Chapter Text
Clarke wakes to the feeling of Lexa’s warmth enveloping her from behind. Snaking a hand beneath her shoulder, she pulls Clarke flush against her chest and nuzzles into the back of her neck. Blinking through the haze of waking, Clarke’s breathing deepens with desire when Lexa begins placing a trail of lingering sensual kisses along the curve of her shoulder. Even as butterflies take flight in her stomach, Clarke can’t help but note the sunlight bleeding through the material of the Commander’s tent. It’s well into the afternoon, which means Clarke has probably been asleep for over twelve hours. However, clearly, Lexa has decided it’s past time for her to wake.
“Well,” Clarke whispers as a shiver runs down her spine at Lexa’s continued efforts. “Good morning.”
“You were taking too long,” the Commander mumbles, her tongue flitting over Clarke’s skin and she gasps. Gripping Lexa’s arm, Clarke can’t help but squirm in her embrace.
Breathless, it takes everything in her to muster her voice. “And here I never thought you were the impatient type.”
Practically growling at the jab, Lexa pulls herself up, grabs Clarke’s outer leg with one hand, and wraps it around her in one swift but gentle movement. As Clarke exhales the softest sputter of surprise, Lexa carefully settles between her legs so close their noses brush together. “We have been patient.”
Biting her bottom lip, Clarke nods desperately in agreement and pulls Lexa’s mouth to meet hers. As if they have been doing this all their lives, Clarke and Lexa succumb to one another’s warmth. It’s their last day of solitude. By this evening, they will be in the heart of the Azgedian capitol declaring before Lexa’s people that the war is over. Until then, they will lay claim to every last moment alone they can steal away.
-
Stood near the precipice of the grand entrance of an honest to God fucking castle, Clarke looks over a crowd of thousands. Positioned adjacent to the Commander and Roan, who are front and center before the masses, Clarke watches intently as Lexa addresses her people. “These past weeks have been marred by treachery and violence, but that ends today! Thanks to Wanheda, the war is over!”
Those in the crowd who are not Azgedian cheer in concurrence. The clamor of so many voices shouting in unison is remarkable even from atop the platform overlooking a city square filled entirely with grounders and Clarke balks. Doing everything in her power to keep from ducking in shame, she swallows her discomfort, the task made ever so slightly easier by the reassuring glance she receives from Gaia who is standing at her side.
Somewhat removed from the direct focus of the crowds, she, Clarke, April, and the war chiefs for Podakru and Boudalan accompanied by their delegations, look on from a few feet behind the Commander and the broken prince. Their support must be shown, and Clarke knows this in her heart, but a part of her wishes she were anywhere else at this moment. Glancing over her shoulder to give herself a momentary distraction, Clarke instead looks back up at the breathtaking sight of Ashen Maun in awe. (Snowy Mountain)
Clarke never thought she would see it for herself, but she probably should have guessed that Lexa wouldn’t crown Roan in the middle of the woods on the outskirts of his kingdom. With peace restored, it only took a day and a half for them to reach the fortress half buried in snow. There was no one in their way and little need for precaution. A foreign concept after so long tiptoeing through the snow watching their every step for Azgedian assassins.
“The coalition stands strong!” Lexa continues, her face clean of the paint Clarke had grown so accustomed to seeing during the invasion. “Now is the time for peace. It is the time to rebuild. Leave the disputes of the past behind and look ahead. Look toward your new king!”
Turning to the guard on her other side, Gaia accepts a freshly carved wooden crown from his hands and approaches the Commander. Coming to a stop before her, Gaia bows as Lexa takes the crown before quickly returning to her place beside Clarke. Facing the people, the Commander raises the crown proudly into the air as Roan bows at her feet. Placing it carefully atop his head, Lexa manages to not even sneer before straightening and looking to the grounders waiting in anticipation.
“All hail King Roan of Azgeda!” she shouts.
“All hail King Roan!” The Azgedian’s alone return. As the reverberations die out, Lexa lowers her gaze to the broken prince. Or more aptly, Clarke supposes, the broken King.
“King Roan, do you hereby denounce the treacheries of your mother, Nia kom Azgeda, and recommit yourself and your clan to my coalition?”
“I do, Heda. Never again will Azgeda defile your mercy. I swear this to you on my life.”
Something dark shifts behind Lexa’s gaze, and Clarke gets the sense she will happily hold him to his word. “Rise.”
Roan does as Lexa says and she turns to face the young man in wait to her left. At her silent insistence, he removes a brand from the flames of a roaring brazier. Bright red with heat, the metal practically glows as the man walks it to and places it in the hand of his Commander. Facing the newly crowned king, Lexa holds out her hand expectantly. Allowing a moment for him to pull up his sleeve, Lexa’s face is set and unreadable as she waits.
Clarke, on the other hand, struggles to swallow the brick in her throat. The healed brand on her own forearm itches uncomfortably and it takes everything in her to keep her face set as Roan places his arm into Lexa’s grasp. Lifting the brand high for the crowd to see, a silence unlike any other falls over the people. Lexa then presses the metal to Roan’s flesh and the new King’s nose turns white under the force of his grimace. He doesn’t make a sound, nor pull away, but Clarke remembers the pain of her ceremony far too well.
He’s going to be miserable for hours. Once satisfied, Lexa pulls the rod free, and Roan huffs several strangled breaths of alarm. Yeah, Clarke thinks to herself. Removing the brand didn't do a damn thing to ease the pain for her either. Handing the rod back to the young man, he quickly retreats as Lexa steps to Roan’s side. Grabbing the freshly scarred arm rather indelicately, she lifts it high into the air for the crowd to see.
“It is done!”
A deafening uproar washes over the leaders and Clarke braces against it with a wince. Feeling someone shift sympathetically behind her, Clarke looks back to find April in a similar state. Overwhelmed by the onslaught, she meets Clarke’s gaze with uncertainty. Doing what she can to offer a comforting nod, Clarke receives a pointed jab with Gaia’s elbow before she can see if it helps, and promptly faces back forward.
“We survive by the Commander’s grace!” Roan announces, addressing his people directly for the first time as King with Lexa looming at his side. “Set aside the fears of the past and look ahead! Today, we begin to rebuild. Tomorrow, we prove her mercy is not in vain!”
A spare few of the Azgedian’s remain quiet, disgruntled by all accounts, but most are seemingly grateful and mumble along in agreement. After everything that happened, Lexa could have easily wiped out their royal line without a care. It would have left the Azgedian’s in ruin. Thankfully, it would appear some of them realize this. They regard the Commander with an equal degree of fear and appreciation. A sentiment Clarke understands all too well.
As if capable of reading her mind, Lexa glances back and catches her eye. Struck by the way the Commander’s gaze softens for her, Clarke’s heart skips a beat. However, it stops fully when Lexa motions for her to join them at her side. Hesitating in shock, Clarke doesn’t move at all until Gaia places a hand on her back and shoves her forward. Trudging ahead, Clarke’s breathing shallows as she comes around and finds herself presented before thousands of prying eyes.
Holding Clarke’s gaze for an extra moment in an attempt to offer some semblance of reassurance, Lexa then looks over the crowd with pride. “With Wanheda and King Roan working toward our common goal, we will enter a new era of peace and prosperity. No more will the coalition fall victim to infighting. No more will hatred and pride rule over our lands. We are one people! We must move forward together. Not only for ourselves, but for our children. For those who were lost and for those who come next. Let this shadow of death pass and step into the future with me. Step into a better world!”
The piercing shriek of this cheer leaves the rest to shame. Every last grounder packed into the square screams in celebration. Boudalan, Podakru, and Azgedian clansmen alike resound as one, and despite the ache it stirs in Clarke’s ears, she can’t help but appreciate the incredible sight. There are no more lines drawn in the sand. The people rejoice together, a feat Clarke would have believed wholly impossible a week ago.
Lexa breathes it in. With a clenched jaw and pressed lips, she basks in the prospect of a united coalition at last. Barely daring to allow hope to flourish, Clarke watches closely for any trace of uncertainty or flash of disdain behind Lexa’s mask, but it never comes.
-
Each of Clarke’s steps echoes, the sound both clear and distant as it bounces off the bare white walls of Nia’s castle. Or, Clarke now supposes, Roan’s castle. Despite Lexa’s leniency allowing the Azgedian’s to maintain their claim on the monstrous structure, the Commander and her highest ranking Boudalan and Podakru supporters will be occupying Ashen Maun until the peace celebrations have ceased and they begin the march back south. Considering he is only alive by the Commander’s grace; Roan held no objections to this arrangement.
Passing a Boudalan man guarding the end of the hall, Clarke rounds the corner and continues toward the eastern stairway without thought. They’ve been here for less than a day, and still, Clarke has walked every last corridor twice, if not three times. It’s strange. The architects who built this fortress clearly intended it to house at least two hundred, but less than thirty currently occupy it. Even less traverse the halls. Clarke has seen no more than ten grounders since the coronation ended and the feasts began.
After the hell of the invasion, Lexa’s generals spend every spare moment in the camps among their fellow clansmen, reveling both in their victory and the peace Lexa restored. It's a good thing. Clarke knows that, but the silence that permeates throughout the castle in their absence is eerie. It sneaks up on Clarke when she least expects it; the echo of her own movements creeping back to her like nails scratching down the back of her neck. Clarke isn’t sure if it’s because up until a week ago this was Nia’s home, or because she can’t trust the quiet anymore.
Perhaps it’s a bit of both.
Pulling herself up the final four steps with a strangled cough, Clarke braces against the railing and takes a moment to catch her breath. Stood at the apex of an atrium, the biggest wall of which is largely comprised of a grand window that overlooks the villages surrounding Ashen Maun, Clarke takes in the dozens of fires speckled across the land. The soldiers will celebrate until they collapse. Lexa all but assured her as much. Until then, she has little to do but wait.
Turning away, Clarke regains an ambling pace and soon passes through the extravagant archway that leads deeper into the heart of the castle. She attended the first several hours of the celebrations, but after long enough, couldn’t stand the chaos. The clamor. The crowds. It all reminded her too much of the scuffle of battle. Every glass that was accidentally shattered, or shout of laughter that sounded just a little too close to a scream, sent her reeling back into the crevices of her own mind.
Lexa could see it happening, even from afar. It wasn’t long before she placed a knowing hand on Clarke’s shoulder and led her away from the disorder. Clarke hadn’t thought it necessary. She thought that she could hold out for a little while longer, but when the guards delivered her back to the safety of the castle and the doors of the cavernous grand entrance thudded shut behind her, Clarke released a heavy rasp from the pits of her soul.
Lexa remained. As Commander, it’s expected of her. In all honesty, Clarke really should be there as well. She should be publicly showing her support as Wanheda, a fact Lexa is undoubtedly aware of, but Clarke’s unexplained absence is far less scandalous than if she were to have a public mental breakdown. Traveling past several halls that branch off to dim and desolate areas of the castle, Clarke follows the architectural flow of the main hall directly to an abandoned throne room. Pausing in the threshold of the wonderous corridor, Clarke heavily eyes the steel throne framed on the far end.
From here, it appears small. No more daunting than any other chair would be, but as she drags closer, the harsh glare of Roan’s new throne grows with each step. The metal is old and worn but also imposing. Clarke doesn’t know if it’s because the rest of the throne room is crisp and white, but the throne appears cold, frozen even. Culminating into several sharp spikes that comprise the back of the throne, Clarke can’t imagine what Nia must have looked like seated atop it at the height of her power. The thought alone sends a shiver sprinting down her spine.
Coming to a stop directly before it, she reaches out and places a tentative hand on the armrest. The steel is bitterly cold to the touch, but Clarke presses her palm flat over it anyway. Allowing her eyes to fall closed, she tries to take a deep breath, but the relief of it evades her. It doesn’t feel possible that the war is over. That she’s standing here before Nia’s throne without threat. A month ago, this room would have been packed with Azgedian warriors, every last one of which would have vied for the honor of removing her head from her shoulders in the name of their Queen.
Now they’re in the streets celebrating peace in the name of the Commander.
“Clarke?”
Turning toward the comforting sound of a familiar voice, Clarke finds Gaia standing in the mouth of the throne room. Her dark eyes pry curiously, but Gaia doesn’t actually say anything. She doesn't need to. Understanding the weight behind her gaze, Clarke removes her hand from the throne. “Shouldn’t you be with the Commander?”
Gaia crosses her arms behind her back and begins the trek across the empty stretch of stone separating them. “I was. She asked that I look in on you.”
“I’m fine.”
The lie is flagrant.
“Even so,” Gaia presses. “This probably isn’t the wisest place for you to be spending your time.”
Gaia is right. As usual. Had it been any other grounder who just walked in on her right then, they might have mistaken her inner turmoil over the Ice Queen with longing for her throne. Nodding along, Clarke takes a stiff step back, but her gaze remains fixed on the royal perch.
Gaia stops by her side, her eyes flicking back and forth between Clarke and her fixation. “What do you see?”
“Death.”
Clarke drags her gaze away long enough to notice that Gaia’s staring at her. No, not at her. Glancing down at her own chest, Clarke finds Rokk’s pendant clasped in her hand. She hadn’t realized she was fidgeting with it. Pulling open the front of her jacket, she quickly tucks it back out of sight. Only when it’s hidden away once more is Gaia able to pull her attention back up to meet Clarke’s eye. For a moment, neither of them acknowledges the exchange, nor the ghosts lingering on the edges of their minds. When the silence threatens to overwhelm, Gaia at last clears her throat and steps aside. Motioning with her hand, her instruction is clear, and Clarke begins toward the hall.
Hearing Gaia fall in behind her, Clarke doesn’t look back, uncertain she would leave if she did. Gaia’s newfound regard for Clarke is because of Rokk. The longer they live in peace, and the more time that passes since her initial shock at Gaia’s improved treatment of her, the more certain Clarke becomes. She doesn’t know if it’s simply because Rokk cared about Clarke, and Gaia cared about him, or if he explicitly asked that she look after her in case something happened to him. All Clarke knows is that the thing they share, the thing that now connects them without words, is the crushing weight that is the absence of his light.
Clarke gets the feeling that perhaps, at one point in time, Gaia and Rokk’s regard for one another was something far more substantial than mere friendship. However, she’s yet to muster the courage to ask. Even if she’s wrong about the exact nature of their history together, Clarke knows she isn’t wrong about the rest. Gaia’s grief is potent. Clarke initially thought it would grate at her. That her sorrow over the loss of the person Clarke got killed would smother her, but Gaia has never once looked upon her with blame.
How she’s accomplished such a feat, Clarke will never know.
“Are you hungry?” Gaia asks as they reach the end of the royal hall where Clarke and Lexa are staying until they begin marching back south.
Releasing a low sigh, Clarke shrugs. “No, but I should probably eat anyway.”
“I’ll have someone bring you a plate.”
Mustering a half smile of appreciation, Clarke reaches for the bedroom door. Once she escapes inside, she leans back against the threshold and hangs her head. A part of Clarke wishes Lexa were here, but she knows better. The celebrations won’t end until morning and Lexa won’t leave until they do. Inhaling sharply, she pushes off the threshold and crosses to the center of the room. Gliding past the fine furnishings and tapestries with little regard, she instead beelines toward the extravagant bed pressed against the far wall.
It’s Nia’s. Or was. Soon to be Roan’s, but until the Commander and her forces move on, Lexa has claimed it as her own. Clarke’s discomfort at the thought of sleeping here is unending, but Lexa seems to revel in their presence in the former ice queen’s chambers. It’s as if she’s getting in the last of her low blows before they put the memory of the devil that was Queen Nia to rest for good. Clarke doesn’t relate. To her, it feels as if they’re sleeping inside her corpse. However, the grounders have little sympathy for such reservations.
As conquerors, she and Lexa earned the right to claim the royal chambers. At least, that’s how Gaia put it. Clarke isn’t sold on the idea, but it’s only for another day. Pulling back the furs, Clarke shuts out every intrusive thought that begs her to ponder the last time Nia laid her head to rest here and crawls into bed. Forgetting entirely that she told Gaia to bring her food, Clarke kicks off her boot and sinks back into furs so fine, they’re truly only fit for royalty. Clarke hopes she will dream of Rokk, but finds only darkness waiting for her.
What feels like moments later, the softest of thuds emits within the room. Before Clarke's eyes have even opened, her hand wraps around the handle of the knife beneath her pillow. Leaping upright out of bed in a heartbeat, she lands with her weapon at the ready only to find Lexa halted in shock with her hand still atop the knob of the bedroom door.
“Hey,” she calls softly when, even after realizing who is there, Clarke fails to lower her weapon. “You’re safe. It's just me.”
“Lexa.”
It’s as if Clarke is attempting to jar the knowledge within herself that she is, in fact, safe with the person named Lexa. Shaking her head, she outright drops the dagger rather than set it aside. It rattles noisily as it settles atop the stone floor, but Clarke barely hears it. Not hesitating to approach, Lexa rushes to Clarke’s side, places one hand on her lower back, one in the nook of her elbow, and pulls her away. Clarke stumbles in her haste, her heart thudding against her ribcage, the force of which saps the air from her lungs with every beat. She’s drenched in sweat in seconds.
Already ahead of her, Lexa sits Clarke down atop the nearby couch and whispers sweet reassurances in her ear. “Shh. It’s okay. Just hang on and try to breathe for a second.”
Groaning, Clarke instead doubles over. There is no undoing what’s already been done. She knows this, and Lexa most likely does as well. Still, the Commander sits with Clarke and talks her through the worst of the panic attack she never meant to cause. It doesn’t last long. At least, not as long as some of the others Clarke has experienced. When real calm eventually does filter back into her mind, she is as exhausted as she was before she fell asleep in the first place. Lexa waits with her, ever patient, but Clarke glimpses a flash of remorse behind her expression.
Thankfully, she refrains from outright apologizing, already knowing better. It isn’t her mistake to apologize for. This is just the harsh reality of Clarke’s world now. Swiping the moisture from her brow, she curls into Lexa’s side, her ribs aching. Neither of them speaks for a long time. Clarke is on the verge of nodding off all over again, but Lexa stands before she can, and holds out her hand.
“Come.”
Clarke huffs despite herself. It’s exactly what she said after the first time this happened. With everything else they’ve been through, their time in Polis feels like another reality. One Clarke remembers watching, more so than living. Still, she takes Lexa’s hand as she did all that time ago and allows her to lead her to bed. However, unlike that night in Polis, Clarke doesn’t let her escape.
Dragging Lexa into the covers after her, Clarke pulls her close and nuzzles into her side. More than happy to accommodate, Lexa wraps Clarke in her warm embrace and places a kiss on the top of her head. Not wanting to leave just yet now that she has Lexa in her arms, Clarke fights to keep her heavy eyes open and notes the light hue of the morning sun pressing in from the window. “How did it go?”
“Well.” Lexa’s tone is flat, her lack of investment in the response evident. Clarke considers prying further but instead falls victim to a yawn. Tears prickle in her eyes as she rushes a heavy exhale in relief. At peace in the quiet, Clarke doesn’t notice the sentiment making its way off her tongue until she hears it aloud.
“Thank you.”
Lexa briefly stiffens beneath her touch. “For what?”
Barely conscious, it takes Clarke longer than she intends to answer. “Everything.”
Around midday, Clarke wakes far more gently to the discontented musings of Lexa’s subconscious. Confused, her brow furrows and she parts her eyes to find that she and Lexa have separated in the midst of their slumber. Lexa now rests on her side, her body facing Clarke as if she might have been watching her at one point, but her head is turned upward in agitation. Twitching occasionally here and there, she dreams deeply, whatever memory or concoction she’s immersed within clearly taking its toll.
Clarke assumed the worst of Lexa’s nightmares would pass with the war, though she supposed that was a bit naive on her part. After all, Clarke’s never have. Reaching out, she only falters at the last moment before her hand makes contact. Lexa’s jaw is locked, her eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and when her arms twitch, the muscles that contort are all too familiar. She’s throwing a punch. At least, in her dreams she is. Waking her whilst lying three feet in front of her might not be the smartest move.
Withdrawing, Clarke instead pushes herself upright. Allowing the furs to fall, she watches closely, but Lexa doesn’t stir. Turning to drop her legs over the edge of the bed, Clarke rises on stiff limbs. She didn’t feel it when she woke last, the adrenaline from her panic overpowering the pain from her only mildly healed wounds, but she feels it now. Sighing heavily, Clarke braces her hand against her thigh and limps toward the couch. Taking a careful seat where she can watch Lexa from afar, she waits.
Calm in the quiet, the only disturbance is the occasional grunt or hiss of Lexa’s breath. Clarke longs to wake her. It feels like it would be less cruel to rip off the bandaid and drag her from her own personal hell, but she knows Lexa doesn’t see it like that. She believes these nightmares are messages from the Commanders of the past, and no matter how utterly ridiculous that notion is to Clarke, her beliefs on the subject aren’t of any real importance.
It takes over an hour. By then, Lexa is covered in sweat. Her entire body is tensed, and when she at last escapes her demons, she bolts upright. Gasping, she immediately reaches for her weapons belt. Or where her belt would be if she were wearing it. When her hand is met only by air, she frantically pats herself from chest to thighs before coming to enough to realize where she is. As she searches the room with blurry eyes, Clarke finds her feet with a pained huff.
Realizing what's happened, Lexa drops her head into her hands, struggling to catch her breath as Clarke makes her way over to her side of the bed. Taking a seat on the edge, she places a delicate hand atop Lexa’s leg still beneath the covers. She’s trembling. “Are you okay?”
Seemingly unable to answer, Lexa remains hidden as she huffs around each staggered exhale. Averting her gaze anyway, Clarke waits patiently until she’s ready. “It was Costia.”
It takes absolutely everything in Clarke to ensure she doesn’t immediately ask, what did you see? Taking an extra beat, she clears her throat. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“They’re mad at me.”
Clarke shakes her head, confused. “For Costia?”
Sighing heavily, Lexa emerges from her safety and levels her misty green eyes on Clarke. “For you.”
Taken aback, an old familiar phrase comes to Clarke’s mind. Love is weakness. Blinking slowly through her shock, Clarke does what she can to keep her inner thoughts from becoming external. Thankfully, Lexa doesn’t appear to realize the true motivation behind her turmoil and places a reassuring hand atop Clarke’s. “They’re wrong.”
Swallowing heavily, Clarke nods in agreement, praying that Lexa doesn’t see through her. Clarke isn’t conflicted because of what “the Commanders of the past” think. She’s conflicted because she doesn’t believe in them. Which means it’s actually Lexa’s subconscious telling her that deciding to be with Clarke, despite all the conditioning Titus instilled in her, is a mistake. That one day, Clarke will end up exactly like Costia.
She wants to reason with Lexa. To tell her that the war is over and that no matter what Titus told her while she was growing up, she deserves some happiness in this world. Before she musters the courage to broach the subject, Lexa’s emotions get the better of her and she flees. Throwing the furs from atop her, Lexa presses a lingering hand of reassurance against Clarke’s shoulder before she escapes toward the far side of the room. Lexa makes for the pile of her things in the far corner as Clarke awkwardly examines her own hands in the deafening silence.
Rooting through the contents in search of fresh clothes, Lexa picks out something she deems suitable and reaches for the hem of her sweat-soaked shirt. Removing it in one motion, she then unbuttons her pants and begins peeling them off as well. When she is left almost entirely bare in only her chest wrappings and underwear, Lexa takes an extra moment to massage her shoulder and Clarke’s eyes wander. Yes, she can’t help but notice how distractingly sexy Lexa is, but Clarke’s train of thought isn’t entirely in the gutter.
With Lexa’s back tattoo on full display, the artist in Clarke can’t help but trace each circle with her eyes. When Lexa reaches for her other shoulder to equal things out, Clarke finds her gaze drawn next to the tattoo on her upper arm. It was weeks before she first noticed it during the siege on Mount Weather. The first time Lexa took off her cloak, Clarke caught herself staring just like she is now. “Who was the artist?”
Turning in confusion, Lexa follows Clarke’s lingering gaze and places an almost defensive hand over the ink. “Artist?”
Nodding, Clarke rises and slowly makes her way over, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Who held the needle?”
Only further puzzled, Lexa states the answer as if she should already know. “A different person gifted each one.”
Clarke shakes her head. “What do you mean gifted?”
“You don’t know?” Caught entirely off guard, Clarke’s stunned silence is eventually answer enough. “In Trikru, tattoos aren’t entirely dissimilar to the Azgedian’s and their scars. They signify a great change and are rarely chosen by the person who bears them.”
“Then who chooses?”
“Whoever you trust enough to mark you forever.” Lexa says it so gently that Clarke’s heart cracks open.
She has never heard of a concept so moving before in her life. It floors her completely, and when Clarke remains pathetically at a loss for words as her eyes dart between the collection of Lexa’s tattoos, the Commander takes pity on her. She points to the piece on her arm, her eyes pooling with emotion. “Gustus. During Nia’s first rebellion, he saved my life after one of her assassins stabbed and left me for dead.”
It’s been so long since she heard the name, it takes Clarke a moment to remember. Wholly ashamed of this, she doesn’t get the chance to let it fully sink in before Lexa turns and lifts her hair to reveal the infinity symbol across the back of her neck. “Titus, the day after I ascended.” Releasing her hair, it cascades down her exposed back, drawing Clarke’s eye directly to Lexa’s largest piece along her spine. “Luna, a week before our conclave.”
Hesitating before the last, Lexa turns to face her and Clarke’s heart hangs in anticipation, as if it already knows what comes next. Lexa reaches for the symbols laid out down the length of her outer right leg. She utterly fails to meet Clarke’s eye as she runs her fingertips tentatively over the top. “Costia.”
Lexa’s refrain from stating when exactly she received the mark tells Clarke everything she needs to know. She decides then and there that she will never ask. Fighting tears, Lexa uncomfortably clears her throat. She won’t meet Clarke’s gaze, avoiding it like her very life depends on it, but rather than take offense, Clarke’s mind turns in a different direction. “Would you give me one?”
Flinching as if the question was a physical slap, Lexa corners her with a baffled stare. “Clarke, I don’t think you understand.”
“I think I do,” she insists, but Lexa shakes her head.
“No, you don’t. To accept a mark like this, it isn’t-” Rubbing at her brow, Lexa is too flustered, and words fail her. “It doesn’t-”
“Just say you’ll think about it,” Clarke interjects.
“I can’t. What you're asking me for is far from simple. The meaning, the weight of it, isn’t fleeting. You carry something like this with you always. The intent behind it must be unwavering.”
“I am unwavering.” Clarke tries to imbue her tone with all the unspoken truth behind her certainty, but Lexa is too busy panicking to notice. Reaching out, Clarke grabs her by her arms and forces her to still and return her gaze. “Lexa, since the day I landed, I haven't been given a say in a single one of the scars that will now mark my body forever-”
Clarke’s voice wavers. Despite having known the sentiment she was choosing to put to words, she quickly overwhelms herself and must stop. As she watches Clarke struggle to regain her composure, a newfound sense of understanding washes over Lexa. Guilt is hidden somewhere beneath her regard, but the Commander merely releases a low sigh as she allows Clarke a moment of silence to gather herself. Eventually Clarke sniffles and lifts her chin, doing all she can to fortify her resolve and get through what she needs to say.
“For better or for worse, I’m here now,” she manages, far steadier as she runs her hands down Lexa’s arms and takes her hands into her own. “Please, give me a say. Give me a piece of you.”
At a loss, Lexa stares deeply into Clarke’s eyes, but she can’t discern what she’s thinking, apart from being torn. So, Clarke waits, her anticipation all-encompassing, but after far too long without a response, she concedes and exhales heavily. “Just think about it. Please?”
Even as she agrees, the subtle shake of Lexa’s head reveals what Clarke already knows to be true. In her heart, she doesn’t mean it. “Okay.”
-
“Travel safe, Commander. I will continue to weed out my mother’s sympathizers while you’re gone and relay all my findings back to you through your delegate. The traitor Emerson won't escape justice for long.” Roan’s words are somewhat muffled, his head lowered so far in a bow that he’s speaking directly to his own feet. Apathetic, Lexa takes a slow deep breath to gather her patience before responding.
“I look forward to your report,” Lexa manages, her horse shuffling its weight behind her and Clarke as they stand on the outskirts of the villages surrounding Ashen Maun.
The Boudalan and Podakru armies have already begun to march, the beginning of their withdrawal well underway as Lexa and Roan act out the final requirements of diplomacy before her return to the capitol. A regiment of some of her most loyal men, including the guard who sang at Rokk’s funeral, are staying behind to keep an eye on the tension and maintain peace until King Roan is more confident in his grasp on the ice nation.
Not that Lexa gave him any choice. Clarke suspects the regiment will never fully retreat from Azgeda borders, but she keeps that to herself as she watches the pleasantries unfold. Roan regains his feet, standing tall with the crown the Commander placed upon his head proudly displayed. Clarke catches Lexa eyeing the thing hatefully and quickly takes a step forward. “Goodbye, Roan.”
“Farewell, Wanheda, and thank you.” Despite threatening Roan less than a week ago about what she would do if he ever thanked her, Clarke finds herself only mildly irked. Rolling her eyes, she tries to avoid acknowledging the sentiment, but Roan chases her attention, pressing. “I mean it. I owe you my life. Both of you.”
With her lips pressed into a thin line, Lexa’s only form of response is a small dip of her chin, but Clarke falters. Returning his gaze with a furrowed brow, Clarke swallows heavily. “We’re even.”
Roan let her live in Polis. She advocated on his behalf while he was Lexa's prisoner. He helped her come up with a plan to end the war. She helped him take back his clan and ascend his throne. As far as she’s concerned, neither of them owes the other anything. Smiling softly, Roan nods in agreement. “I look forward to seeing you again, whenever that may be.”
Offering the smallest upturn of the corner of her mouth in response, Clarke watches King Roan bow once more to her directly before stepping back into the protection of his royal guard. He and his men turn and begin down the path that will lead him back to his new home, the castle in which he was raised. Clarke can’t imagine what it must be like to be home. Amid her own turmoil following the end of the war, Clarke completely forgot it was his first time returning since he was banished by Lexa all those years ago.
Releasing a heavy breath as she watches him go, Clarke suspects it's the first time she hasn’t left someone worse off for having met her since she first landed on the ground. Lexa places a delicate hand on Clarke’s lower back. “Are you okay?”
Huffing a long exhale, Clarke tears her eyes away from Roan’s silhouette and meets Lexa’s stark green gaze. Her eyes are pools of concern, her dejection in the presence of Roan fading with every step he takes away, and Clarke turns her head to the side noncommittally. “Not really.”
Nodding in understanding, Lexa steps aside and guides Clarke toward her horse. “Come on. We’re done here.”
Following her lead, Clarke doesn’t look back. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
-
The next five days are the happiest of Clarke’s entire life. After weeks of marching at a slow crawl and fighting every other day to maintain their footing and continue to press ahead against the Azgeda soldiers and grueling weather conditions, the Commander’s army now moves south with ease. Unchallenged, they cross the nation in a fraction of the time, leading the way for the few Azgeda citizens returning home who surrendered during the invasion. Clarke knew Lexa would keep her word, but still.
Hearing the firsthand reports delivered over the next few days describing the peaceful resettling of the Azgeda nation calmed a tension in Clarke’s heart she didn’t realize she was harboring. It would appear despite knowing, she was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for it all to go to shit and for Lexa to execute them after the fact for some vague unspecified reason. Clarke knows it wasn't entirely logical, but that doesn’t change the fact that when she goes to sleep on their final night in Azgeda, she sleeps just that much more soundly.
April and Riley are doing better too. The peace they’ve found since the war ended didn’t take at first. Even April, who kept her wits about her even whilst being held prisoner by the ice queen herself had a hard time trusting it. Clarke can’t blame her, but with every mile they put between them and Ashen Maun, a light shines brighter at the back of her eyes. Riley was harder to get to settle into this new way of living, but April has been by his side every step of the way. If she's being honest, Clarke doesn’t know what she would have done with him if April hadn’t made it.
Despite the comfort he brought her while she was stranded behind enemy lines, Clarke now finds only discomfort in Riley’s presence. His pain is agonizing, triggering to witness. Just like Clarke’s, his physical wounds have begun to heal, but unlike April, his distrust has resisted the lull of peacetime. His eyes are always frantically searching for threats. His hands are always clenched at his sides. He doesn’t trust the grounders, and despite everything she knows in her mind, when Clarke is around him, she catches herself doing the same.
It’s almost as if a part of her brain, the parts she has no real control over, are choosing to trust in his fear more than her own logic. That if there’s even the slightest chance he’s right in his trepidation, she must be ready. For a fight; to defend herself against any and all threats. The few times she’s tried to visit him, she’s only earned herself a restless night of discomfort and the torment of fresh nightmares. April is particularly intuitive for a girl her age. She can read it on Clarke’s face without a word and has thankfully taken on the role of watching over him in her stead.
She won’t have to for much longer. Soon they’ll be returned to Arkadia and reunited with their fellow farm station survivors. There weren’t many. If what April described is in any way accurate, the Azgedian’s took over sixty members of Skaikru prisoner when the station finally fell, but only twelve have been recovered since Roan took the throne. That makes fourteen total. Lexa’s eyes bled with remorse when she delivered the news. April cried. Riley, on the other hand, didn’t react at all. He remained completely silent, numb, and Clarke caught herself doing the same.
She fucking hates being around him.
Since most of the surviving prisoners were scattered all around Azgeda, Lexa arranged for them to be personally escorted to a rendezvous point outside Arkadia. There, they will be reunited with April and Riley and delivered to Skaikru as proof of Lexa’s protection and justice on their behalf. In truth, Clarke had no hope they would find any, but it would seem that the queen found particular enjoyment in enslaving and working her people like dogs. May she rest in hell.
However, despite everything she's been through, Clarke finds herself at home in Lexa’s arms. Stirring early the next morning, she revels in the Commander’s warmth, encased within it, and can’t help the small sleepy smile that spreads across her lips. Not entirely conscious, Clarke floats somewhere above, suspended in bliss. She could stay here forever but stirs at the feeling of movement. Lexa is rising. She always rises first, leaving Clarke to wake alone.
As she pulls away, Clarke rolls over and snatches the hem of her shirt. Having caught Lexa halfway to her feet, she drags her back and curls around her waist. “Don’t go.”
It’s a plea, but Lexa pulls from Clarke’s reach anyway. Staying long enough to place a soft kiss against Clarke’s temple, she hums, “I’m not. Go back to sleep. I will be here when you wake.”
She is.
When Clarke eventually does rise for the day, the army is gathering themselves in preparation for the final march out of Azgeda territory. During the invasion, Lexa's forces were up and moving before the crack of dawn, but with every day since the war ended, they wake later and later. Lexa allows this, not hesitating to grant such liberties to her men after they fought an entire war on behalf of her coalition. Clarke can’t help but appreciate her even more for this.
She pushed her men to the brink during the invasion and Clarke struggled to witness it, but now she repays them for their devotion in turn. Clarke can’t help but admit, it makes her love her all the more. Clarke has known so little peace since she landed. The closest she came was when she was in hiding but looking back on her time on Nova’s trading post, Clarke feels differently. She wasn’t at peace, or anything near it. She was dead; desensitized, to everyone and everything except the pain. Now, Clarke feels.
Riding atop her horse, Clarke looks over toward Lexa. She’s staring ahead, the thirtieth mile of the day laid out before her, and Clarke feels. Tracing the angle of the Commander’s jaw with her eyes, Clarke’s heart stirs, awoken from the verge of oblivion. It’s invigorating; filling. It’s as if she’s been reborn, and as Clarke watches Lexa ride, she can’t help but heel her horse a touch faster. Coming up to her side, Clarke gently nudges the back of Lexa’s calf with her spur.
Blinking herself out of a haze, the Commander looks to Clarke in question, but her only response is a longing stare. Lexa’s brow furrows, her expression briefly pinching in amusement at her antics. In turn, Clarke smirks and bites her bottom lip, a telling sign of her deepest desires that it would appear Lexa is growing accustomed to. Still, the Commander fights back a grin of her own and flicks her eyes forward insistently. “Focus.”
“On what?” Clarke challenges, lighthearted as she ignores the pointed roll of Gaia’s eyes who rides just ahead.
“Perhaps on the fact that we’re back in Trikru territory,” Lexa states, taking Clarke’s breath away. “Just as an example.”
Clarke eyes the trees. “We are?”
The snow has thinned considerably, but it’s only now that Clarke realizes she didn’t expect it to be here at all. It had begun to fall before the invasion, but a part of Clarke was awaiting green grass and flowing rivers. After so long abandoned to the tundra of Azgeda, she's grown sick of white blankets of snow, but it’s still the heart of winter. It’s not going anywhere anytime soon, but still. Just knowing that the ice surrounding her is on their side of the border, Clarke releases a breath she’s been holding for an entire month.
Lifted by her reaction, Lexa sits taller with pride. Gripping the reins of her horse tighter, she focuses ahead, and Clarke follows suit, the weight on her shoulders half as heavy. When they unpack the horses and set up camp for the night, Clarke can’t take her eyes off the Commander for even a moment. Unable to miss it, Lexa returns every heated glance with one of her own and the instant they’re alone, they can’t keep their hands off one another.
Completely tense with bliss, Clarke gasps and collapses back in Lexa's bed. Biting her lips as the final waves of ecstasy roll through her, Clarke refuses to let go until exhaustion forces her to. Going fully limp, her eyes fall closed and it’s only when she’s settled in the furs that Lexa rolls off her and slumps back atop the pillows. Fighting to catch her breath, the Commander hums happily and Clarke feels her fingers running through her hair. Lexa carefully brushes each sweat-soaked strand from her forehead before allowing her fingertips to run down the side of Clarke’s face as she retreats.
Turning onto her side to stare as Lexa rises from the bed fully nude, Clarke watches her grab one of the furs from atop the bed before she goes. Short of breath, and coated in a light sheen of sweat, she wraps the fur over her shoulders and Clarke can’t help but huff a disappointed breath at losing her breathtaking view. Glancing back with a mischievous shake of her head, Lexa carries on toward the table on the far side of her tent.
Pulling out one of the chairs, she runs a hand over her frayed braids and drags a bundle of scrolls closer. Prying them open one at a time, she begins pouring over whatever intel they conceal as Clarke watches from afar. The sun has set, the only form of light that from the candles bathing Lexa in gentle warm light, and it takes Clarke’s breath away. She always knew Lexa was beautiful. Even when she first met her and was trying to hide how terrified she was of her, Clarke couldn’t deny what any functioning eye could see.
She’s absolutely stunning, but still, something has changed since the war ended. It’s as if, despite knowing she was feeling things for her she didn’t want to, Clarke wasn’t allowing herself to truly view Lexa in such a tender light. That she was still restraining herself from objectifying her in any way, but now that it’s undeniable Lexa wants to be seen by Clarke in that way, she can’t ever go back. Lexa isn’t simply traditionally beautiful anymore. Everything about her turns Clarke on.
From the angle of her jaw to the trim of her fingernails. From her slender neck to the loose-fitting shirts she always wears to sleep. At this exact moment, Clarke can’t tear her eyes away from the curve of her left eyebrow and the way it rises and falls as she reads. She wants more than anything to crawl out of bed and press her lips to that curve. To every inch of Lexa, in fact, but Clarke knows she has to read those scrolls. The withdrawal from Azgeda must go smoothly, and on the off chance it isn’t for any reason, Lexa needs to know about it as fast as possible.
Sighing heavily, Clarke instead resigns herself to a longing stare, her mind swimming with ruminations of what she’ll do when she can get Lexa into her grasp once more. However, the exhaustion of their efforts today catches up with Clarke. Before long her eyes grow heavy, and on a particularly slow blink, they fail to open again. Clarke sleeps soundly until Lexa climbs into bed behind her. Waking with a sharp inhale, she calms the moment she feels Lexa’s arms pull her in. Half sighing and half yawning, Clarke wriggles so that she’s pressed flush against her front.
“Is everything okay?” she mumbles.
Lexa nods, a heavy exhale tickling the back of Clarke’s neck. “There have been one or two minor scuffles, but they were handled with appropriate response.”
Clarke smirks. Lexa’s ability to speak diplomatically even when falling asleep amuses her, but she refrains from chuckling. Rolling over in her arms, she instead presses her face into the warm nook of Lexa’s neck. “Good.”
-
Stood at the precipice of a frozen hill, Clarke looks over the retreating armies with a vacant stare. Most of the forces are heading west, returning home after a war well fought, but there’s a pit sinking through Clarke’s stomach. She was ecstatic these last few days. Couldn’t wait to return to Polis, but when she awoke this morning in Lexa’s arms from a dream about Octavia dying right in front of her, a pit formed that hasn’t left since. With a scrunched brow, she pulls her jacket tighter around herself to brace against the bitter breeze, the last words she said to Octavia rattling in her brain.
I’ll be there as fast as I can.
Clarke can’t go back to Polis. She can’t just send the farm station survivors in one direction while she goes the other. Not when she doesn’t know what’s going on in Arkadia, what’s going on with her people. Grinding her teeth in resistance to the realization, Clarke looks past the dense forest that stands between her and Arkadia. They are a four day ride away from Polis, but only one from Arkadia. There’s no excuse. No reason she shouldn’t return. She said she would, and she has no excuse not to, but still, she hesitates.
After so many months spent avoiding it at all costs, Clarke’s insides writhe. However, her conflict isn’t wrought by the prospect of returning, but instead by the idea of abandoning her people.
She left Octavia and Indra to clean up her mess. Clarke had her reasons a month ago. Reasons even Octavia herself respected at the time, but now? Lowering her chin in acceptance, the only thing that threatens to make her balk is the threat of having to tell Lexa herself. She’ll understand. She always does, but Clarke knows she was looking forward to returning to the capital. It’s the only home Lexa’s ever known. After everything they went through during the invasion, Clarke can’t convince herself to stop her, even if she can’t join her. No matter how badly she might want to.
Turning her back on the forest, Clarke sets her convictions. She must return to Arkadia. Approaching Lexa’s tent, Clarke’s hands tremble at her sides. Shaking her nerves out, she hesitates for only a moment before pressing inside. Lexa is seated at the table, a freshly torn open scroll in hand and Clarke sighs heavily in remorse. Apparently hearing something off in the release, Lexa immediately stops what she’s doing and turns to face her with a concerned look in her eyes. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Clarke returns, her voice thin. “Can we talk?”
Dropping the scroll onto the table, Lexa turns her chair out to face Clarke directly as she makes her way over. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t come with you.” Hurt blooms across Lexa’s face, but Clarke quickly scrambles to ease it. “I want to, but my people still need me. I don’t have any idea what’s going on with them, and after everything that’s happened, they might not trust a stranger delivering prisoners of war to their doorstep. I need to go to Arkadia and speak with them myself.”
Huffing, Lexa dips her chin in relief before meeting Clarke’s eye with a smirk. “Did you really think I didn’t already know that?”
Clarke fumbles. “Well - yeah. I didn’t even know.”
“Clarke, you were ready to sacrifice everything to help me create peace within my coalition. Were you really expecting me to send you home alone without doing everything in my power to return the favor?”
For a moment, Clarke considers lying, but the truth falls from her lips. “Yes?”
Lexa scoffs bitterly. “Then you’ve sorely misjudged me.”
“I definitely did that.” Clarke isn’t just referring to this conversation and Lexa smiles warmly.
“I only refrained from pressing the subject to leave you the option. I know how hard the idea of returning to your people has been for you after all this time. I didn’t want to force your hand, but I will support your decision. Whatever it may be.”
Grinning, Clarke grasps the sides of Lexa’s face and pulls her into a kiss. Stunned by the desperation behind the act, Lexa takes a moment to react. When she does, however, she pulls Clarke onto her lap and holds her close. Only ripping herself away when she absolutely must come up for air, Clarke closes her eyes and presses her forehead against Lexa’s. Taking Clarke’s hands into her own, the Commander squeezes them softly as she asks. “To Arkadia?”
Exhaling slowly, Clarke nods against her. “To Arkadia.”
Most of the Commander’s forces broke off from her formation when the day's trek began. The Boudalan and Podakru forces march home, their duty to their Commander fulfilled, leaving only Lexa’s closest personal guard behind for protection as they make for Arkadia with haste. It’s strange. After avoiding it for so long, Clarke is finally returning after over four months. It didn’t feel like that long. If Clarke’s being honest, the first three went by in the blink of an eye, and even if the invasion wasn’t quite as fast, it was a blur.
She doesn't remember all of it. She thought she did, but the fact becomes undeniable in the face of the evergrowing occasions Lexa mentions a stray detail Clarke doesn’t recall in the slightest. She remembers the big events. The battles mostly, but the time in between has blurred into one general memory. Misery. Other than that, the only things Clarke recalls with true specificity are the worst things she suffered. Rokk’s final breath being one. The explosion in Troy being another. The way Echo’s victim squeezed her hand as she died. In the end, that’s all she’s truly left with. Misery.
Clarke doesn’t know if that’s what makes it easier for her to return to her people now. She tried once before while staying with Nova, but every step she took toward Arkadia filled her with unending dread. Now, with everything she’s been through, the response stirred in her body is far less daunting. Mere anxiety in comparison. She’s worried, to be sure, but she doesn’t feel as if she’ll crumble. Not after everything she’s been through. Not with Lexa by her side.
“Stop!” Lexa calls to her men and Clarke flinches. Hearing a ragged gasp of fear escape Riley on the back of April’s horse behind her, Clarke sends him a look of reassurance before returning her focus to Lexa. The Commander is holding her hand up listening intently for something, and when Clarke does her best to do the same, she hears it in the distance. Running water. Looking at Lexa in amazement that she heard that through all the clamor of the horses, she smirks back at Clarke before motioning for the men to follow her lead.
Gaia leads the men through the brush, and they quickly discover a flowing river. The air is warmer here, but Clarke hadn’t realized just how so much until this moment. Only the smallest still pools are frozen over on the surface, but the body of the river flows freely, and Lexa dismounts. Leading her steed to the edge, she allows the beast to drink freely, and her company follows suit. Clarke too quickly dismounts, her horse eager after witnessing the others quench themselves first and she releases the reins.
Stepping back, she watches April and Riley do the same. He appears calm once more and Clarke releases a sigh of relief at the sight, but nerves creep in on her during the respite. They are less than an hour away from Arkadia, and despite this being far easier than last time, Clarke is growing restless. Pacing along the river's edge, she catches Lexa noting her frazzled state and huffs. “I think I need to go for a walk.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Lexa asks, but Clarke shakes her head.
“No, I-” Choking around the constriction in her throat, Clarke runs her hands over her face. “I think I just need a moment.”
Nodding, Lexa offers only a word of advice. “Don’t go too far.”
Dipping her chin in agreement, Clarke trudges away from the horses, careful to avoid getting her boots wet along the river’s edge. Clasping her arms around her middle, Clarke does her best to focus on the crunch of each of her steps rather than the memories of a darker past invading her peace.
Bellamy was so mad at her for staying. He will surely be just as angry now, if not more after her decision to go north with Lexa instead of returning to Arkadia. He wasn’t himself. At least, that’s what she tries to tell herself, but a part of her knows it isn’t true. Bellamy has always been a stubborn ass, a trait he shares with his sister. The Blake genes run strong, and Clarke can only hope Octavia hasn’t soured as well in her absence. That her blessing over Clarke’s decision still stands, but the thought it might not does wonders making Clarke’s conviction waver.
The walls are closing in. Despite actually standing within the wide expanse of nature, they close in all the same, and Clarke looks north. She could run. It would be easy, but Clarke has done the easy thing for far too long. Shaking her head in shame, Clarke turns on heel back the direction she came. She can’t see the horses anymore, having walked farther than she meant to in her haze. Sighing, she has only just begun the trek back when she hears a twig snap nearby.
Going still, Clarke looks toward the sound, her heart in her throat. Waiting with bated breath, she begins rationalizing. It was a deer, or a bunny, or any of the thousands of other creatures lurking in these woods. She almost believes it. That is, until the bushes near the initial sound rustle. Kicking up rocks, Clarke sprints back toward Lexa and her men, but the warriors break through the brush surrounding the river first. Three cut Clarke off directly ahead of her and she skids to a stop. Turning, she tries to flee toward the trees, but two more men step out to block that path of escape as well.
Faltering for only a moment, Clarke leaps into the river. The chill is bone rattling, but the water is only knee deep here and she scrambles to cross it as the men stumble in after her. Reaching the other bank, Clarke pulls herself up by her hands only to look up and find a man holding a spear. With the meticulously sharpened point leveled at her face, he hisses, “Set raun weron yu ste kamp.” (Stay where you are)
Freezing in place, Clarke does as she is told, never tearing her eyes away from the blade a mere inch away from puncturing her left eye. One of the other men scoffs in disbelief as he catches up. “She understood you. Maybe she isn’t Skaikru.”
“Hod yu chichplei op,” the man with the spear bites, adjusting his grip. “Chon yu bilaik? Hakom yu kamp raun hir?” (Stop talking. Who are you? Why are you here?)
Swallowing heavily, Clarke is sweating despite being soaked and bites her tongue. These men are Trikru. It’s obvious from their armor and tattoos. So why the fuck are they hunting Skaikru?
“Mebi em nou na hola au,” the man who spoke English before suggests, but his accomplice with the spear shakes his head. (Maybe she can’t talk)
“Mebi em nou gaf osir sen in em tongkola.” (Maybe she doesn’t want us to hear her accent)
Clarke is unable to repress a grimace and the Trikru man sneers. He’s right and he knows it. Keeping his weapon steady, he motions to his men.
“Sis em au na gyon op.” (Help her up)
The men behind Clarke grab her arms and pull her to her feet. Cursing in outrage, Clarke surrenders her silence and glares into the leader’s eyes. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
At the confirmation that she is in fact Skaikru, the man scoffs. “I know enough. Ripa nou ge teik in hir.” (Murderers are not welcome here)
“This is a misunderstanding!” Clarke screams, twisting against their tight grip. “The Commander is up stream. She’ll tell you. I’m not your enemy!”
“The Commander is in Azgeda.” Lowering his weapon now that she’s secure, the man steps well into Clarke’s space and hisses. “You are Skaikru, and Skaikru is my enemy.”
Great. This again. Clarke winces when the men begin dragging her away from the river deeper into Trikru territory. Stumbling to get her feet under her before she trips, Clarke shouts ahead. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the regent, to answer for your crimes.”
The regent? When Clarke realizes, her breath escapes her. Not only is Trikru calling Skaikru enemy once more, they are doing it on Titus’ orders.