Chapter Text
Lexa notices three things when she opens her eyes:
1. Everything hurts.
2. She does not know where she is.
3. There is a girl holding her hand;
She does not recognize her.
//
There must have been an assassination attempt on her Ascension Day.
This must be why her body aches, why the back of her neck aches.
This does not explain why she is not being seen to in the Commander’s room, in her room, but in a small healer’s tent with no guards in sight. Does not explain the girl who refuses to leave her side even though it looks as if she has not slept in days. Or the way she whispers Lexa’s name so reverently, so tenderly, as she gently pushes the hair out of Lexa’s face.
(Lexa thinks about this days from now, about soft hands and a fond smile and blue eyes that were tired and worried but also relieved, so relieved.
She thinks about the moment before everything fell apart.)
//
There was an assassination attempt, but she was not the intended target. This is why her body aches.
The back of her neck aches, not from receiving the Commander’s Spirit, but because she is no longer in possession of it.
The attempt was not on the day she became Commander. Four summers have passed since her first Ascension Day.
She is no longer Heda.
This is why she is in a healer’s tent in the outskirts of Polis. The attempt was on Clarke kom Skaikru, the girl who now looks at her with a sadness and desperation that she cannot bear.
So she looks away and asks to be left alone.
//
The girl — Clarke — is no longer in the tent the next time she wakes. She is greeted by the healer, a tall heavyset man with an unkempt beard, who introduces himself as Balt.
She slowly pushes herself up to a sitting position, wincing at the pain that immediately wracks her body. He makes a move to help, but she glares his way and his hands drop to his sides.
“Tell me,” she orders, in Trigedasleng.
“Wanheda, she...” He trails off, taking note of her confusion. He clears his throat and tries again. “The Skai girl who was here, she brought you here in the middle of the night with her friend, a Skai boy. I do not know why. She told me she removed the bullet and stitched the wound, told me you no longer bleed. But you were… you were pale. Dead. There was nothing for me to do.”
He pauses briefly, waiting for Lexa to process his words. Lexa realizes that she’d been fisting the thin, coarse sheet draped over her lap and loosens her grip, extending her fingers to stretch out the soreness. She takes a shaky breath and nods for him to continue.
“The Skai girl came back with a young boy, a natblida — to give you blood. She said you live, but you did not wake. She made me swear to keep watch over you and not tell anyone. She disappeared with the Skai boy and did not come back for four days. You woke up on the fifth.”
She is silent for a while, her mind racing as she tries to conjure up images to match his story. She knows she was unconscious, that she should have no memory of it. Still, the emptiness inside her stretches just a little more.
Balt waits for her patiently, but she does not ask him to tell her more. Instead she nods her thanks, and he takes it as a dismissal.
As he leaves the tent, Lexa wonders if word has reached the Trigedakru. If Anya and Costia have heard.
//
It is not Anya or Costia who comes to see her next. The moment Indra steps inside, Lexa understands.
“ Tell me, ” she says anyway.
//
Costia and Anya are dead.
She still does not remember, but now she knows.
//
The Maunon have fallen.
Not because of her or her warriors, but at the hands of the one they now call Wanheda.
At the hands of Clarke kom Skaikru.
//
Indra tells her that her people are free because of her.
That she had served them well as Heda.
//
Queen Nia is dead.
It was Lexa who dealt the killing blow.
It took her two summers, took her swallowing her rage and forming the Coalition and fighting and ending wars, all with the knowledge that she might never have the chance to seek her own personal retribution.
Lexa thinks it should bring her comfort to know that Nia ultimately died by her hand.
It doesn’t.
//
She had a personal guard named Gustus, assigned to her shortly after she became Heda. He guarded her with his life, risked his own because he thought it would keep her safe.
She does not remember him.
It does not hurt as much, hearing about him. Perhaps she is still reeling from losing Costia (again, she reminds herself), from losing Anya (again), that the loss of Gustus, who is still faceless in her mind, does not make her breath catch in her throat, does not tire her jaw quelling the burning behind her eyes.
She feels thirteen again, being sentenced to ten lashes for her insubordination, for endangering the life of another Seken during a hunt. She is weak, like the goufa (branwada, Anya had called her) who cannot bear to keep her eyes open after the ninth lash. Gustus is the relief she feels right before she loses consciousness. The tenth lash she does not remember feeling.
(Does not remember feeling until she wakes up whimpering, suffering the pain of all ten lashes on her back.)
She carries the scars well into autumn. They fade eventually, but not all of them fade completely.
Lexa will carry Gustus’s death much like she does the warriors who have fought for her, died for her, warriors who are now also faceless (and nameless). Yet he will not haunt her quite like her lost love or her beloved mentor.
And that distinction will bring its own guilt, because she was taught to serve her people equally, was raised to love them fiercely. But she is merely a common girl now, so even though it has been instilled in her as weakness, she allows herself a temporary luxury, allows herself to drown in the deaths of the two people she loved most.
//
She tries very hard not to eavesdrop, but the thin flaps of the tent allow the voices outside to carry, rousing her awake. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, tries to identify them — the emotional rasp that slips into the girl’s heated words, the steady rumble of an older, male voice.
“If you think I’m letting you near Lexa —”
Clarke.
And Titus, she realizes.
The knowledge spurs her to press her hands down on her cot in an attempt to bring herself into an upright position, but a sharp pain halts her movements. She grits her teeth, grasping the edges of the thin sheet as waves of discomfort continue to radiate from her wound. She takes deep, calming breaths, willing the pain to fade so she can return her focus to the conversation outside.
If it is indeed Titus outside, she has much to ask. Surely, the fleimkepa will have the answers she requires. But her stomach sinks at the next words she hears:
“...I am not here for her. I am here to inform you that you are no longer welcome in Polis. Until a decision has been made regarding Skaikru’s status within the Coalition —”
“The decision has already been made. Aden pledged his loyalty to the Thirteenth Clan.”
“The new Commander will see the merits of our old ways sooner rather than later. Jus drein jus daun will be the code we live by once again. Your people will pay for their crimes.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Lexa furrows her brow, several questions forming at the tip of her tongue. She moves to push herself up again, biting her lip to keep from crying out. It takes two more tries to sit up before Lexa manages, and she uses the momentum to swing her legs over to the side of the cot. She lowers her feet to the ground gently, curling her toes against the loose dirt. She takes a deep breath, feeling herself begin to tire from her efforts.
“Careful, Clarke kom Skaikru. You continue to overstep. I could have you forcefully removed from Polis with one —”
“Please, Aden would never —”
“Commander Aden is busy with his new responsibilities. Do not presume that you will be afforded the same freedom that the previous Commander allowed. It is time you learned your place.” A pause. Then, “I will see to it that the healer —”
“Absolutely not. You've done enough. She is no longer your responsibility.”
“And she was never yours.”
There’s a pause, then —
“You know what? Go float yourself, Titus. If you think I'd trust you with Lexa’s care —”
“And you believe you are more suited to care for her? Lexa achieved more than any of the Commanders before her, and she would have achieved even more had you not interfered. I told Lexa that you would be her downfall. Her priorities were misplaced ever since you arrived in Polis. You have done nothing but endanger her life. Had she not been so blinded by you —”
“You were the one with the gun! And you were content to let her bleed to death as long as you got that stupid chip —”
“I made a vow to Lexa that I would not harm you, Clarke kom Skaikru, but you are testing me.”
“I’m not leaving until Lexa...”
Lexa’s head spins as she tries to keep up with the rapid influx of information, trying to make sense of the confusion, anger, and sense of betrayal swirling inside of her, of Skaikru crimes and her apparent special treatment of Clarke and jus drein jus daun being a thing of the past and Titus with a fayogon.
Titus being the one who shot her.
None of it adds up.
She speaks out before she can stop herself, bringing the angry voices outside to an abrupt halt.
“Em pleni. ”
“Lexa,” she hears Titus startle, followed by what sounds like a minor struggle and unhand me at once before she sees the ruffling of the tent flaps.
“Stop,” she calls out, her voice clear and steady, and the movement outside ceases.
Her hands grip the edges of the cot to balance herself as she moves to stand. Her knees quake from the effort, knocking together clumsily, and she grunts in pain from the sharp throbbing from her midsection.
“Lexa,” Clarke calls out worriedly, and Lexa looks up to see fingers curl around the flap.
“I said stop,” she grits out, and the hand disappears.
She steels herself, grunting again as she pushes herself up in one swift motion — and skrish, her entire body aches as if she had narrowly survived an encounter with a pauna, but she’s standing.
She wills herself to move, one foot at a time. It is a small tent, and it takes no more than four steps to reach the opening. Still, the distance leaves her panting softly, and she casts a quick longing look towards one of the poles, suppressing the temptation to lean against it for support. She wipes away the beads of sweat that have begun to form on her forehead with the back of her hand. Then, squaring her shoulders, she reaches out and lifts the tent flap, taking a step outside.
“Titus,” she greets with a subtle dip of her head. Then she turns her head to the right and repeats the motion. “Clarke.”
“Lexa,” Titus says, “I am pleased to see that you have recovered. I —”
He falls silent as Lexa raises her hand.
She looks at Titus pointedly. Titus, who comes unaccompanied by guards, much of his face obscured by the hood of his cloak. His posture remains rigid, producing an air of righteousness she had observed upon their first meeting weeks — no, years — ago, betrayed only by the shaking, restless hands folded in front of him.
She turns to Clarke, who stares back at her, lips pursed tightly, studiously ignoring the presence of the man next to her. Her eyes are sharp and focused but laced with a worry that Lexa has come to recognize.
Lexa’s eyes flit back and forth once more.
She does not know if Clarke is trustworthy, does not understand her motivations even if something tells Lexa that the fierce protectiveness cannot be anything but genuine.
She no longer knows if she can trust the man who was supposed to be her closest counsel. There is no honor in someone who dares wield a Maunon weapon inside the walls of Polis.
So the choice is clear: the only person she can trust is herself, and the decisions she made — even if she does not remember them.
“The fleimkepa’s place is next to Heda,” she finally says, redirecting her gaze towards Titus. “It is a title I no longer possess. As such, I no longer require your counsel, and you have no business with me. If I have truly achieved as much as you say I have, you will extend me the respect I deserve and allow me to heal in peace.”
“But —”
“Let me remind you, Titus,” she interrupts, eyes flashing dangerously, “that if you are indeed so intent on maintaining our old ways, that my blood must have blood.”
Titus sputters, floundering for a moment before he collects himself, straightening his posture once more and nodding stiffly. “Very well. Clarke kom Skaikru shall be permitted to remain in Polis for the meantime. But once you are healed she is to leave and not return until she is summoned.”
She glances over to see if Clarke will argue, and to her relief, Clarke merely gives him a terse nod. And with a slight bow of his head, Titus turns and departs, head held high, legs moving in quick strides.
Only when his footsteps grow softer does Lexa allow herself to relax, her eyes fluttering shut, staggering backwards as hands reach behind blindly for the nearest pole. Her hand barely brushes against it before her body falls back against it heavily, her head hitting the narrow (but fortunately sturdy) wood.
“Lexa,” Clarke calls out, exasperated. “Let me help you back —”
Lexa cuts her off with a wave of her hand.
“I'm fine,” she assures, determined to mask the extent to which she feels the strain on her body.
Skrish.
She’s not fine.
She blinks, trying to clear the haze in her head. Instead she finds herself distracted by the movement behind Clarke, towards a few of the villagers nearby. There aren't many this far from the heart of Polis, but a couple of children stop and stare, wide-eyed and whispering. The more curious of the two takes a step forward, only to be intercepted by one of the elders who berates them and guides them away, sneaking a few wary looks in their direction.
“Lexa.” The voice is gentler this time, but it does not quell the unease that settles. It does, however, shake her from her daze, and a panic quickly sets in. She stumbles back into the tent, dropping back on her cot.
Clarke follows, dropping to her knees in front of Lexa, but thankfully, she does not try to reach out again. Lexa slumps forward, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Her mind races, trying to pinpoint what it is that elicited that reaction, that caused her eyes to blur and her heart to seize up inside her chest. It may be her confrontation with Titus; or perhaps it was venturing outside the first time, leaving the safety of the tent, making her circumstances feel all the more real, because inside everything she’d been told still felt like mere stories, but outside —
“Hey,” Clarke says, her voice soft. “Hey, you’re okay.”
Lexa nods, her head still tucked in her hands as she takes a few calming breaths. Clarke waits, remains close, her presence both soothing and confusing to Lexa at the same time. “I’m fine,” Lexa says again, looking up. Clarke is unconvinced, eyes wandering down, as if expecting Lexa’s shirt to be stained in blood.
It’s not, Lexa thinks. Her shirt clings to her body, from sweat, from exertion. She does not think she has pulled her stitches (hopes she has not pulled her stitches).
Clarke bites her lip, the temptation to check for herself clearly written on her face. Lexa tilts her chin upward defiantly, until finally, Clarke nods, accepting her answer. A silence stretches between them, and Lexa wants to say something, anything. She feels her body tire, her mind tire, and she wishes for solitude to quiet her mind, to sleep.
It’s Clarke who breaks the silence.
“Thank you for backing me,” Clarke says, her voice coming out in a soft whisper.
Lexa sighs, rubbing her forehead tiredly. She can feel the beginnings of a headache forming between her eyes.
I wasn’t backing you, she wants to say. I was backing me.
“It’s what I — it’s what she would have done.”
Clarke does not respond right away. Lexa uses that time to lie back down and pull the sheet back over her body, careful not to jostle her injury. She does not want to appear weak, but Clarke has already seen her with her body weak, seen the extent of her injuries to know that she is not completely fine. And maybe Clarke will accept her desire to rest as a compromise and cease her worrying, at least for the day.
“I’ll let you rest,” Clarke says, moving to stand. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” A pause, then, “Okay?”
Lexa hesitates. She considers declining, because she still does not trust Clarke, but she has already turned away Titus. There is no one else who could have the answers she seeks — and truth be told, while she would like to be left alone right now, she does not want to be left alone for the remainder of her recovery.
(Does not want to feel alone — and she has felt very much alone since she woke the first night.)
So when she opens her mouth to reply, what she says is —
“Okay.”
She does not wait for Clarke to answer before she shuts her eyes, and she listens for Clarke’s departure, waits for the footsteps to fade before she lets sleep overcome her once again.
//
Clarke returns the next day, as she said she would.
She does not mention the previous day. Instead, she tells Lexa about her people who fell from the sky. She speaks of the Twelve Stations, and the Thirteenth that had been blasted from the Ark. Of Polaris, of how it connects to Polis.
She tells Lexa about the City of Light. About her people that were trapped inside, about Lexa being trapped inside. About her decision to go in and how she got them all out.
Lexa does not completely follow, cannot fully wrap her mind around all this talk of artificial intelligence and chips and virtual reality. She’s still trying, trying so hard to make sense of the endless slew of information about coalitions and wars and treason.
(And Anya, and Costia.
And Clarke.)
Clarke tells Lexa that she had been a good Commander, that her legacy was peace. She speaks of hope, of new beginnings, but there is still a sadness in her eyes that Lexa aches to understand.
“They said you were the one who brought me back.”
They said you were the one who kept my body safe. That you were the one who brought my spirit back.
The question lingers at the tip of Lexa’s tongue, remains unspoken. But Clarke hears it, and she looks at her searchingly, so earnestly — that Lexa has to look away. She does not have the heart to tell Clarke that what she’s looking for is no longer there.
"You sacrificed your blood and soul for peace,” Clarke finally says, a wistful smile on her face. “It didn’t seem right for you to die before —” Her breath hitches, and she pauses to collect herself. “You deserved to live to see it."
//
(“You did it for your people.”
“I did it for you.”)
//
She still has no memories of the girl who saved her.
//
“Why did Titus vow not to harm you?”
The question takes them both by surprise — Clarke, who’s resigned to the fact that Lexa does not want to know, is not ready to know; and Lexa, who’s had nothing but time to reflect, who knows why (but does not understand why, not when the pain of losing Costia is still so fresh, not when she still feels that hopeful tug in her heart whenever someone lifts the tent flap to enter, only to remember).
“You made him,” Clarke replies, a slight tremble in her voice, “when you thought you were going to...” She trails off, unable to continue. She does not have to.
Because Lexa knows.
But the knowledge, the confirmation — it hits her anyway, knocking the breath right out of her lungs, and she cannot stop the words before they spill out of her mouth. “I must have loved you a lot,” she murmurs, and she feels an immediate stab of guilt because she knows, she knows it will hurt Clarke.
Clarke, who barely holds back the sob that bubbles up in her throat, who nods haltingly, unshed tears in her eyes.
Clarke, who begins to reach out for her hand but thinks better of it.
Lexa smiles sadly, feeling her own eyes sting.
(She is unprepared for how much it hurts her too.)
They sit there, facing each other — worlds apart.
It did not stop them before, not when one of them was rooted in the ground, the other living amongst the stars; not when they stood on opposite sides of the same war. And here they are, barely a foot apart, separated by a different type of distance between them: one yearning for a girl who was seemingly alive just days ago; the other yearning for a girl she braved another realm to bring back — only to find that the one she risked her life for no longer exists.
How they can even begin to overcome that, Lexa does not know.
She’s not sure she’ll ever be ready to find out.
//
Lexa does not ask if Clarke loved her just as much.
(She does not have to.)
//
“Have you thought about what you’re going to do next?” Clarke asks.
Now that Balt has deemed Lexa fit for travel, they both know that Lexa’s time in Polis is coming to an end. There is no reason to linger — Polis is no longer her home.
“Indra has offered me a place among her warriors,” Lexa replies. Indra did not require an answer before she left, but it was an easy decision. Lexa has been groomed for battle her whole life, and she cannot imagine living any differently.
(She was also groomed to lead, but that part of her life is over.)
Clarke opens her mouth, as if poised to speak, but she thinks better of it and closes it again.
“What is it, Clarke?”
“I was hoping you would come to Arkadia with me,” Clarke says, biting her lip nervously. “My mom — she’s a doctor. A fisa. She won’t be able to run a full scan without Mount Weather’s medical facility, but —”
“No.”
“Lexa —”
“Clarke,” she warns.
“No, listen, Lexa —”
“No, you listen. You have saved my life, and for that I am —” grateful. The word gets lodged in her throat, unwilling to make it past her lips. “I am —” grateful. grateful. grate— “Jok! You should not have saved me, Clarke.”
Lexa takes a deep breath. It comes out shakily when she exhales, so she takes another one to center herself.
“And here I thought you were getting better at saying thank you,” Clarke says, chuckling dryly. There’s a slight bitterness in her tone, and Lexa gets a strange sense that they’ve had a similar conversation before.
She bristles.
“Mockery is not —”
“— the product of a strong mind. Yeah, I remember.”
The words sting, and Lexa flinches. It’s subtle, but Clarke notices, and she casts her eyes downward, slumping in her seat. She opens her mouth, maybe to apologize, but Lexa does not let her.
“It was foolish,” Lexa argues. “No Commander has ever —”
“I didn’t go into the City of Light to save the Commander, Lexa,” Clarke interrupts, eyes back on hers, fiery and determined. “I went in there to save you.”
“The Commander and I are — were — one and the same.”
“You are more than just the Commander,” Clarke insists.
“You speak of what you do not understand, Clarke kom Skaikru.”
She does not understand that Lexa has never been more than the Commander (could never be more than the Commander). That she was not always the Commander, but everything she has done, everything she was, was to become the Commander.
“You may not be the Commander anymore, but you’re still here.” With me. “You’re still here, Lexa.”
“Not all of me,” Lexa murmurs. She looks away because she cannot stand to look at the pain that reflects on Clarke’s face. She wants to say more, wants Clarke to understand.
She wants Clarke to understand that what she means is:
The very essence of me, the part that belongs to my people — my purpose — is gone.
All that’s left is bits and pieces that belong to people who no longer need me, and people who are no longer in this world.
What she means is:
The part of me that belonged to you is gone.
“I won’t apologize for saving your life. I just — I couldn’t just sit back and watch you die.”
“And I did not die. You have guided my spirit back into this world, Clarke. But this — this isn’t something you can fix.”
What she means is:
I need to learn what it means to belong to myself.
“I have to try.”
“Not this time.”
There's a sharp intake of breath, and when Lexa looks up, Clarke is staring at her, eyes wide and hopeful. It takes Lexa a moment before her own words catch up to her, and it’s there again, this niggling feeling that this should be familiar. It washes over her, and all of a sudden she’s grasping, searching the depths of her mind — only to come up empty.
So she doesn't say anything, and neither does Clarke.
Clarke does not ask her to go to Arkadia with her again. And when she leaves, Lexa does not ask her to stay.
//
It occurs to Lexa later that night that since waking up, all her time and energy has been spent trying to make sense of this world she woke up in, this world that is suddenly so different from the one she remembers.
For one night, she wants to stop trying to remember, to let herself forget. Or rather, she just wants to immerse herself in memories that do not hurt:
Costia in the mornings — untamed hair, sleepy smile, close enough for Lexa to count the freckles on her nose.
Costia’s hands, always so soft and smooth and gentle, even when she’s furious, so furious, because Lexa had been careless again and it’s the third time she’s had to visit the healer’s tent in a week.
Costia’s laughter, rich and unbridled and infectious and just everywhere — shoulders quaking, head tossed back, hair flying all over the place.
(Anya, scowling, hating it. Lexa, grinning, loving it.)
Anya, livid because her brash, foolish Seken dared to challenge another twice her size to a soulou gonplei for the heart of the girl she loves. Anya, plucking her by the scruff of her shirt while Roma drags her own Seken away by his ear, because only a gona can issue or accept a challenge, and neither of you goufa are even close to becoming one.
(Costia, sneaking into the stables to find her cleaning up after Anya’s horse later that night.
“You were foolish. Brave, but foolish. You do not have to challenge another for my heart, Lexa. You already have it.”
Lexa, and her toothy grin that slips away when Costia turns to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“To sleep. I have training with Nyko at dawn. And you smell.”
“You won’t help me?”
“No. Anya would not forgive me if I relieved you of your punishment. Besides, I do not want to smell like you do.”
Lexa, and her frown that melts away as soon as Costia kisses her on the cheek.
Costia, with a sly wink before she disappears outside.)
Anya, and the subtle quirk of her lips the first time Lexa knocks her on her back in training.
(Her scowl, as it becomes a more common occurrence.)
Anya, grumbling under her breath about lovesick branwada before stomping away, conveniently allowing them a few private moments that grow scarce as they get older.
Anya, and her tight grip on Lexa’s forearm, firm even as Lexa slackens her grip. Only when Lexa meets her steady stare does Anya relinquish her hold, nodding stiffly. Then, and only then, does Lexa’s nervousness simply fall away, chest swelling with both pride and a courage that she carries with her as she leaves for her Conclave.
(“Lexa. Be... smart.”
She means: Be careful.
“Not strong?”
“You are already strong.”
“Am I not smart?”
A snort. Then —
“Go.”
A determined nod. Then —
“I will be smart.”
She means: I will make you proud.)
But these memories are now tinged with sadness, with the painful knowledge that she will never experience them again. Tainted with the horrors of her mind as it tries to fill the gaps, tries to recreate what she does not wish to remember:
Costia’s eyes, wide open, lifeless. Her torture, her grisly death — all because Lexa had been weak.
Anya’s face, dirtied, bloodied, as she takes her last breath for an alliance that did not last.
(The memories, they all hurt.)
Lexa wants to forget.
(Lexa wants to remember.)
It is weakness to run from one’s past, she tells herself, but an even greater weakness to dwell in it.
Tomorrow she returns to Tondisi. Tomorrow she becomes a warrior again.
Tomorrow there will be no more room for weakness.
But tonight she is no one.
So tonight, she lets herself be weak.
Tonight, she lets herself cry.
//
Clarke is nowhere to be found.
Balt is nowhere to be found as well, having gone to see to a woman in labor shortly after accepting Lexa’s gratitude and bidding her farewell. But Lexa has not seen Clarke since her departure the previous day, and while Clarke has made no promises to return, she has visited Lexa every day during her recovery.
Next to her, Myles — the guard sent by Indra to escort her back to Tondisi — checks that the bag tied to the horse is secure. It’s his second effort made on her behalf. She lingers near the healer’s tent, eyes wandering past neighboring tents and the sporadic activity around her.
It is all too soon when he approaches her, head bowed apologetically, and something akin to disappointment curls at the pit of her stomach. She returns the gesture, grateful for his deliberate delay. Resigned, she walks over to the horse, patting its neck. Her hand glides over to the saddle, her foot finding the stirrup. As she readies herself to mount the horse, she sees a flash of golden hair, and —
“Wait!”
“Clarke,” she says, relieved. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”
“I wasn’t either,” Clarke confesses. “But I didn’t want…”
Lexa nods, understanding. She did not want to leave without saying goodbye either. “What will you do now?”
Clarke shrugs. “Arkadia sustained some damages during the coup. I should… go back to help. I’ve been away long enough.” She pauses. “They’re holding off elections until a bulk of the rebuilding is complete, so I should be there for that, too.”
Lexa furrows her brow, recalling what Clarke has told her about her people. It seems foolish to leave a clan without formal leadership when it is still recovering from war, and even more to allow the same people to keep choosing their leaders when it was their poor choices that led to that war. Her body flushes with worry — for Clarke’s well-being, for alliances with other clans that are still tenuous at best.
“They need time to grieve for those they’ve lost,” Clarke explains with another shrug. “I think — I hope — it’ll help them see the bigger picture. I’d hate for them to just forget —” She stops, realizing.
“It’s okay,” Lexa says. She wants to say more, wants to make sure that Clarke will be safe. The Lexa that Clarke knew would have wanted it.
(The Lexa standing in front of Clarke wants it too.)
But Clarke has a longer journey ahead of her, and while Myles has been patient, she does not want to cause more delay. So she holds out her forearm, ready to bid Clarke farewell.
Clarke blinks, taken aback. Lexa curls her fingers back self-consciously, uncertain if she should retract her arm. She briefly wonders if Skaikru are simply unacquainted with their customs, but the way that Clarke stares at her proffered arm — seeing but unseeing — tells Lexa that that is not the case.
And all of a sudden Clarke is right in front of Lexa, arms thrown around her shoulders as their bodies knock together clumsily. Lexa’s arm falls limply at her side, stunned. The surprise wears off quickly, and there’s a soft oh that escapes Lexa’s lips as she realizes what’s happening. It unsettles her, because this is a hug, and the only ones she remembers receiving were from —
And Clarke, Clarke notices, because how could she not when she can precisely feel the way Lexa tenses in her arms? But just as Clarke begins to loosen her hold, Lexa brings her hands to Clarke’s hips, squeezing lightly to let her know it’s okay before they settle on the small of her back.
Because Clarke needs this.
Clarke, who’s been nothing but patient with Lexa. Who keeps coming back to care for Lexa in any way she’ll allow. Who leaves at the end of the day, simply because Lexa needs her to keep some distance. Clarke, whose body trembles slightly before she relaxes, sinking into Lexa with a shaky breath.
“We'll meet again,” Clarke mumbles, burrowing her face deeper into Lexa’s shoulder.
Lexa’s eyes flutter shut instinctively, because the words somehow sound familiar but not quite right, like she’s heard something similar before. She pushes the thought away, her mind clouding with a different sense of familiarity as she breathes deeply, greeted by a scent that is in some way so distinctly… Clarke. She’s not entirely sure what that means, does not recognize it the way her body does — the way her body sags, almost in relief.
(And Lexa, maybe she needs it a little bit too.)
The moment ends too soon, broken by the chatter of two villagers passing by, making them all too aware of their surroundings. Lexa clears her throat awkwardly, then they’re fumbling to extricate themselves from each other, Lexa’s fingers uncurling from the soft fabric of Clarke’s shirt and Clarke’s fingers getting tangled in Lexa’s hair along the way.
Lexa takes a step back, hands clasped together behind her back, shoulders straightened once again. It does not escape her notice the way Clarke’s fingers curl at her sides, thumbs fiddling with the hem of her shirt. Lexa’s hands clench in response, itching to reach out and recover the momentary comfort they’d both drawn from the embrace.
“Go,” she says, her voice soft. “Your people need you.”
Clarke nods, eyes shining, and with one last searching look, she turns and walks away.
Lexa turns to Myles, finding him still standing dutifully next to the horse, eyes averted. It’s only when Lexa approaches him that he looks up, tipping his head to acknowledge her presence. She returns the gesture, a silent thanks for waiting, for allowing her a private moment.
There is still a sadness that weighs on her, mixed in with the apprehension of what’s to come, but she feels lighter than she has in days. So when Myles offers his hand, she takes it without protest, lets him help her up on the horse.
And as he begins to guide her horse away from Polis, she closes her eyes and sees them again — Costia with her easy smile and Anya with her usual glare — and her heart twinges because that image is no longer waiting for her at the end of her journey, no longer waiting for her at home.
Perhaps Tondisi isn’t even home anymore, but she’s going somewhere, and perhaps that’s enough for now.
She opens her eyes, casting one last lingering look towards Clarke’s retreating back, and her mind flashes to golden hair and blue eyes and a dimpled chin, to soft hands and a fond smile and you’re okay and — you’re still here, Lexa. She’s still here, even if she should not be. She’s here because Clarke refused to give up on her — and perhaps, because her spirit refused to give up as well.
She thinks about Costia again, about Anya. She feels a cool breeze on her skin, soft and comforting, and for a moment she swears she can hear a familiar laughter in the distance, rich and unbridled; can hear a reminder in an unmistakable voice, calm and measured.
Behind her, Polis slowly fades from view, the Commander’s tower now barely visible — and Lexa does not notice. She keeps her head held high, eyes straight ahead.
“I will be smart,” Lexa murmurs. It’s a promise, and she thinks that somewhere, Anya and Costia hear it.