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Summary
Lexa’s face softens as she looks down at Clarke. She reaches out to stroke the strands of hair that have fallen out of Clarke’s bun.
“Dying’s not that bad, once you get used to it.”
It’s barely a whisper, and if Clarke’s senses weren’t attuned to everything that is Lexa, she may have missed it. The statement is unsettling, but it’s the empty wistfulness of Lexa’s voice that makes Clarke’s chest feel like it’s caving in. Then again, that might have something to do with the gaping hole in the center of her breastplate.
