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The grounders didn’t have a name for this tradition. Lexa couldn’t tell when it started – the tradition, that is, for all her history, readings and book browsing of the library. It started as a small thing, because it happened in winter, and with winter came the cold and the chill and earlier sunsets: red and orange and beautiful but foredooming, in a way. With winter, the shorter hours of daylight, came animals hibernating, sleeping and resting, came lesser game to kill. Thus, preparations were always had; timely hunting, wood cutting and pelt buying, resource trading. That was survival. But there were festivities with the seasons. The change and shift of the earth had purpose; it was the natural cycle of things.
For all the cold, the chill and the bothers that came with winter, the fear of sickness and possible starvation, should food be insufficient, there was anticipation toward the winter season. The children, innocent as they could be in such a world, they liked winter. They snuck out when the first signs of white flakes fell, and they ran and played war with fisted snow. They would be warned of the cold, the chill, the biting air and they would train still, but they were children and children, unless scarred, unless hardened, had a natural wonder. They were curious creatures, and the world was there to marvel, despite and for all its danger. Lexa, herself, she remembered, was prone to such things, rebellious as they were. She remembered her love of snow, appreciated it, the beauty of it, though it could threaten death.
While snow had not yet fallen, the temperature was low. It was settling to a familiar wintry weather, and preparations were made for the winter, and the tradition.
She could not recall a time when it started, but it must be ancient, deeply rooted, this tradition. As old as the trees, and their fingers and veins in the earth and ground – this tradition must be thickly engrained, from history, from humanity, Lexa thought. It stems from kindness, at the heart.
They do not have a name for it. It started as a small thing, because it happened in winter and the priority in winter is survival, as survival always is, but more so. But there was the wonder of snow, and the possible scarcity of resources that lead people to being kinder, to sharing, when there was no reason for conflict. Be it fires, shelter or food, there was a generosity to winter.
But there was more to it, because their ancestors did this, and more. They shared not only necessities, but gifts, of thanks, of consideration. Lexa couldn’t tell when it started but there were books and stories of traditions and life of the Old World; there were stories of people giving gifts around winter, to those in need and to those you care for. Lexa cared for her people, as Heda, but also as Lexa. Too much, she cared.
They do not have a name for it, the tradition, but there is a period of festivities in Polis. There are night lights and dancing and dining with food and music and wine. The event is neither large nor wasteful, and only occurs if the preserved resources are sufficient. But if able, her people share, and they give gifts, large or small, to their neighbours, to their allies, to their friends and families and lovers.
Once Heda, Lexa did not give gifts of favour to anyone she personally cared for, not publically, and even before, they were small things. The only gift was the festival, and that was to her people, like Commanders before her. This coming winter though, this coming of tradition, Lexa had plans. She had wanting and thoughts to give a gift to someone.
*
It was still many days away, weeks, as it had not yet snowed. That is when it starts, when the snow is still light and something to marvel at, to enjoy for it’s simple beauty, before it turns thicker, and Lexa worries for the things and matters that generally come with winter. All this, except for her plans, she told the golden haired girl.
“It’s like Christmas then,” Clarke said, when Lexa had told her.
“Christmas?”
Lexa didn’t know the word, but it tingled on her tongue as if she had spoken them before, and the letters formed hazy in her mind as if she was familiar with it, had read it long ago or heard someone speak it. Perhaps in another life, even.
Clarke nodded, subtle and minute.
It has been months since the Mountain, and things were better, between Lexa and Clarke, but tentative still. It was a process, one still yet complete and healed, but Lexa was getting there, was patient and considerate and Clarke was healing, was trying. Her eyes weren’t storms anymore but they were a deep ocean, that Lexa was wary could turn wrathful, but was thankful they were calm, though vast. The ocean always comes back to kiss the shore, no matter how many times it leaves, is pushed away, or defies the sand.
They are made of different things, Lexa knew; Clarke from sky and herself from ground, but they belong together. If only in friendship, as allies, they are bound. Still, Lexa has hoped, always. She was hopeful for more, though such thoughts were foolish to her head, were things to be better left alone. But she chose her head once, already; it was the hearts turn, now.
“Before the bombs, that’s what the exchanging of gifts was called, for a lot of people. I don’t really remember a lot of the history for it. That name came from a religion though,” and here, Clarke paused, momentarily thoughtful, “There were other names too.”
“We do not have a name for it.”
Lexa didn’t think they needed one. It was not something that was vocalised, that was pressured on her people to participate in.
“Do people gift you things?”
She was not looking at Lexa when she asked. They were in Clarke’s room. It was not large, not grandeur; but it had room enough for a dresser, a warm bed, a window and balcony to view the capitol from. There was room enough to sit, and room enough for Clarke and her easel and her canvases and her paints. Lexa glanced to them then. They were something to help Clarke, and from what she could tell it was purposeful, had impact. But it meant she could not gift Clarke such things. Nor books, and tales and paintings; she could not gift Clarke those either. Not on their own, because alone they would not be meaningful enough.
What to give Clarke. Lexa mused and pondered over the thought as she had done for a week, still yet to think of something. She wanted to choose wisely, wanted to gift Clarke something that would make her happy, to have those ocean eyes brighten up as the day, rather than brood as water at night. They may not be angry, those eyes, but they were haunted still, and would likely always be. But if Clarke’s eyes were shades of blue, she would do what she would to ensure the light of them shone, that the water of them glimmered. But what?
“Lexa?”
There were few times Lexa was caught thinking outside herself, where she was not present. As Lexa focused her eyes on Clarke who was looking at her now, rather than the streets below, she was only glad it was in Clarke’s presence that it happened to be so.
“Clarke.”
And the leader – for Clarke was a leader, despite her absence from her people, despite her time away, from deciding decisions heavy and burdening – smiled. It was a small thing, barely there, and it reminded Lexa much of her own smiles to Clarke. Lexa briefly wondered what she did to earn it.
“Did you hear me?”
Lexa thought a moment, having realised she had missed words from Clarke, because she was musing about Clarke. It was entirely reasonable occurrence, she thought, privately. She could not be at blamed at all.
“Yes,” because she did hear Clarke, only the words went over her. But Lexa was attentive, still, always. It took only a moment to recall. “Other Hedas’ used to expect gifts.”
“You don’t?”
“No, I do not.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No… unless, the gift is from a child. I do not want them to feel shamed or unworthy if I was to reject them, so I do not.”
Clarke smiled that small, adoring smile again. Lexa was transfixed, in love.
“That’s kind of you.”
“The children from the orphanage always make me things, it would be rude to not accept,” Lexa shifted where she sat, replied calmly, though her voice was laced with thin threads of justification, because Lexa was not used to hearing she was kind. Ruthless, strong, smart, loyal, calm, fair – these words, she has heard many times; kind was a rarity. “But I do not want my people to feel obligated to praise me. Their respect is enough.”
“They want to give you things, Lexa, because they love you.”
Lexa blinked.
They love you.
The words, said so simply, so honestly, ringed and rested in her mind, unsettled in her heart, and the Commander swallowed shortly after the words, because love and the Commander could not be so direct, so easily considered, and yet Lexa felt much. Still, the topic was uncomfortable, for so easily as Clarke said they love you Lexa toyed and twisted the word they to I and the words, the emotion, of them were too fantastical, too tentative to think. Lexa should not, could not dwell on such imaginings, so she breathed and she rose, walked and stood beside Clarke. All the while her hand rested, casually, but decisively, to the hilt, the handle, of her blade. It was a comfort.
“Giving gifts for those you care for… love,” Lexa paused, a moment, her tongue weighted with the word, with care and consideration, and she unconsciously licked her lips. She would like to taste love, that of the woman beside her, “to bring them joy. That is meant to be the way of the tradition.”
“You don’t believe it,” Clarke mused, not accusingly, but it was not a question, though it was not yet a definite fact.
She titled her head a little and watched Lexa, who glanced from the streets, the people and buildings below and before her, to Clarke. She intended it to be only a glance, but she looked and her eyes found Clarke gazing back, watching, and her eyes betrayed her. Soulful her eyes were prone to be, Lexa held Clarke’s gaze, brave, but conceded a moment or so after, down-casted them as she looked away, because she was weak, she was shameful.
“I am not easy to love.”
“You don’t choose who you love,” the words came out, almost unwilling, almost choked, hoarse. Clarke knew by saying them she was speaking of, touching on, another truth, that she long avoided. Clarke blinked, moistened her lips and breathed. “Your people didn’t choose you. But they love you all the same. You’re good to them, Lexa.”
You’ve been good to me, Clarke almost said, added, but didn’t because this wasn’t about them, or her feelings. They’ll get to that, another time.
Unknowing of Clarke’s thoughts, Lexa nodded but didn’t speak more, did not chance another glance, did not avert her eyes from the city, as tempting as the beauty beside her was.
If Lexa were looking, she would have caught Clarke’s subtle shake of the head, the emotion that passed, unchecked, through those eyes. Because Lexa didn’t understand; didn’t seem to. Lexa would have caught waves of blue ocean eyes, gentle but pushing, yearning.
“You are,” Clarke affirmed, though softly, and then her lips were on Lexa’s cheek, her hand on Lexa’s, squeezing.
The Commander stiffened immediately, momentarily, melted quickly. Her nerves were alive, her skin warm under those lips that lingered a moment, one second, two, and three, before they were gone and Clarke moved to do her art. Still, the press of those lips, the pressure and the softness of them stayed on Lexa’s cheek in feeling and thought. She fought the temptation to find those lips and kiss them, fought against the desire look over to Clarke. She kept her gaze ahead and she did not move.
*
The first fall of white descended from the sky and they were soft and small and like unborn stars, not shooting down, but fallen. Some tell tales of the white, delicate spectacles that is snow and snowflakes to be souls, not yet reincarnated, for whatever reason, that fall from the heavens and return to be with the earth and their loved ones during the harshness of winter. That when you are snow-kissed it is a soul reaching out to you, for a moment, before it melted away.
Clarke saw the first fall of snow, at Lexa’s will. Clarke would have slept otherwise, would have missed it, though her dreams were wintry. It was beautiful, ethereal, and the sun woke up too for it, just. Clarke smiled wide and in wonder, so much like the first day on the ground. She smiled at the snow and the scene and she smiled at Lexa too, gratitude there. Lexa watched the sun, the light hues of colours, warm, and she watched the sky; and Clarke, who eclipsed everything, was celestial and majestic in her own right, and she was entranced. There was something of a wonder to the season, Lexa thought, something marvellous and though she has only heard the word a few times, she would describe it as magic, as well.
*
“Clarke.”
“Mm?”
“Would you like to go to the festival with me?”
They were walking through Polis, peacefully. Clarke smiled at the people and the children as they passed and she admired it all, all the life of it. Then she stopped, blinked at Lexa’s question, looked to the woman. Lexa stood, hands clasped behind her back, regal, hesitancy in her eyes at having taken a leap of faith, of hope, fearful of rejection, yet probably expecting it. Her face, though, that betrayed nothing and Clarke’s lips quirked, subtly, small, and eyes soft. It was a recent look that Lexa had noticed directed her way on the occasion. There were still times of darker looks, because things were not completely healed but they were healing. It was all in Clarke’s eyes, her expression, and her lips. It was the season, Lexa wondered, thought. It did things.
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
The warrior returned the smile, stoic fortitude façade broken. Lexa smiled that smile of hers, and she looked younger to Clarke. Clarke felt younger herself, she felt unburdened.
*
It was night, the sky blue, black, though the stars littered it sparkling. Clarke explained that they were lights left of explosions, of rocks and worlds and universes dead, their end so magnificent their light still lingered like a legend to a story, a happening, of old. She did not say it quite like that, not at all, but Lexa took it as such, as something to marvel. For all Lexa’s logic, her simple ways, she thought poetically. Clarke felt for her more for it.
But the night was lit alive too by fire and candles, of music, of festivities. There was food and wine, the whole city dining, the atmosphere ‘jolly’ as Clarke said, chuckled as if a silent joke, and Lexa admired it all, pleased for her people. It was not something official for Heda to reside over, so they weaved and wandered through it all, enjoying the displays, the good cheer. They were well stocked for winter, and peace – they had peace. There was no more Maunon, and while the Coalition was not as strong without the enemy as a uniter, it stood steady, it held, for now.
“Come,” Lexa, bold on some alcoholic beverage, curled a hand around Clarke’s.
And Clarke, Clarke did not protest. Lexa’s hand was warm and tender – always tender with her, and Clarke’s heart sang at the touch. Clarke was smiling, secretly, with eyes shining as the exploding stars above them, “Where?”
“Your present.”
“You got me one?”
Lexa nodded, and her hair hid a faint blush that donned her cheeks. She would blame it on the cold and the drinks if Clarke pointed it out.
*
“Oh Lexa, she’s beautiful.”
It was a steed, silver, white and strong, the colour of snow. Clarke, despite it all, was always still a little awed by the beasts, they seemed wild yet tame and large and in a way the embodiment of the earth. From the side, she approached and touched the horse’s mane, their neck, felt it breathing, alive. She looked reverential and Lexa was glad, proud of her choice. Lexa had spent much time thinking over her gift to Clarke. She had wanted it to be something special, something helpful.
“She is yours.”
“This is my gift?”
“Part of it, yes. Tomorrow will be the rest.”
“More?” Clarke looked to her then from patting the mane.
Lexa stood watching and nodded, “You’ll see.”
*
The snow was not yet thick, and the sun was glowing, bright and warm and forgiving, the sky clear, blue.
Clarke was grinning, smiling. It was easy and carefree, and Lexa was wide eyed, her lips upturned. Their hands gripped their reins as they rode, galloping, racing through the fields; the beating of their hearts thrumming as their horses hooves drummed against the ground. It was the most spectacular thing.
Then and there Clarke rode too fast for ghosts or guilt to reach her, and Lexa raced too swiftly for burden and title to claim her, and Lexa knew this. That was why she gifted this. There was freedom, then, on those horses across those fields with the wind whipping through their hair and elation, adrenaline, through their veins. Clarke felt like she was flying, lighter than she had felt in a long while; she felt weightless, with nothing else but her heart in her ears, pumping against her chest, and the expanse of land before her.
As Lexa rode forward, across from her, Clarke fastened to match the Commander’s speed and, remarkably, she laughed, the sound bursting from her lungs easy without force or weight. Lexa didn’t know if she had ever heard a sound so melodious to her ears. Clarke looked to Lexa, joyful, merry, and Lexa smiled then too. It started small, but evident – not her ghost of a smile, and then it grew.
Clarke’s eyes softened marginally at the sight; nothing could come to mind in that moment of anything as mesmerising as Lexa’s young, free smile.
Later, they stopped somewhere Clarke didn’t know, didn’t quite care to know, under a tree as their horses rested, and drank from a stream. Lexa watched the horses, but then Clarke grabbed her hand, the touch electric, surprising. Lexa wondered if she would ever get used to being close to Clarke. She looked to their connected palms then up, and Clarke was staring at her. She felt the blonde squeeze and Lexa had to fight the hitching of her breath, because this hand holding was strange, but warm, welcome, mirroring Clarke’s gentle eyes and expression.
“Thank you, Lexa. Mochof. Really.”
She opened her mouth to speak, parted her lips slightly, but whatever she was going to say, if she had any true thought to say anything, caught in her throat, lodged and nestled and there was no need for words. She nodded and Clarke smiled, squeezed her hand again, held it one, two moments more, a brush of thumb on skin, then let go.
“I’m calling her Snow.”
“Who?”
Lexa had to blink, to become undazzled.
“The horse,” Clarke gestured with her hand.
Lexa’s eyes followed the movement, from Clarke’s face to her arm and hand to the horse it was directed to. She supposed the horse was white like snow, that it made sense, and it was not a terrible name. And Clarke liked horses and she liked snow, though Lexa wondered how her love would last when the brunt of winter came. She would likely still, Lexa thought, because Clarke saw past the horrors, the harshness, in things, and gazed upon their beauty. Still, she didn’t expect it.
“What do you call your horse?”
“Horse.”
“That’s a terrible name.”
Lexa wanted to say it wasn’t a name, that she did not name her horses, because she does not grow particularly attached to one, because they die in some way or another. But this day, this time, was not one for morbidity. And yet, perhaps Clarke understood on some level, because there was a hint of hope, of anticipation, pleading even, in her eyes; as if, naming him, her horse, was a step toward something, a better life where war was not waiting and, as Clarke had said so long ago, was more than just surviving.
“Perhaps I will think of one,” Lexa offered, a hint of a smile, receptive.
And when Clarke’s eyes lightened, a cerulean, crystalized blue, she didn’t have to think long.
*
They went riding again, two days later, mid-week of the festivities, the tradition. They didn’t go as far, stopped again by a stream, by trees.
For a little while, because Lexa brought food, and surface to sit on as to not dampen their clothing by the snow, they sat underneath a tree eating, talking. Lexa had mind to suggest Clarke bring her sketchbook, so her hands moved, danced, traced and created. Lexa sat, her back to the bark, a little rough, but not irritatingly so, and she watched awhile, though she rested too.
She woke temporarily, blinked and dozed and not fully aware of reality, and half wondered if she was still dreaming, because Clarke’s shoulder was touching her shoulder, and her hand – the one not drawing, was holding her own, fingers intertwined, and she saw on the page a sketch of her, sleeping. She looked young. Clarke turned her head to her and saw her half wakefulness, smiled, and Lexa wanted to kiss Clarke then, because she was in love, and things were better. Still, she couldn’t initiate. If there was a future of that nature, to them, the choice was Clarke’s, and as it was, she was tired, drowsy, mind muddled, and Clarke thought her tender, adorable and beautiful in this moment of peace. Lexa squeezed the hand that held her own, and her lidded eyes closed for slumber again.
*
“Lexa, c’mon, time to go.”
She heard the voice, felt the palm on her cheek, the other touching her hand. She stirred gently at the probing, and Lexa awoke with blinking eyes once more, alertness rising, as her brain scrambled to catch up. Her gaze met Clarke’s, who was crouched in front of her, who was close and Lexa licked her lips as she glanced around to see everything packed away, aside from the cloth under her, protecting her from the cold of snow. Her eyes returned to Clarke’s and she found them smiling, sparkling.
“Clarke.”
She said, gentle, not to address, or question, or anything other than to simply say the blonde’s name. It was her favourite thing to say, and she wanted to keep the name safe with her. Clarke smiled, and her eyes were light and yet somehow dark suddenly, determined, or resolute, on something, perhaps a thought; and then she did something unexpected – she moved, shifted, so she was straddling Lexa’s lap. Lexa felt the warmth of Clarke on her legs and her heart, slow still in the waking from sleep, thrummed, elated and fluttered. Lexa wondered if she was still dreaming. Then, a moment later, possibly all in the same moment, Clarke’s other hand rested on her other cheek, and they were comforting, were lovely, and the world no longer existed after her sharp, quiet, intake of breath as Clarke’s lips, soft, were kissing her on her own lips, delectable, and compliant. There was not much movement; it was reminiscent of their first and only comparable kiss, so, so long ago. Clarke’s lips were sure, but they were tender, and they still waited for Lexa, and when Lexa’s brushed and attached to Clarke’s lower lip, it was all the invitation Clarke needed to deepen the embrace. Tongue probing, non-heated, Lexa’s mouth opened and she breathed through her nose as their tongues danced, tentative, and she was very much awake, her entire being pulsating. But the exploration was not long, following Clarke’s lead the touch of lips turned chaste and feathery until Clarke shifted away, and Lexa’s eyes blinked, dazzled, at Clarke whose own eyes still remained closed for a moment, or two, or three – time was lost to Lexa – until blue eyes shared her gaze, only to glance away, a light blush gracing her cheeks.
“Sorry, that kind of – it was meant to be a short chaste kiss.”
Lexa blinked. She didn’t know if she could speak if she tried – she couldn’t in her tent after their first kiss. She was left dazzled then too, light-headed, light-hearted, alive. She wondered if kissing Clarke would always be so other-worldly.
At seeing this, Clarke smiled, coy, amused, “Don’t expect a kiss like that every time under the mistletoe.”
“Mistletoe?”
It was another word, unfamiliar yet not. Clarke looked on, adored, shook her head and stole a chaste brush of lips, too quick to deepen.
“Look up.”
Lexa did.
“It’s another Christmas thing. Two people kiss if under mistletoe. Not…always of that nature,” and Clarke’s body shifted once more, Lexa instantly and acutely aware of her hands on the woman’s waist, only to release them as Clarke rose to her feat, stepped back , “C’mon.”
But it was some moments before Lexa did, because Lexa just kept looking up, mouth slightly parted and in awe, at the green that brought Clarke’s lips to her own.
*
“You chose that spot.”
“I did.”
“You had planned it then?”
“It worked out nicely.”
Lexa stopped her horse and Clarke, noticing, did the same. She looked back and found open, vulnerable and searching eyes.
“What does it mean?”
“It means… we’re moving forward, taking steps.”
Lexa spurred her horse forward, walked to Clarke’s side. She swallowed and turned her head to the golden haired star, and when she spoke it was not shy and hesitant like Clarke thought it may have been.
“Does that mean I have permission to kiss and hold you?”
And for the second time that week, Lexa heard Clarke’s melodious laugh.
“Yes, Lexa.”
*
Much to Lexa’s disappointment, she wasn’t able to kiss or hold Clarke after the ride, or the much of the next day, because Lexa had to oversee things. There was no time to catch a moment alone with Clarke, and even still Lexa was afraid of initiating intimacy of lips, of touch, fearing it had all been a misunderstanding under the guise of mistletoe. But later, at night, when they returned to partake in the festivities again, danced, drank, cheeks flushed and hearts fluttering, Lexa kissed Clarke under low lighting, and there was no doubt in Clarke’s probing tongue or hesitance in her hands.
*
“I have a gift for you too.”
It was the same night, and Clarke was leading Lexa by hand back to their building, where their rooms were.
“I have you, Clarke. You gift me every time you grace your touch upon mine, I do not need anything else.”
Lexa was even more tender drunk, more poetic and lovely and Clarke had to stop their journey to kiss her, had to resist passion and heat else Clarke knew they’d end up tangled in sheets, with sweated skin and heaving lungs, eager. Clarke didn’t know if she wanted to wait any longer for it or not, because it’s been months, months since the mountain, since healing – though she still had moments, had days of the past grasping at her – and she was tired of fighting what she had felt in her heart for so long. She was drunk and in love, though she would push the thought aside sober, because steps. Yes. Steps. They were taking those.
Clarke smiled, Lexa’s lips chased, and she giggled.
“C’mon.”
“Are you going to bed me Clarke?”
The blonde shook her head even though it was a possibility.
“We’re drunk.”
Lexa pulled her in and kissed her lips, her nose, her cheek, her jaw, her eyes, rested their heads close, and the moment was intimate.
“You’re very beautiful.”
Clarke sighed at the soft spoken words, knowing they meant something deeper, something else entirely.
*
They were finally in Lexa’s chambers, and Lexa was standing by her bed, feeling confused, thankful and flattered, tired, and disappointed she is not touching Clarke in some way. The blonde herself was near, but sitting on the bed, and the corners of her mouth stretched a smile, happy.
“She’s for you.”
“A dog?”
“Yes! Isn’t she adorable? You can train her.”
It was a little thing, brown and black in fur, a pup, like a small wolf. Lexa almost frowned at the comparison, because the dog did not look fierce like a wolf, did not look strong – it looked… cute, and adorable, and more than anything Lexa didn’t like how Clarke was fixated on it. Even in her intoxicated state Lexa realised she just experienced jealousy over a dog and so she shook the feeling and thought, her sense of pride swelling, and joined Clarke on the bed, eyeing the animal.
The dog, the puppy, quiet but excitable still, having noticed Lexa, turned its attention to her.
Clarke smiled, softer, and watched as it made it across to Lexa and the woman, who she so wanted to kiss, placed her hand on the animals head, petted it’s fur, let it lick and then bite playfully. Lexa smiled then.
“It bites.”
Clarke had to fight a roll of eyes. “Of course, that’s what you like to see in a dog…”
Lexa ignored Clarke and picked up the beast, held it in front of her, it’s tail, thick, a brush, swinging, brown eyes warm.
“I like her. She will grow to protect you,” Lexa nodded.
Clarke groaned, falling from her sitting position onto the bed, smiling, embarrassed and her heart filled with adoration. Lexa fell unto her back, joined Clarke, the dog still held in the hair, patient, non-squirming, and Clarke thought they were an excellent match in personality. Then laughter erupted from her lungs, muffled into Lexa’s hair as she turned her face and body, at Lexa’s words; the Commander was truly drunk, she had to be, after all. Clarke didn’t know if she had ever heard something so amusing.
“You will be called Rexa.”
Clarke didn’t reprimand the woman for the name, it was adorable, was light and good and so far away from the heaviness that life often was. Lexa put the dog down her stomach, by Clarke’s hand that rested there, and turned her attention to the blonde. Lexa looked young.
“Are you happy, Clarke?”
“Yeah,” she nodded, “I’m happy. Are you?”
Lexa nodded, “You are in my life, and you are happy, and that makes me happy. I… this has been a good year of the tradition. Thank you, Clarke.”
And Clarke’s eyes sparkled again, tired and alive, in the low light, a smile sprouting, if it wasn’t already there. She kissed the warrior, left her face close, nudged noses. She was content to fall asleep right there, breaths mingled and warm.
“Merry Christmas, Lexa.”
An early expression of this sentiment using the phrase of "the true meaning" is found in The American magazine, vol. 28 (1889):
"to give up one's very self — to think only of others — how to bring the greatest happiness to others — that is the true meaning of Christmas"