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There was a possibility, perhaps, that you had suffered a head injury not long before she walked into your tent. You often lost track of your wounds in battle, the healers having long learnt to deal with the other warriors before you, and your skin was riddled with the abandoned train tracks of war. So yes, you could have knocked your head, gained a concussion or some kind of other minor trauma. But you hadn’t.
Even you knew that, despite your convincing.
You grew up by the ocean, in a small town not far from Polis. Watching the surf break onto the dry terrain you would learn the secrets of the sea. You became familiar with the precautionary tales of drowned fishermen and mermaids and the things that people do for love. However the ocean always held a word that was foreign to you, no matter how many times you rolled it off your tongue like a wave: blue.
In your head, you had a whole speech planned. You would address her by her name, as unfamiliar as it was to you. Slowly you would tighten a death grip around her throat with words, back her into a corner and make her pay for the death of three hundred of your people. Three hundred people who now sat on your shoulders, with the rest of the world to keep them company.
You were so young. Too young.
Different. Everything about her was different. Maybe it was the confidence she held as she strode into your tent, maybe it was something else. Something else being blue.
Keeping your posture, you spat out something along the lines of “Clarke” and “Sky people” and “Three hundred of my people.” Whilst curiously sneaking glances at the new warm colours of the tent and Clarkes eyes replacing the ocean.
You were quite proud of how much you managed to hold yourself. For a brief moment you thought Anya would’ve been too but then the sky girl stepped forwards and handed you the braid of Anya’s hair and you pretended not to notice your heart falling out your chest as Anya climbed onto your shoulders.
They took the sea from you when you were six and replaced it with hours of pain and teachings. Learning was your speciality, so it seemed. Anya came to you somewhere between your childhood and your training and asked you if you wanted to be her second. You said yes.
(Though you both knew that no wasn’t really an option.)
She was kind to you, for the first time since the water you felt at home. She told you again and again about colours as you stared at a black and white world, with vibrant stories being painted in your head. It was obvious she could see them, but you abstained from asking - curiosity was always your weakness and you had been taught to crush weakness.
Silence had managed to sneak its way inside the tent, and your people were looking to you to say something. Clarke was looking at you to question something.
You narrowed your eyes, as you had been taught to do many summers ago. “What is it, Skygirl?”
Clarke looked like a child in that moment, stumbling over her words like a fool in front of your people. “It’s just-” She stopped and sighed, looking around in wonder. “Can you see it too?”
You clenched your jaw. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Clarke shuffled her feet, her cheeks growing red. “It’s nothing, Commander.”
Dismissing your guards, you rose to your feet, all thoughts of battles and war gone in the moment. Clarke looked up at you, questioning, as the last one of your people left the tent. “You do see them. The colours.”
You sighed, “Yes, I do. Tell me, Clarke of the sky people, why is that?”
Clarke brought her eyes to yours, and you were once again reminded of how you hid your bridges under moss and stone, because you didn’t want to burn them. “What do your stories say?”
“I have heard my stories many times Clarke. What is the theory of the sky people? What is your legend of the colours?”
You had heard your stories, or story, approximately thirteen times. Eleven of these being told to you by Anya, once by Costia, (before you hushed her with the guilt of black and white poisoning your blood), and once when your hearts corpse was long cold. Anya had told you simply that it was finding someone who completed you, then you would see the colours of the world. At ten years old you were stubborn on the fact that you were already whole as yourself, so she explained it differently.
She told you it was meeting a person who could make you feel as deep and vast as the ocean, make your ears sing with the sounds of the waves, no matter how far away you were. It was someone who could cause storms so big that they drown you, but also at the same time carry you back to the shore. You never wanted to be drowned.
“We – the sky people – say the colours come with love.” Clarke stated bluntly, “And they disappear with the death of the one you love.”
Flinching involuntarily, memories of Costia choking out that your eyes were turning grey as she was slaughtered in front of you break through the damn in your head. You supress them, being careful to balance the load on your shoulders before saying, with perhaps a bit too much harshness. “Do not speak to me of love.”
Clarke looks taken aback. “But love is what binds us Lexa, don’t you see that?” She gestures to the warm colours that light up the tent and whispers. “Don’t you see this?”
Stumbling for another explanation, you state. “This is not love. I do not love. Love is weakness.” before walking stiffly out the tent.
The colours hit you all at once, like a missile. Assaulting your eyes with a kaleidoscope of leaves and the sunlight filtering through unknown wonder and you never knew that the sky in the evening was the same colour as fire. You were told it was beautiful but you were never told it was like this. You can imagine how it would be hard to put this into words.
There is a chuckle behind you, and you realise that Clarke is seeing this for the first time too. “Love is weakness, huh?”
“This is not love.” You state again, though this time you are not too sure.
A truce has been made and Clarke has killed Finn and you feel vaguely regretful but you remember that he wasn’t the one who made her see colours. There is, at least, a little solace in that.
But you’re still reminded of the ocean every time you look at her and it needs to stop.
Yet you find yourself drawn to her, and Anya’s ancient comment about being complete is pulled to your mind, because you and Clarke are magnetic.
She is harder now, than when you first saw her. Her eyes have changed to the ocean in a storm rather than the calm you hold closest to your heart. She addresses you as “Lexa”, as if she has a right to, and though you are sceptical, you do not think your shoulders could bear the weight of her calling you “Commander”.
She is already making you weak.
It is late in the night when Clarke first stalks into your tent, two weeks after your first meeting. You stand by the table looking over maps that your eyes have wandered over as often as they wander over the stars. Indra had invited you hunting but you opted to stay, instead asking her to take the other sky girl. The one with the black hair and the whisper of a warrior in the way she moved.
(You think that Clarke also holds this whisper as she strides into your tent, uninvited and uncaring.)
Looking up coolly, you raise an eyebrow at her and she sighs, meeting your eyes. “You have loved before.” She states, as if her words weren’t tightening a noose around your neck.
“That wasn’t a question.” Your heart is thumping now and you urge it to stop.
“You say that love is weakness, you must have some experience with this.” Her eyes soften. “You are too smart to have blind opinions.”
You sigh. “Her name was Costia, she saw the colours and I didn’t. I watched her head get torn from her body by people who used love as a tactical advantage.” You decided to go all out in your honesty. “As irritating as you are, Clarke of the Sky People, I do not wish for your head to be ripped from your body.”
Clarke’s posture changes from stiffened to piteous. “Lexa…”
“Do not pity me, Clarke.”
She steps forwards, closer to you. “I have dreamt about the colours ever since I was a child Lexa. I watched my parents in wonder as they told me stories of the vibrant view of the Earth from space. After my father died I watched my mum forget the colour of my eyes. You are not alone in grief. You don’t have to be.”
She reaches for your hand and you know you should stop her but it is too late, her hand is already gently holding yours and she is floating in your oceanic heart.
Quietly smiling, Clarke whispers. “Did you know that your eyes are the same colour as the forest, Lexa?”
And you say. “Yours are the same colour as the ocean.”
And then you kiss her. Or she kisses you. All you know is that you are kissing and it is soft and sweet and oh so colourful and your eyes are shut but when you open them the world is so bright and she is there and you understand Anya’s stories now.
You pull back for a second and instantly miss the contact, but this is important. “No one must know Clarke, especially not about the colours. They think Costia was my colours and if they keep on thinking that way than you won’t be a target.”
She kisses you again, a little bit to shut you up but mostly because she wanted to. “Okay.”
Muttering the words “thank you” makes you feel vulnerable, but you say them anyway.
Clarke just nods and then pushes you back up against the table, kissing you again but this time it is not soft. Your hands find their way up to her hair and tangle themselves up in it as hers roam up and down your body. In this moment you do not feel the weight of the dead on your shoulders, or the pressure of being commander; you are just Lexa and she is just Clarke. But that is not right. She is more than ‘just Clarke’. She is made from the sky and stardust and everything you longed to touch as a child. She is the colours of the world and the waves of your ocean. She is… currently undoing your armour.
“Clarke.” You gasp, and she hums playfully as your shoulder piece falls to the ground. She kisses down your jaw and you are just reaching for the hem of her shirt, when a noise comes from the entrance of your tent. You snap your head up, the trained warrior in you on guard in an instant.
Standing in the entrance is one of the bearable sky people, Octavia, you think her name was. The one Indra was intent on training.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Clarke look up at the entrance, and if the balance of your world was not toppling, you might have found her red lips and messy hair funny.
Octavia smiles sweetly, reminding you of the childhood legends of poisoned apples. “Indra has sent me to inform you that we are back from our hunt, Commander. She is currently cooking the deer that we caught.” The girl glances between you and Clarke, mischief waltzing in her eyes. “Though if you would prefer to eat something else…”
Clarke steps forwards, before you can react. “Octavia,” She begins.
Octavia grins again. “Let me guess, I can’t tell anyone. Got it. Though you might want to be a bit more careful, these tents don’t have locks you know?” She pats the tent door awkwardly, before flicking her hair and sauntering out the room. You are unsure as too whether Octavia is the best of all people to hold your secrets or the worst.
Turning around to Clarke you smile. “Shall we join the feast?”
Clarke nods, taking your hand and squeezing it once, before letting go. She leans in and gently kisses your cheek, before whispering, “Staggered exit” in your ear, and making her way outside. Picking up your discarded bits of armour from the floor, you sigh. Warmth is flooding through your body and you know you should be wearier of it, but you cannot bring yourself to care.
(Perhaps love is more than just a path of self-destruction.)
It takes around two months for everyone to find out. Two months of Clarke teasing you with small touches and needy glances across fires and tents and tables. Two month of hushed sex and hidden kisses. Two months of Octavia making inappropriate jokes that burn your cheeks and worry your heart, before you finally break.
You realise afterwards that you were willing to break for a long time.
It happens on a Wednesday evening, after you and Clarke have sat on a grass bank and watched the sun scorch its way down the sky, marvelling at the colours as if you had discovered them yesterday. A lifetime of black and white does that to people.
Glancing back, you find that the camp is mostly deserted, many people having dispersed to their tents by now. Questioningly, you look at Clarke and she know what you are indicating immediately. When she stands up you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as the way starlight entwines with the adoration in her eyes. She takes your hand and without a seconds hesitation you let her lead you back to your tent.
You are barely in the tent when her mouth is on yours and her arms are around your neck and you grip her thighs, bringing her legs around your waist before you move over to the table and push her down onto it, kissing her neck and eliciting a small moan which echoes through your core.
There is a cough behind you and you freeze, felling Clarke tense too. You pull yourself together, becoming what you are to everyone but Clarke, the commander, Heda – a leader.
(You have shown weakness in front of one of your people now. There is nothing worse.)
But as you turn you realise it is not one of your people, it is one of Clarke’s. Relief floods through your body before you realise which one of the sky people this is. Clarke’s mother.
(You were wrong. There is something worse. This is it.)
Abby Griffin coughs again, irritating you more than you ever knew you could be irritated. “What are you doing in the Commander’s tent?” You ask, your voice colder than necessary.
“Lexa.” Clarke whispers beside you, taking your hand and squeezing it to calm you down. You soften, wanting nothing more than to turn back around and fall into the ocean forever. Pressing the thoughts out of your head, you keep your gaze narrowed on Abby. These thoughts are what make love weak, and you do not wish for you and Clarke to be weak. The love you hold for Clarke is strong and stands on its own, staying upright with thoughts of colours and life and the sky, not of drowning.
Abby visibly gulps, and it gives you more satisfaction than it should. “I came looking for my daughter. It’s late and she wasn’t back at the sky tents.” The woman’s eyes turn hard, making you shudder. “I now know why.”
Clarke sighs, hand still in yours. “Mom…”
You never thought it was possible to watch a person break, but you see Abby snap in front of you. “Do not talk to me about this Clarke! What were you thinking? She’s ruthless.”
Assumptions about you always got under your skin the most.
Abby was still going. “I hope this was just a one-time thing. I am so disappointed in you, couldn’t you have just waited for the one who brings you colour.”
Clarke looks at you then, and you know what she’s conveying and you think perhaps it’s time to stop hiding. Hiding is something that cowards do and you are not a coward. Ever so slightly, you nod your head.
Clarke speaks, and her voice is so throaty and fragile that it makes you hurt. “She is the one who makes me see colours, Mom. Don’t you get that?”
Abby stops then, her façade falling off her like a star from the sky. “You can see the colours?”
Clarke nods and you do too. Abby’s face changes to one of nostalgia. “They’re beautiful aren’t they?”
You are glad that you don’t have to completely hate Clarke’s mom.
The next morning you tell everyone, because Clarke is the best thing in your life, and you are tired of hiding her. Octavia cheers and Indra gives you a weary smile, her eyes twinkling that she knew all along. The sky people seem dubious at first but soon warm up to it. It was so simple, in the end, that you almost dislike yourself for not doing it sooner.
Clarke smiles as you tell people, and kisses you softly in public for the first time. You smile into the kiss because she is as much yours as you are hers but at the same time you both belong to no one but yourselves.
You take Clarke to the ocean not long after that, any excuse, you tell her, to get away from Octavia and Raven, who had joined in on the teasing when she found out, was a good one.
It is the first time you see the ocean in colour, but you knew it was the same colour as Clarke’s eyes. It is so beautiful and, as you watch the waves roll in and out on the shore, you tell this to Clarke.
She says it is not as beautiful as you.
You tell her you have no interest in her sky ways of romance, but she smiles and laces her fingers with yours because she knows that you like it.
“Your eyes are the same colour as the ocean.” You tell her, well aware of the fact that you’ve said it before. But looking at it now, the two colours are so strikingly similar that you’re finding it hard to differentiate between memories and the present.
“So I’ve been told.” Clarke murmurs.
Clarke moves to the shoreline abruptly, taking off her clothes. You can’t help but to stare.
She laughs, stepping into the ocean. “Are you coming in?”
You follow, perhaps a little too eagerly, and then you are floating and you are not sure if it is the water or Clarke.
A thought hits you as you reach for her in the water. “You know that I am glad that it was you Clarke?”
Clarke laughs, her body touching yours. She whispers, “It would be a little awkward if you weren’t, Lexa.” The as an afterthought she adds, “But I’m glad too. That it was you.”
The ocean is so blue that day. And as Clarke’s lips meet yours, you discover that all of your legends were wrong. Anya’s stories about becoming complete and Costia’s trail of weakness.
You were complete before Clarke, but she makes you stronger, like the wind in the sails of a boat. She helps carry the weight on your shoulders and in return you do the same for her. The love you hold for her is not weakness, it is passion, formed into whatever shape you mould it into. You choose to mould it into stolen kisses and thunderstorms, and you meet her where the stars meet the sea and light up the world with colours. You love her with every inch of your ancient spirit and she love you just as much with her mortal soul. Perhaps that was not such a bad thing after all.