Chapter Text
Two weeks ago, the last of humanity fled the surface.
Two weeks ago, a rocket entered the stratosphere, a bunkers door was sealed, and the rest of the world burned.
Two weeks ago, Clarke became the last person, the last grounder on earth... at least the last person on the surface.
It’s day 15 and Clarke comes to a revelation, standing in a once thriving village, surrounded by rubble and indistinguishable collapsed buildings.
She’s all alone.
It takes most of the first week for the worst of the radiation poisoning to pass through her system. Three days after she feels less like death, Clarke finds herself able to explore her new home, Becca’s lab, more and see what it has to offer.
It turns out the answers: not much. After wandering through the various halls, labs and storage rooms, Clarke takes inventory of her remaining supplies. There’s almost no food left in the lab, and after scanning all the functions and systems of the lab database, Clarke also discovered, there was no way to create or grow sustenance either.
On day 12, Clarke realizes if she doesn’t venture out and find a new source of food, she will soon starve. Considering death by radiation, or whatever horrors she might face on the surface, sounds more pleasant and quicker than starvation, she prepares to leave the lab.
Exiting her haven presents many problems for the blonde. Most importantly, the radiation. Her hazmat suit is beyond repair. The face mask is shattered, the suit itself is torn to shreds and no amount of sewing, taping, and repairing would make the protection viable. Clarke’s only other protection comes in the form of the black blood coursing through her veins. The testing she and her mother conducted never reached a conclusive result; the natjus may very well keep her alive or do nothing and she dies within minutes.
With a familiar metallic hiss, Clarke enters the airlock of Becca’s lab. Glancing through the small, circular window to the maintenance entrance, she can see lifeless trees, bare of any leaves or green, and a cloudless sky. A slight grumble in her stomach reminds Clarke of her mission, and without much more delay, reaches for the hatch lock.
Opening the airlock for the first time in nearly a month is breathtaking. Literally. The slightly humid breeze whips past the blonde as she remains frozen to the spot. Clarke closes her eyes and takes a long, lingering breath through her nose, enjoying fresh air for the first time in weeks. A scent she had grown to take for granted in recent months. The once stale, bland, metallic air is now permeated with the smells of burnt wood and dirt. After her eyes adjust to the new bright streams of light peeking through the opening, it’s time to venture outside.
Her first steps on ground bring her back to the beginning, with thoughts of Octavia and her youthful innocence. The screech of “we’re back bitches!” rings in her ears. Clarke closes her eyes once more, reminiscing of simpler times - of better times.
Children and teens alike, peering out into a bright new world, find themselves shocked with awe. Their eyes are treated with an unspoiled earth, rich with color and life. Leaves fall from trees, branches rustle in the gentle breeze, and here they are - in the middle of it all. Children surrounded by life, filled with new life, a new purpose, and a new hope.
Children stepping out of the metallic hull to experience an entirely new pallet of colors, scents, and sounds. Almost like newborns, teenagers hobbling onto rich, compact earth and their senses are almost immediately overwhelmed.
New shades of blue in the skies and rivers, new shades of yellow in fallen leaves and the sun shining from above. Then the greens. Greens so beautiful. Every ounce of her periphery was filled with greens, as far as she could see... between the trees, the grass, thick vines and other shrubbery, this new world was 20 different shades of green, each shade more beautiful than the rest. None more beautiful than the forest green of the most captivating eyes.
Another pair of green disturbs Clarke’s thoughts and she’s forced to rejoin reality before daydreams become nightmares.
Snapping out of her trance, Clarke begins to scan her surroundings... only to remember, there are no longer threats to scan for. Her immediate surroundings are charred earth and burnt trees, blackened so much she finds it impressive they remain standing. The ground is bare and brown, cracked and ash ridden. The sun beats down on Clarke and she soon finds herself warm, hot even. This, she thinks to herself, is strange considering the cold weather from sheer weeks ago.
Clarke begins to search the remains of a once full forest, now nothing more than a wasteland to commemorate the dead. Along her expeditions, she comes across nothing but death and destruction. She thanks whatever deity, or whoever might be looking out for her, when she finds some small shrubs home to a few recognizable berries, nothing to fill her, but enough to give her hope. After many hours of scouting the nearby land, Clarke realizes two things.
The first is she will have to find food elsewhere, somewhere less devastated. The other revelation comes as a slight afterthought. The quiet might kill her first.
Three months ago, Lexa died.
To be more exact it’s been 87 days... according to her makeshift calendar of scratch marks on the side of the rover.
Three months of being alone. Three months of constant guilt and grief.
It’s been 87 days since Lexa died.
87 days ago, Clarke’s world crashed and burned. A few weeks later, the world itself did the very same.
87 days of piercing emerald eyes visiting her in dreams and haunting her in nightmares. Greens that never look right when Clarke attempts to draw them from memory alone. Greens that were taken from her before Clarke could admit, to herself or the owner of the vivid orbs, she needed them.
Instead of being able to properly grieve her loss, Clarke found herself thrust, yet again, into crisis. A crisis that seems so pointless and unnecessary looking back. The weeks following Lexa’s pure spirit leaving this cruel place are spent trying to save her people. Weeks filled with rebellious coups, tyrant chancellors, killer A.Is, crumbling coalitions and a slow poisoning through nature itself.
After the chaos desists, and the world has ended - again! - Clarke is finally able to heal, to properly mourn the loss of her love.
The peace brings silence, and the silence brings unwelcome thoughts. Thoughts of forest green eyes and chestnut brown locks. Dreams filled with blood red waves of silk and metallic silver swords glinting in the sunlight. With each passing day, those greens and browns, reds and silvers, every color, darkens and fades.
After 5 weeks of peace and quiet in this bleak new world, Clarke experiences the beginning of new life, green roots starting to bud and ash washing away to reveal a slightly browner earth. Colors she can’t quite enjoy, especially when looking at the budding greens, when comparing to the beauty of Lexa’s eyes. Clarke’s color in the world died in her arms almost 3 months ago. Leaving her with black stained clothes, and an even blacker heart.
Around the 88th day, Clarke begins to question the longevity of her desire to survive. Is there really a point? Peace will surely have been achieved within the bunker, or they’ll all be dead regardless. In five years, the remaining inhabitants of earth should be able to work together and thrive.
Then again, she does miss her friends. Hopefully Raven, Monty, Bellamy and the others will come back down one day. Between her friends in space, and the others underground, Clarke knows she has a reason to stay, even if it still hurts to do so. They wouldn’t bring back her color, no one else could, but hopefully she could bring back some of theirs.
The thought of her friends in space bring both good and bad memories. Faced with nothing but time, she can reflect on the last few months and all the pain she’s had to endure, with her friends and a result of their actions. Between betrayals and fighting together, her friends are at the center of the most painful memories she has on earth. There are even instances where Clarke’s own mistakes have hurt her friends.
Monty and Bellamy standing beside her in the Mt. Weather control room.
Raven ’s cries when she plunged the knife into Finn.
Murphy bound and gagged, forced to bear witness to Clarke ’s recurring nightmare.
Bellamy siding with Pike, killing innocents and hurling blame at her.
The dread that accompanies these thoughts prove too much for the blonde. It’s easier to just tune out these thoughts and focus on surviving for the next 5 years.
It’s been 100 days now.
100 days and Clarke is numb. This feeling is absolute emptiness. A shell of a girl that was once a strong leader, a loving daughter, and a mindful ambassador.
She can’t exactly put it into words, and why should she? Everyone’s gone – there’s no point in explaining her thoughts without someone to share them with. The cause of her melancholy, her ever-persistent grey skies and dreary landscapes, is no question in Clarke’s mind.
She can handle being alone, she handled the physical pain of burns, scrapes, bruises, and radiation poisoning in her time on earth, Clarke’s overcome every obstacle placed in front of her, going back all those months ago when she witnessed a goggle donning boy swing across a river, only to receive a spear directly to the chest.
No, Clarke can handle pain, physical or emotional, and she has endured it for months. The one thing Clarke struggles to look past is death of her- of Lexa. The green that faded with a quick muzzle flash, and an even quicker “may we meet again”.
It’s only been 100 days, and her only plan is survival, to keep surviving.
100 sleepless nights, most scattered with dreams of a quick flash of chestnut locks, a slight upturn of lips, a glimpse of the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. Dreams that always end the same - as a nightmare. Nightmares consisting of a bleeding figure, black stained hands, teary eyes, and whispered goodbyes. Nightmares that transition a beautiful, luxurious bedroom into a black expanse, at the speed of a bullet.
Then, always, far off in the recesses of Clarke’s fading dream, a whispered reminder.
“I’ll always be with you”
Clarke jerks awake, with salty tears running down her face, a familiar routine by now. She wipes her eyes and gathers her bearings.
The sun is low in the sky when she climbs out of the rover. An afternoon nap turned into at least 6 hours of uneasy sleep - a blessing considering Clarke normally only slumbers for 2 or 3 before the monsters in her dream force her back to reality.
Positioned on a small hill, Clarke gazes out on the remains of a once great city. Polis. The grounder center for trade, culture, and peace, now reduced to piles of rubble and garbage.
As the setting sun marks the end of day 100, Clarke observes the last rays of sunlight shining down on destroyed homes and cluttered streets. If she strains her eyes just far enough, she can make out the Polis Tower remains - barely a story left of the former skyscraper.
Polis is nothing of its former glory from months ago.
Marketplaces once overflowing with joyous shouts, welcoming vendors, and squealing children, are now buried beneath rubble, and a thick layer of dirt and grime.
Training grounds where overzealous seconds and battle-hardened warriors train every day, have become barren fields spread with weeds and cracked earth.
When the sun reaches its lowest point, Clarke ventures back to the rover - hardening her resolve in anticipation for another rough night.
Opening the hatch of the rover provides some light, as the overhead dome light beams to life, illuminating the mostly empty trunk.
After another unsatisfying meal of dried meats, Clarke searches her surroundings for anything to do - to wane off the ever-recurring dread that accompanies peace with nothing but her thoughts.
Clarke dumps the contents of her pack onto the floor of the trunk. The flashlight falling into the metal flooring sounds off a loud thump as it proceeds to roll away. The last of the pack contents spill out, producing a folded single piece of paper falls out to land among the slight mess.
Clarke snatches the paper and unfolds it with extra care, not even chancing the idea of any rips or tears. Clarke unfolds one crease, and then another - flattens the paper over her folded knees and looks down - there she is.
A sharp inhale, a shaky exhale, a slow blink of eyes and then Clarke begins her nighttime ritual.
She’s just as beautiful as she was last night, and the night before, and every night prior. If Clarke stares hard enough she imagines the sleeping beauty’s chest will rise and fall with each slumbered breath. If she closes her eyes and tries to remember that day, she imagines the slight murmurs Lexa let out in her sleep. If she slows her breathing and draws her knees up to her chest, she can hold herself like she wants to hold the woman who haunts her every thought.
Trying to remember that peaceful moment stolen from a world of politics and deceit is no use. Clarke can never quite remember the scrunch of the brunette’s brows or the slight pout of her lips, that formed in her sleep. She can only remember the overwhelming feeling of peace and true happiness - a delicacy at the time. One of the few true moments where she felt safe since arriving to earth.
After a few minutes of near deafening silence, there’s a flash of light from the window. Then another. Then, before she can react, rain is pouring into the opened hatch and soaking her the floors and all the contents laid out. She is forced to quickly reach over and slam the hatch shut, fighting the uproar of wind, and crashing waves of rain.
There will be no more sleep tonight - at least not with comfort, as her only blanket is soaked now. Clarke draws her eyes back towards her drawn knees and notices a few drops of water have dripped down the drawing. Clarke dabs away the remaining water tracks, and gently blows to dry the wet streaks on her last connection to Lexa.
“Unbelievable.” Clarke growls. Angry with herself. She has, once again, failed to protect Lexa - even in charcoal and paper form.
It’s an illogical way of thinking, but caught up in her dark thoughts and devastation, Clarke finds her eyes beginning to blur and burn with unshed tears. Clarke angrily wipes her tears away and sets the paper aside to prevent further damage. She can already spot a slight smear on the bottom corner, right next to the name of her muse: “Leksa”.
That small smear of black shading causes the blonde to realize - the drawing is unfinished. Lexa’s shirt was never correctly traced into the sketch and the shading of the room was all wrong. Clarke never completed her drawing because of Lexa’s nightmare - her warning - of an assassination. If only she’d taken that seriously.
Grabbing one of her pencils spilled out in the wet pile of belongings, Clarke places the paper back in her lap to repair the slight blemish of the drawing. She gets lost in the movements of her hand, the tightening of her hold on the pencil and the changing pressure she adds to lighten or darken certain shadows and colors. Clarke shades, sketches, and details out her work onto the parchment.
When the weather has cleared, the sun is beginning to rise, and her hand is cramping, Clarke finally begins to tire.
When Lexa’s arm muscles are defined, the crease of her shirt is visible, and her pouted lips are perfectly curved, Clarke lets her head fall into her knees and closes her eyes.
When Clarke is lulled to sleep by the sound of her own breathing and the sleeping beauty she can almost picture behind her eyes, she smiles.
When Clarke dreams, it’s of times before blue skies and green forests turned grey and dark.
Clarke dreams of when her days were lighter. When her colors were brighter.
Waking up the next morning comes as a challenge. The stiffness in her neck and shoulders, an ache compounded by the dull ache of her lower back, makes for an unpleasant start to another day of survival. After last night’s weary night of stormy hearts and thundering skies, a few more minutes to rest seems like the right choice.
When Clarke wakes again, she feels different. The first thing she notices is the slight murmur of whispered discussions and gossip, sounding far away and muffled by multiple walls or rooms. The blonde groans, stretching her neck and back with stiff tugs and turns, finally feeling her locked muscles relaxing ever so slightly.
Stretching her arms above her head, hearing the satisfying pop of her shoulders, her charcoal tool, still resting in her palm from last night, falls with a thunk onto the floor. Squeezing her eyes open, Clarke bends down in her chair to retrieve the charcoal pencil and grasps the tool. Sitting back up and placing it on the table in front of her- wait.
Glancing up at the table, glowing with easily two dozen candles in the daylight, Clarke pauses. The last thing she remembers was Polis, and the rover, and a freak thunderstorm, and Lexa’s drawing.
Looking down she sees the very same drawing, finally finished after months of sitting in her single pack. It’s the same as she remembers, with the same slight smear on the bottom corner of the parchment and the figure detailed, Lexa, is still defined muscle and unrefined beauty. However, she is no longer seated on the metal floor of the rover’s hatch, but rather curled uncomfortably in a over-sized, cushioned chair.
Looking away from her drawing, Clarke cranes her neck to the left and right and is greeted with a familiar scene. It’s just how she remembers Lexa’s room to be, but much more vivid than any of her previous dreams. The furniture seems more distinguished, the backdrop of a descendant sun, and the sounds of eager masses, going about their day, wafting through the balcony all seem much more real. Looking towards the couch, she can see her - Lexa - sleeping unsoundly.
Chestnut eyebrows are scrunched in concern or worry, her hair twists lightly with each panicked turn of her head. The brunette’s chest heaves increasingly more with each breath. Her distress seems to gradually persist with each passing minute until finally she gasps for a breath, her eyes shooting open, and jolts upward. Chest heaving, eyes fixed on her hands in her lap, Lexa is right in front of her - recovering from a nightmare - again.
Clarke remains stock still; afraid any movement, any wrinkle in the fabric of this moment, will break the spell and cause her to wake. Her eyes are wide, her mouth hanging open slightly ajar and the blonde hasn’t made a sound, taken a breath or even blinked in almost a minute.
Lexa seems to notice Clarke’s statue-esque stance to her right and focuses on the distressed girl. Her eyebrows knit together slightly, as she attempts to meet Clarke’s eyes.
When green meets blue, Clarke finds herself gasping for breath, as she’s sure all air was just sucker punched from her gut. One hand covers her mouth, and the other clenches into the tightest fist she’s ever made. Her eyes burn with unshed tears and it feels like the most blessed and worst case of déjà vu.
“Clarke?” Lexa asks questioningly. Standing from her spot on the couch and slowly crossing the room towards the blonde.
That voice, her name rolling off a perfect tongue - always sounding slightly different, rolled R’s and clicked K’s, is what shatters the remains of her resolve. Clarke finds herself crumbling, tears beginning to spill over her lids and down her cheeks, short gasps of air and attempted dialogue spilling from her lips, and legs failing her as she begins to collapse to the ground.
Before she can reach the floor, Lexa is there to catch and ease her down gently. Her eyes are filled with concern, looking the girl over to determine what might be causing the distress rolling from the blonde in her arms.
Clarke lets herself be held, reuniting with the warm, gentle embrace of the green-eyed girl supporting her. Lean, muscular arms she’d only finished sketching mere hours ago, supporting her trembling frame. She shakes with sobs and gasps, trying to wake up from this nightmare, and at the same time, never wake up again, hoping she can just remain with Lexa.
After a few minutes of indistinguishable murmurs and sobs, Lexa begins to whisper in her ear. Soft things, in Trigdasleng and English, just small, easy conversation, in hopes of calming the frantic girl in her arm.
It will be okay Klark.
Tell me what troubles you Klark.
I'm sorry Klark.
… And other various shushes and calming gestures.
Before Clarke can regain any semblance of compose, she’s interrupted by a loud clang and the sounds of doors swinging open, followed by warriors and a certain adviser sweeping into the chambers.
Peering over Lexa’s shoulder, Clarke looks through blurry eyes to see an angry, and slightly disbelieving, Titus, followed by four other Trikru carrying a large crate - Emerson. Clarke locks eyes with the fleimkepa and his disdain for her, and her believed hold over the Commander, is palpable from the scowl etched onto his face.
The puzzled expressions of the Trikru warriors, and the glare coming from the fleimkepa are a complete contrast to the warm and understanding look coming from the lithe frame supporting the blonde. Clarke becomes overwhelmed with concern, dread and confusion, questions- of why? and how?- flying through her conscious.
The room begins to spin. The light streaming in from the large windows, and the glow of a room filled with candles, falling away to darkness. Clarke feels her body begin to tense, locking up muscle by muscle, joint by joint. She vaguely hears a concerned, and slightly terrified, yell of her name. Directly followed by the sound of running and a commanding tone barking orders. She feels light pressure on her cheeks and forehead, another on the inside of her wrist. Clarke’s eyes roll back in her head, and as her senses begin to fade, she has one final thought.
What the fuck is going on?