how he even found out about it—but here he is nevertheless, metaphorically guarding her back as he squeezes in behind one of the international girls whose biological family members were unable to attend at such short notice. It stirs some forgotten part she didn’t know had any viable nerve endings, a part Clarke thought amputated months ago—a part that might be capable of re-growing itself into something new, after all.

Marcus finally spots his goddaughter, waving happily up at her, and Clarke forgets herself and the gravity of the current situation and waves back at her unanticipated defender, the biggest of grins stretching across her lips.

Her reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by her other winged protector and Lexa attempts to follow Clarke’s gaze without success.

“It’s my guardi—my godfather, Marcus—look, there,” Clarke stutters, pointing, and she knows the moment he’s been spotted because Marcus raises his hand in salute to the Head Girl, his eyes so warm and kind that Lexa’s lips accidently slip into the only real smile they’ve formed all day.

She’s quick to tamper it down—Lexa’s a master of controlling her emotions, after all—but it lingers on in the shaky squeeze of fingers and Clarke decides sainthood wouldn’t be enough for both of their parents’ Seconds.

“I know it’s a lot, baby. We’re done now,” Clarke assures her, quiet and sincere.

And she’s absolutely sincere, their show of strength fully executed as the final family members take their place and raise their hands in salute to the Head Girl.

Except that it’s Clarke’s turn to be wrong.

Gloriously wrong.

The bells ring out and the reinforcements continue to flood in, soul by soul and silently.

In from the South, the military marches forward into battle.

Actual military soldiers—a band of ten or twenty Royal Air Force cadets, unarmed but trooping in full uniform. Or at least they would be trooping in, if there were a hairsbreadth of unoccupied ground left on Polis soil. The soldiers salute the Head Girl and then scale the low stone walls around one side of the school, distancing themselves enough to span its length as if safeguarding a citadel, the upper halves of their bodies barely visible in the mist. 

Clarke searches out Octavia in the front line below and shoots her a confused expression when she recognises Bellamy at the head of the cadets; her friend only glances over and then shrugs mischievously at the sight of her brother, mirth dancing in her eyes.

The Headmistress’s face is pinched in her efforts not to snap but even now she refuses to let any sign of weakness show. Out of her line of sight, a member of the Advisory Board begins edging down the steps, his eyes darting around and his back to the chapel wall.

And still, their fight isn’t over.  

A small delegation of women and a few men march in next, heads held high in pride as they pack into the sparse space left, forced halfway into the shrubbery without a grimace. They’re followed by several more unexpected contingents, some marching alone and others in small groups, and though Clarke doesn’t know who they represent, it’s clear that, on any other day, Lexa could call every single person out by name.

She can only assume they’re delegates from organisations who have benefitted from Polis in some way, most likely from their Head Girl’s many outreaches and charity drives.

Every single one raises their hand in salute to the Head Girl.

“That’s the local Women’s Shelter. And there’s the Green—We…a lot of our fundraising efforts go—” Lexa can’t finish her sentences as her supporters flood the property and Clarke gives up hiding how much she loves this goddess, wrapping an arm around her tiny waist as they watch the evidence of Lexa’s effects on the world, inside and outside Polis, and oh god, how can such multitudes possibly be contained inside such delicate flesh?

The final surprise appearance is the head of Polis’ nursery and prep schools, flinging open the main doors of their building and leading out the little ones.

An entire legion of little ones, marching forward into battle. 

Orderly decorum is shot to pieces as every soldier cranes their necks to witness these final—and most adorable—supporting reserves fall into formation inside their fenced-in play enclosure bordering the Quad. 

The pre-prep toddlers are the first to trample out, each gripping a rope their teacher leads and oh god, they’re so tiny, these babies all bundled up in their identical hooded toggle coats, felted caps strapped under their chins. Clarke feels her throat thicken as they stomp out two-by-two, ferocious frowns and streaks of blue fingerpaint across their faces and from the look of things, Lexa’s not faring much better.

The main body of the lower school follow in pairs. The older girls hold the hands of their younger classmates, guiding them into neat rows before forming their own lines, the senior ten-year-olds keeping a practiced watch over the younger children in front.

Mrs. Cody flashes Clarke and Lexa a triumphant smile from the front lines of her school, and when Nia levels a death glare in her direction, the Head sticks out her tongue and makes a face, eyes sparkling. Several children around her catch the interaction and join in with their own tongues and it’s the best—it’s actually the best. Even Lexa lets out a laugh, albeit a slightly wet and strangled one.  

It takes a fair amount of reminding from their teachers once they’re settled behind the fence, especially once they spot their beloved Heda up on the balcony, but on the whole, the steadfast little warriors mirror the stillness and silence of their older counterparts.

At Mrs. Cody’s signal, hundreds of little children raise their hands in salute to the Head Girl.

(Okay, so maybe they’re not quite as in unison as their older counterparts. It only makes it cuter.)

Clarke clears her throat twice before she’s able to continue with her speech, checking and double-checking with Adenne that they really have reached their full showing, now.

“Wisdom, Compassion, and Strength—that’s our motto and it’s the reason we’re able to rise up and come together today,” Clarke calls out to the crowd. “The first Head Girl penned them and every Head Girl since has passed on the spirit of those virtues.”

She swivels to address the two Heads and the Advisory Board, of whom only three remain; they only now notice their colleagues have skittered away. Two suits look enviously at the stairs after them, the other one apparently paralysed with fear as Clarke locks gaze with him.

 “I’m sorry none of you were able to make Founders Day last weekend,” she tells them. “If you had, you would have heard our current Head Girl gave an inspiring speech with a message in it that I'm not sure you understand.”

Clarke’s voice blooms out of her throat like a song and in some ways it feels like one, her words reverberating off bricks and echoing across upturned faces.

“One of you said earlier that we’re just a group of girls, and you’re absolutely right. And that’s what makes us so powerful.”

“We’re girls who know that strength is more than domination and intimidation. Girls who know to use their connections and bring people together against a common foe instead of inciting divisiveness, to build instead of destroy—look what ‘just a group of girls’ organised in less than twenty-four hours. Imagine what else we could do; imagine our potential.”

The men shift uneasily and Clarke carries on with a smirk, shifting her gaze to the Warrior of Warriors as she repeats her decree from that day. 

“Because girls are smart. Because girls are cooperatively-minded. And above else, because girls are strong.”

Lexa’s muscles are almost shaking under the strain of holding herself in one piece, and Clarke is so, so devastatingly in love with this monolith of a girl, this rock that continues to stand firm even as the winds of erosion blast from every angle.   

“Boudica’s uprising failed for a reason,” Clarke tells her softly, words only for Lexa’s ears, now. “You’re right, they’d become reckless and arrogant by their final battle—cruel, even—and thinking they could defeat a trained Roman army from the bottom of a hill was a fatal mistake.”

“Here’s the thing, though. A leader is only as good as their troops, and while many of Boudica’s early victories came from her success at bringing the clans together, her army was still a hodge-podge of clans accustomed only to fighting as individuals. They weren’t used to manoeuvering as a single, cohesive unit.”

Reaching into her pocket one final time, Clarke pulls out the Head Girl badge, rescued from its premature surrender on the windowsill this morning.  

“They weren’t. But we are.”

Lexa fixes her eyes on Clarke’s, lips ever so slightly parted, as the symbolic cog is affixed back onto its master clockmaker.

“Polis is no hastily-formed band of ransacking Celts and our opposition is definitely no trained Roman legion,” Clarke goes on, meaningfully eying the pathetic showing left of the Advisory Board and then at the Dominicus Headmaster, wringing his hands and chanting under his breath. “We’re more of a machine than our enemies could ever hope to be, especially under your command. When we work together, there’s nothing we can’t do.”

Lexa runs her thumb and forefinger over the little gear-shaped medallion but she doesn’t say anything. Inside her eyes, though, gears spin and spin and spin.

“Oh, wait—I need to fix one more thing,” Clarke decides, holding up a finger. Before the Headmistress figures out what she’s doing in time to stop her, she pushes open the chapel door and retrieves the Heda cloak, draping it over Lexa’s shoulders and then fastening the brooch across her throat. And, okay, maybe it’s ridiculous, but this cloak is so much more than Lexa’s royal mantle and superhero cape.

Plus, it completely covers that disgusting striped blazer.

Now everything is as it should be.

“Right. Okay. So here it is. The most important reason we fight for you,” Clarke tries to joke as she tucks a stray curl behind Lexa's ear; Lexa lets out a disbelieving, watery exhale. Her hand slides through two layers of thick wool and has no trouble finding its mate.

Switching her microphone so it’ll broadcast to everyone, Clarke looks out across at Lexa’s dominion and then at their queen.

“Above all else, we fight for you because oso gonplei ogeda—we fight together.”

And what a together it is, this military display, this protest, this rally that covers every possible standing surface, stretching from one end of the school to the other and spilling out into the side gardens and games pitches. They’re on the roof, out the windows, along the stone walls, no patch of unguarded territory in sight, not even an empty space other than the Holy Ground, this panoply of heavenly creatures appearing to have no beginning and no end as their edges blur into the fog.

It really does seem that all of existence has answered this call to arms. And in some ways, it has. Their entire existence, anyway.           

These girls, these women, these allies who take care of their own long after they’ve left this hallowed ground, be it injustice or boarding house nightmares. These activists who are no mere spectators, these pacifists who are nowhere near passive, these women who are no less warriors, constellations whose light keeps on shining long after they’re gone—gathering forth from all four corners of the globe, standing together as a single fighting force for their Head Girl, and, by extension, for themselves.

“The Headmistress and her Advisory Board don’t get to make this decision for us,” Clarke calls out to the crowd. “We believe that the majority, the people, should make the decisions—not a handful of men in suits listening to a tyrant and looking only to secure their own financial gains."

What feel like sharp talons dig into Clarke’s shoulder, trying to snatch away the microphone, but they’re gone before she registers Lexa shielding her from Nia’s reach. She waits for the camera crew to ignore the Headmistress’s gesticulations to cut off the sound system before continuing, timbre calm and steady.

“Yesterday, the Head Girl reminded me that Polis isn’t a building, and she’s right. We’re Polis, our whole far greater than the sum of everyone standing here today, and we’ll thrive in whatever soil we’re planted. Just as the mighty Polis warriors did during the World War II evacuations and just as we’ll do again if we join with Dominicus. Together, we can achieve anything; together, we’re indomitable.”

Clarke squeezes Lexa’s hand. “You’re our voice, Heda. We place our faith in you. If you believe it to be the best path, say the word and this afternoon’s press announcement will have a larger and more supportive crowd than they could ever have dreamed.”

Lexa inhales a long breath and holds it; no dissenting noises arise from the bright raiment below.

“But at our Commander’s word, we can overturn the merger,” Clarke carries on, stroking her thumb against Lexa’s palm the whole time. “They can’t sustain their control over the din and roar of thousands, not with every single person here opposed. Either way, it'll be our decision. Not something done to us.”

“I am their commander,” Nia bellows, the bonds of her British comportment and stiff upper-lip finally snapping. “I am this Head of this school and I make the decisions—”

“We are the heads,” the Headmaster of Dominicus interrupts in clarification.

Nia knocks him aside in exasperation. “Shut up, Titty,” she hisses under her breath.

“We’re not interested in your decisions,” Clarke drawls, deigning Nia a glance only long enough that she knows she’s being addressed before returning to the army below.

“This is our narrative. You may be Headmistress but we run this school!” 

War cries sound out.

“You can’t stop this,” Nia yells, almost white with rage as the demonstrators raise their fists en masse and trill their approval and then just as quickly return to what must be an infuriating silence to the Headmistress. “Call this off now! You can’t possibly understand the politics or the financial aspects of this deal, the intricacies of running a school…You have no idea what you’re going up against.”

“Maybe not,” Clarke’s happy to admit, also over the speakers. “But we know what we’re fighting for.”

A low murmuring goes up and then Octavia steps forward, her movement standing out in sharp contrast to the stillness of the rest of her compatriots. 

“Ai laik Octavia,” she cries out, fearless. “En ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in!”

There’s only the briefest of pauses before the general of the land army below understands the Prefect’s intent and seamlessly takes up the torch.

“Ai laik Adenne en ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in!”

This isn’t part of the plan, either; Clarke’s lips may well crack open in grin.

“What are they yelling?” one of the two remaining Board members ask of Nia but the Headmistress can’t answer.

Five years in office and Nia still hasn’t bothered to learn the meaning of the invocation they say every day.

“Ai laik Chiyako en ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in!”

“Ai laik Sophie en ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in!”

“Ai laik Zoe en ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in!”

The words crescendo, every warrior calling out their oath all at once, old girls and young girls, British and international, teachers and housemistresses, mothers and lawyers, parents and guardians, brothers and sisters, friends and colleagues.

Their whole world, in every corner, crying out that they’ll fight for what they believe in. Today and every day.    

And it’s in the way the words settle into a chant, in the way the melodies and harmonies of voices modulate one another and coalesce into a single battle hymn, resounding out across pillared court and temple, and right up into the skies above. 

In the way the Headmistress isn’t the only force of entropy and chaos trying to pull them apart but this unbroken fellowship of uniformed girls and their supporting troops, hearts beating together in symphony, pounding out in military cadence for their chief rhythm-giver — this is the drive toward synchrony, this is the anthem that drowns all other but its own.  

“Count your army, Lexa,” Clarke has to yell as the shouts continue. “They’re here for you; you’re what we believe in.”

And what could be worthier of their fight, banners flying and trumpets sounding?

There’s a heaven of their own making here beneath their feet but they’re more than capable of rebuilding it, rebuilding it even out of fire and brimstone if their Commander leads them there. No power of hell, no scheme of man can stop these acolytes, these patriots who fight for neither land nor building but for the nexus of what makes them strong, compassionate, and wise, for the spirit that Heda carries onward from girl to girl, age to endless age.

For Lexa, who may as well be a statue, her only movement the trail of her eyes across the thousands adoring at her feet.

“This is pointless—your Head Girl has already made her decision! She supports the new charter!” Nia screeches into the microphone but there’s no stopping their momentum, now; the shouting continues, blazing and indomitable.

The Headmistress tries stepping in front of Lexa, blocking her from the glowing hearts below, but no darkness has never succeeded in hiding this girl’s light.

Easily stepping out of Nia’s shadow, she looks out over the droves with an inscrutable expression.

Heda raises her hand and the whole universe falls silent.

Warriors occupy every visible surface, legions of peaceful revolutionaries along every rampart of their defended fortress. Their deportment is unwavering, shoulders up and chins high, but the air around them crackles and sizzles with empowerment. A tempest is on of breaking and Lexa’s the eye of their hurricane.

She grins.

Heda grins, deep and wide and powerful, a grin so formidable that it scares the fog into swift retreat.

“Ai laik Heda en ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in,” she calls out her own oath, eyes blazing.

A thrill travels through the masses but the battle hasn’t been won quite yet. Not while Nia still stands.

And stand she does, the Headmistress digging in her heels and refusing to raise the white flag even as her doom is surely carved in stone. She stands alone, entirely abandoned by her Advisory Board and even Titus, and Clarke has to give the woman credit. Despite all her oppressions and transgressions, there’s no denying that Nia’s as strong as any fighter here today and she’s certainly not backing down from what she believes in.  

“You may have scared the Board away but I’m not going anywhere,” the Headmistress taunts. “What are you going to do, physically remove me from the premises? Grow up and know when you’ve lost.”

For the first time since coming up with this plan, Clarke feels the icy possibility of defeat creep in under her clothing, the possibility that the Headmistress could take away everything and leave Polis a broken and bloody carcass.

And then she looks at the girl at her side, the girl she adores, strength drumming in every heartbeat, the girl who doesn’t tremble at this devil’s wrath.

Clarke looks at Lexa and remembers they cannot fail.

The two powerful female forces face off, backs straight and eyes flashing.

Nia, a woman who upholds cunning and craft as wisdom, who holds only herself upon the alter, and who views strength as nothing more than wealth and prestige. A woman who tears asunder instead of pulling together, a leader who should be proud instead of aggravated at the way her students have marshalled their forces today.

And Lexa—Lexa, who is everything she’s not.

Lexa, who has always been Nia’s nemesis, the beginning of her end. Lexa, who is endlessly wise; Lexa, who loves beyond measure; Lexa, whose strength comes through her honest wisdom and selfless compassion.

(Nia really should have attended Founder’s Day.)

Fully anointed in her power and divine right to reign, Heda steps toward Headmistress and, yep, this is what she was born for, from victory to victory to victory again.

The Headmistress flinches but she doesn’t back down.

Beneath them, the foundation seems to quiver; the entire universe holds its breath.

Lexa removes her microphone and then tilts her head to the side, drawing the Headmistress’ eyes to her own. Her lips curl into a smirk.

“I suspect you didn’t bother reading the newspaper contract you signed this morning,” she comments, her words light—blithe, almost—as if she’s simply making small talk with the Headmistress. “The contract that gives them ownership over all media they capture.”

Nia attempts a casual shrug. It’s anything but casual—more like confused. Clarke can’t really blame her; she has no idea where Lexa’s going with this, but just like the Headmistress, she’s pretty sure it’s going to be apocalyptic.

“Of course I know that,” Nia hisses.

“I’m pleased to hear it. In that case, you must also be aware that these aren’t just microphones,” Lexa continues, tapping the power pack on her hip and then indicating toward the Headmistress’ microphone set-up. The smile has yet to fade from her lips and Nia squirms.

“They’re voice recorders."

Nia blanches. 

Lexa takes a step forward and Nia takes her first step backward. “Every extortion, every blackmail, every threat you’ve made in the last half hour—all safely stored on this little device.”

Another step forward; another step back.

“And lest you think such a recording wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, I can assure you that the legal contract we both signed will render it permissible evidence.”

“Twenty years,” Nia tempts but she’s writhing in her death throes and they all know it. “I’ll support the scholarships for twenty years.” When she receives only an arched eyebrow, her hands begin to shake and desperation broadcasts from her entire body. “Indefinitely, then. Think of the brand-new facilities, the extra funding for activities, the kind of connections they’ll make…”

Lexa’s pulse is beating a slow and steady tattoo when she slips it out of Clarke’s hand, backing the wild-eyed Nia up against the chapel door and interposing herself between the devil and all she holds holy. Sword of justice steady in her hand, she allows several long moments of silence to dangle, to twist and crackle in the December air before delivering her vanquishing stroke.

“Get out. Now,” Heda growls in Nia’s ear.

The deposed-Headmistress doesn’t argue, doesn’t even look back over her shoulder as she flees inside the building.

The chapel may well swallow her darkness whole— no one sees Nia ever again.

Ever, ever again.

It’s only Lexa and Clarke left standing on the balcony when Heda turns to her ransomed flock, innumerable and shining across the kingdom of their heaven with self-generating light.

“We fight for what we believe in,” the Head Girl booms out. “Oso na gon raun gon chit oso in. Together, we are strong!”

There isn’t a millisecond of hesitation.

“Ogeda, oso ste yuj!” rings back the mighty chorus, echoing across the earth and skies, and for the first time, Clarke watches Lexa affirm the amended response alongside her peers.

Hands slip down to hands, fingers joining together before Lexa lifts them above their heads so that every row, every contingent, and every battalion of warriors can see.

"Oso throu daun ogeda en oso kik thru ogeda,” Clarke calls out her once-foreign words from the Remembrance service and they’re translated back twice as loud by her reigning Warrior Queen

“We fight together and we survive together!”

Years later, Clarke will continue to insist that Lexa leapt to the top of the railing in a single bound (even if her wife will continue to refute it with a fond roll of her eyes), wind whipping and frosted breath pluming around her as she punches her fist into the air.

She’s Boudica and she’s Flidais and every other goddess, too, deadly warrior and queen and soft, sunshine-scented girl.

“Kom war!” Heda shouts from on high and that’s it.

That’s the hosanna that blends thousands of exultations into melodious chord, the voice that rises in descant to bind joyful strains into triumph song, the single word—okay, two words — they’ve been waiting for: the war cry that wins the restless battle.  

The sun breaks free of its bonds, spilling over pleasant pasture and rolling hills.

The clouds unfold across the lofty skies and the chapel bell sounds out.

It sounds out for them all.

They storm the grounds, war cry transfigured into deafening war whoops, clapping and hooting and forceful embraces between neighbours. They trample over the Holy Ground, up the chapel steps and into the glorious day, this bloodless revolution where the only shots that ring out are from eager photographers, the only screams the ones shouted for their Heda and for themselves. 

Clarke coaxes Lexa down from the precarious ledge where she stands in victory, breathless and flushed pink with adrenaline. Her eyes are aflame with unfettered sunbeams as she jumps down, her expression resplendent and incandescent and every other pretty word Clarke will spend years collecting without ever finding one worthy enough, a lifetime trying to paint without ever coming close.

Foreheads drop to foreheads and Lexa trails the most gentle fingers in the whole universe down her cheek. “Clarke.”

Around them, there’s acclamation and wild abandon, the rumble of celebrants racing up both sides of the steps, but Clarke hears only the sound of Lexa’s heart, beating in her own chest.

“May I…?” Lexa asks in the softest whisper, in a space all of their own.

“I’m going to insist on it,” Clarke can only croak out.

Below, the cheering and ruckus of the shining throng swells even louder when, up on the balcony, their backbone and lynchpin, their dayspring and their Commander pulls her girlfriend into an exultant kiss.

“Thank you,” Lexa murmurs, no two words ever more saturated with gravitas. Their foreheads are still connected and their lips are so close together that they brush together with every syllable. “Thank you for reminding me of our strength. Thank you for fighting for me.”

“Thank you for being my fight.” Clarke takes a solemn nip of that beautiful lower lip and laughs at the sensation of Lexa’s smile inside her teeth.

“I think you’ll find that it’s you who is my fight,” Lexa contends once she has the capacity, raising her hand in salute before taking a long, contented inhalation from the sanctuary of Clarke’s neck.

“Ai haiplana.”

They stand entangled for a silent eternity, queens and commanders, each of them, heedless of the crowd forming around them. Lexa threads her fingers through blonde strands, tugging out the neat hair bauble and making her own tangles, and Clarke breathes in the never-setting sunshine radiating out from her skin.

“Ai Boudica.”

--

Their little bubble doesn’t hold long; it can’t.

They’re rapidly inundated by Prefects, Old Girls, reporters, parents and girls, racing up the steps and though she’s surprise to learn that they’re there for her too, Clarke sneaks away after a squeeze of Lexa’s hand. A veritable mob closes in around the Head Girl, clamoring for attention, but she holds up a single finger and finds Clarke’s gaze, silently checking that she’s alright. Clarke tries waving off the unnecessary concern but it’s only once Lexa finds what she’s looking for in her eyes that her girlfriend shifts her attention back to her adoring horde.

Pulling up her hood, Clarke prepares to wade through the sea of victors but it turns out to be unnecessary: her Godfather is already waiting for her, right at the bottom of the stone steps. His eyes are so kind, his expression so proud that she takes one look at him and bursts into tears.

Before she knows it, Clarke’s riding out her adrenaline crash in the warmth of Marcus’ arms, in the embrace of this man she hardly knows but who’s known her all her life, this man who travelled across the country to have her back in battle.

“Your parents would be so proud of you,” he tells her, his beard soft against her temple. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks for coming,” Clarke eventually manages around a sniff, pulling back and wiping her face with her elbow.

Marcus completes the task with a clean tissue from his pocket and smiles fondly down at her as she clenches her jaw to keep herself from crying again. “Of course. I’ve been giving you your space, but I want you to know that I’ll always be here for you. I can’t wait to get to know you properly.”

“I’d like that, too,” she admits, brushing away a fresh tear.

Their attention is captured by graceful footsteps coming down the stairs and Marcus’ smile immediately deepens. “I look forward to getting to know you, too, Lexa. I’m thrilled you’re joining us for the holidays.”

Lexa shakes his proffered hand but her eyes are on Clarke, no doubt spying the tracks of her tears. Clarke grins and takes her hand, squeezing it in reassurance.

“Thank you for the invitation, Professor Kane. I look forward to making your acquaintance, as well—Clarke mentioned a book you’re writing, it sounds fascinating.”

“Interesting you should say that; today’s events have actually inspired me to take it in another direction. I’d love your input, if you’re willing. Clarke tells me you’re well-versed in the history of female education. Polis might make an ideal case study.”

Lexa’s eyes light up. “I’d be honoured; I’ll bring along the research I’ve been curating about the school’s early years.”

“Brilliant!”

“Oh god, this is all we’re going to be talking about all Christmas break, isn’t it?” Clarke pretends to complain but her lips won’t stop their dorky smiling.

“Speaking of which, would you ladies be free to leave tonight?” Marcus asks, glancing around them. “I know we’d planned on you taking the train tomorrow but since I’m here…”

“We can do that,” Clarke confirms after a swift glance over at Lexa. Quite a queue has begun to form behind them, but Lexa acknowledges them with a gentle nod and returns her attention on Clarke and her guardian. “Hey, how did you even know to come up today?”

“Ah—do you remember my research assistant, Maya? She got word through her Old Girls network and we decided to drive up together. She’s around here somewhere—ah, right, over there.”

Marcus waves at a pretty brunette woman across the Quad and Clarke snickers to herself as Lexa pales, and then blushes, and then blushes on top of that blush.

“In any case, we’ll all have plenty of time to chat on the ride home. For now, I’m eager to continue an earlier conversation with Professor Yu before she leaves, if you don’t mind excusing me.”

Marcus rubs Clarke’s arm once more before fighting his away against the crowd, and she plants a quick peck on Lexa’s lips before leaving her to her fans and wandering off to find her friends.

Octavia is nowhere to be seen but Raven’s easy enough to spot, standing on the steps of the cloisters and gaping at something in the distance.

“Raven! That was—” Clarke squeals once she’s made it through all the congratulations and hugs enroute.

“Clarke. Clarke.”

“What? Raven, we did it, you were awesome up in the bell tower! I can’t believe we—”

Raven only tugs at her sleeve. “Clarke.” She still hasn’t torn her eyes away from whatever she’s staring at and while Clarke tries to follow her stare, all she sees are hundreds upon hundreds of ecstatic girls and some boys milling around awkwardly.

Ah, there’s Octavia.

And yep, she’s definitely snogging the life out of Lincoln. The poor dude looks shocked, his hands splayed in the air and his shoulders lifted high in surprise.

Nearby, an older brother glowers.

But Raven’s not looking at either of the Blakes.

“The big bang, Clarke!”

“Um. Pardon?”

“I feel it. Fuck, I feel it now. Look at her boobs, Clarke! Her boobs!”

“What? Whose boobs?” Clarke narrows her eyes when she sees Lexa vaguely in Raven’s line of sight. “Oh my god, please don’t tell me your sexual awakening involves my girlfriend’s breasts.”

Raven crinkles her nose and waves away the notion with a sweep of her hand. “Not those ones. The ones on the fit-as-fuck goddess she’s hugging.”

Clarke squints. “Is that…Anya?” Lexa’s eyes are wide in the embrace and Clarke suspects it’s not a normal occurrence between the two girls.

“Anya Wasti,” Raven repeats and yeah, her voice could actually be described as dreamy at this point. “I want to fuck her against that wall—that one, right there—and then…like…gently kiss her neck for a week.”

“Wow. Okay.” Clarke tries to edge away and leave her lovestruck—lust-struck?—friend alone with her thoughts but Raven clamps a hand around her arm.

“I really want to bury my head between her tits.”

“I…”

“Lick her tummy button.”

“Gross, Raven.”

“You know, sometimes stars explode and their remnants form new ones. Bigger ones. Smoking-hot ones.”

Clarke blinks. “How about I introduce myself to Anya and you come with?”

Raven giggles—giggles—and then blushes. Blushes. “What? No! I…but she’s so…and her thighs, Clarke, they could probably snap me in half like a twig and oh god, I’d be okay with that. And her cheek bones. I could get off against those cheekbones alone.”

“Come on. But you seriously can’t say any of that to her.”

(Raven doesn’t manage to form a single intelligible noise in their conversation.)

(It’s probably for the best)

--

Dr. Peters appears on the balcony in the midst of their revelry and makes his choir cut-off gesture; it takes the revelers a little while to notice, but eventually the chattering tapers off and everyone squints up through the sunlight.

“Well, are we holding our carol service or not?” he asks the crowd.

Approving applause rings out below and he claps his hands together twice, all business though his beard proves useless at concealing a grin. “Choir—inside the chapel now, please. Chop, chop. Girls and everyone else, we start at 3pm. As always.” 

It ends up being the most disjointed, disordered Christmas service Polis has probably ever held.

There’s no printed programme booklet or real rehearsal, the chapel packed to the rafters and doors flung open for the overflow in the Quad. Katherine sings her solo from the altar instead of the balcony because of space contraints, Dr. Peters calls out the carol hymn numbers from the organ room, quite likely choosing them as he goes, and the nine lessons are delivered by members of the choir from their seats.

The Head Girl covers the traditional role of the headmistress, many of the anthems are sung acapella, and holy communion gets skipped altogether.

It ends up, without a doubt, being the most beautiful, magical Christmas service Polis has ever held.  

They chant their venerations with fire in their lungs, sing their ancient songs of praise as a single body, drum out their celebration of life eternal as one heart—one in fighting and one in rejoicing.

The sun’s beginning to set by the time the candles are passed around, laying siege to the encroaching darkness. It takes only one candle to illuminate a thousand; one Head Girl’s flame, passed on and on, down the rows, up the stairs to the gallery and out the doors until their whole world is aglow.

(Electric flames have nothing on how Lexa’s face reflects real candlelight)

“As it was in the beginning!” Heda calls out, no need to look down at her prayer book.

“Is now and every shall be! World without end!”

The Three Kings may have crossed deserts for the light of their star but Clarke doesn’t think anything could possibly instill more wonder and awe, more belief in magic and goodness of humanity, than the immeasurable heavens shining in Lexa’s eyes across the choir stalls.  

“Amen!”

Their candles remain lit as the organ chords of the School Blessing start up, the hymn Polis has sung at the end of every term for more than a century and will continue on singing for centuries more. There isn’t a dry eye in the house as one half of the chapel sings out the first line and the other half echoes the next, calling and responding until they come together on the refrain.

God be with you till we meet again,
Keep love’s banner floating o’er you,
Smite death’s threat’ning wave before you,
God be with you till we meet again.

Till we meet, till we meet, 
till we meet at Jesus' feet; 
till we meet, till we meet, 
God be with you till we meet again. 

“Till we meet again!” the Head Girl proclaims in closing, and they rise to their feet like a well-oiled machine. The choir file out and converge in front of the altar, heralded down the aisle by the sound of the processional organ, deep and potent and resonating.

Outside, the golden evening brightens in, the chapel bells ring out, and the inheritors march on; on with their day and on with their fight, their Commander leading the way.

--

It makes the news, this victory march, this demonstration of female strength, these girls lifting each other up until they can all touch the starry firmament. It makes the local papers, it makes the national news, it makes the international press.

The Romans don’t conquer. Not this time.

This Boudica, these warriors win their war.

(It still doesn’t mean their fight is over.)  

(Their fight goes on and on and on.)

The first time Lucy sees them together, they’re sitting on thrones, presiding over their realm with piercing stares and plaited crowns in their hair. Their subjects are spread at their feet, a vast multitude of them, wide-eyed and obedient. There’s something sacred about the pair of them, from the crimson cloaks draped over their shoulders to the way they move as a single unit, as if something higher has endowed them with their perfect posture and right to rule, as if a single glance could strike her dead.

Or at least it feels that way.

All the other girls know what they’re doing and it’s only fair—they hadn’t shown up a term and three days late, they’re accustomed to these rituals, to this posh boarding school with its fancy uniforms and tennis courts.

Lucy hasn’t ever worn anything other than stretched out polo-necks and cheap black trousers in her various overcrowded state schools, much less picked up a tennis racket. And here she is, plaid skirt and properly fitting tights, leather Mary Janes and starched shirt with a funny round collar. It’s surreal. There’s even a massive wool cloak in her wardrobe—she has her own wardrobe—although she hasn’t figured out what it’s for. She’s only seen the two girls up on stage wear them and besides, those are a different colour than hers.  

She supposes she could ask her new roommate—the smiley girl had certainly bent over backward to welcome her to the school last night—but that’s not how Lucy operates.

Lucy does things on her own

She’s nothing if not self-reliant.

It’s not like she’s ever had a choice; it’s not like manky inner-city council estates and negligent mothers reward neediness, it’s not like years in the foster care system have proven that she can trust anyone but herself. Lucy’s no stranger to moving around homes and schools, to the inevitable bullying and judgments, and though this Polis scholarship gives her the chance to stay in one place until she ages out of the system, she knows it’s an impossible dream.

Something always goes wrong, something entirely outside of her control.

Still.

Still, she’s young and still that tiny spark of hope refuses to die, no matter how many times it’s stamped out.

(Maybe this time will be different.)

(Maybe if she keeps to herself, maybe if she doesn’t get on anyone’s nerves, maybe if she makes herself invisible, maybe she’ll be lucky…)

(Maybe, this time…)

The teachers file in and stand in front of their chairs once the girls are all seated on the floor of the oddly-beautiful gym. The Headmaster is already at his podium to the right of the two girls on stage, his black academic gown and serious expression a sharp contrast to the man who’d buried her in a bear hug—after asking her permission, no less—when her case worker had dropped her off at Cordelia House last night.

The dark-haired deity stands, quickly followed by the rest of the school and the blonde goddess at her side.

“Good morning, girls.”

“Good morning, Heda.”

Everyone sits and Lucy watches the two distant goddesses run the assembly, seamlessly going back and forth in their post-Christmas announcements. Dr. Peters delivers his own messages, too, but he’s part of the whole rather than presiding over the proceedings.

Once they finish with their agenda, Heda—this school’s name for the Head Girl, apparently—invites the staff and students to pose questions or add their own announcements, as if they’re all parts of the whole, like this is a school run for the girls, by the girls.

Some emotion blossoms across Lucy’s chest, a feeling she’ll one day name as empowerment but associates only with danger right now. She doesn’t know how to cope with being part of a whole—she’s never been part of a whole, just wholly apart and alone. It’s the only way she survives.

“Let us pray,” Dr. Peters says and the girls bow their heads. Lucy doesn’t close her eyes during the Lord’s Prayer, though; she can’t.

Up on stage, the blonde catches her hypervigilant gaze and Lucy freezes, caught. She only shoots Lucy a fond smile though, as if there’s some secret between them, and Lucy manages to shut her eyes before the Head Girl notices, finally remembering the flaxen-haired girl’s title from the Introduction to Trigedasleng leaflet on her pillow last night.

Wanheda.

Deputy Head Girl.

Commander-in-death.

Of course. These are the girls everyone’s whispering about like they’re holy beings walking amongst mere mortals but Lucy sees that she hasn’t gotten that quite right, now.

She’s been at Polis School for Girls less than 24 hours but it’s hard to miss the level of excitement and comradery that permeates the red brick building and all its inhabitants. It’s more than friends simply returning after the holidays, the level of devotion to their Head Girl and the first Deputy Head Girl in the school’s history more than perfunctory.

It’s more like every single girl in this school is a mythic warrior in her own right, like they’ve come together to fight a war and won, these two battle queens at the helm. More than schoolmates, more than conquerors, part of something more—something much bigger than themselves,

What strikes Lucy the most, though, as she peeks her eyes open again, is how soft the two co-leaders are. How vulnerable and human, amongst their power. Wanheda reaches over and brushes her fingers against Heda’s hand and there’s such a gentle smile on the brunette’s lips as she draws nearer until they’re shoulder-to-shoulder.

They’re the fiercest of warriors and they’re the softest of girls and something shifts in Lucy’s armored little heart. Something that tells her that maybe she could wield this same power, that vulnerability doesn’t always mean being weak. That she can be part of this whole that is Polis and maybe even sit where those two sit one day.

(Maybe Lucy has the power to make this time different. Maybe hiding away isn’t the answer; maybe there’s another way)

Heda and Wanheda stand and the girls are swift to mirror the action.

“Oso na gon raun gon chit oso in!” Heda calls out, the words resounding through the wooden beams in the ceiling and through the parquet floor. Her hand is clasped together with Wanheda, above their heads.

“We fight for what we believe in!” Wanheda translates just as loudly.

Their fingers don’t separate, even when they’re back at their sides again.

“Ogeda, oso ste yuj!” the girls shout back, firepower in their invocation, each of them armed and ready to fight their well-fought day.

Lucy right alongside them, even if it’ll take some time before she can call it out for herself.

(Alone, she’s weak, but maybe together…)

“Together, we are strong!”