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She knows it is too late to save Heda. The Commander’s Spirit will already, by this time, have filtered off into the ether, borne by blood and sweat and pain and death into a new vessel strong enough to carry out its will. So when she snatches the lightning rod from Naikou’s cold, dead hands, it’s not to save Heda, but to bring back to life the girl she helped to raise and train as her own. It’s not too late yet to save Leksa.
Terror breathes new life into her sore limbs. She shoves past on-lookers, past Heda’s guard, skids to her knees in the icy snow at Leksa’s side and rams the end of the rod into Leksa’s upturned chest. She feels a button depress under the palm of her hand and the shiver of the machine as electricity hums, smells the burn of flesh scalding, flinches at the way Leksa’s chest jumps under the blow.
Nothing.
Tears are running down Indra’s cheeks. They mingle with the blood that stains her skin, and warriors stare in shock at the matriarch of the Trikru. Indra never cries, but she’s crying now, and she jabs the rod into Leksa’s chest again, desperate for a greater reaction than the jerk of Leksa’s still shoulders.
Still nothing. A big hand closes over Indra’s, over the handle of the lightning rod, but Indra only clenches her fist and pushes the interloper away. She’s kneeling in slush and guts, in the blood of the girl she’d sworn to protect since Leksa was three and she was thirteen, and holds the life-staff against Leksa’s chest as the current screams again.
For once, Indra doesn’t care about Heda. She doesn’t care about the clans, doesn’t care about weakness, doesn’t care about how showing it now will affect her. She only cares for the girl crumpled in the snow in front of her. She only cares that those dark eyelids lift, and glittering green eyes look at her again.
Though it is in the space of a breath, it feels like eternity before the chest she stabs the lightning rod into rises of its own volition. Indra drops it into the snow beside them and crumples over Leksa, pulls her shoulders into her lap and folds protectively over her convulsing face and holds her. Blood and spit spatter the underside of Indra’s jaw, but air is flooding the lungs under her ear and she can hear Leksa suck in breath after gasping breath, and can hear the heavy slam of her revived heart crash against cracked ribs.
She sleeps for three weeks. Indra worries the whole time. She only leaves Leksa’s side to scour the battlefield for the mutilated body of Leksa’s horse. After the blood and carnage and fire, nothing is salvageable, and all Indra can bring back with her is the warhorse’s dented bit. The saddle is too damaged and too large and heavy to carry. She finds Leksa’s oak-handled knife too, buried in a foot of scarlet-stained snow close to where she found Leksa’s lifeless body. She brings these things with her, for Leksa to keep. Leksa does not wake until after they have left for Polis, until they’re only a few days ride from the capital. She wakes up catatonic and disoriented, unable to understand why she cannot move her right leg.
Indra grieves when the fisa tells them Leksa may never walk again. Leksa brushes off the news like it’s nothing, and perhaps to the once-Heda it is hardly the most important change in her life. Leksa has always known that she is Heda, and now that truth is gone. She has lost more than the use of her limb. She has lost her entire identity. Indra grieves because despite the lightning rod and despite her best intentions and her best efforts, Leksa still dies. Perhaps it would have been better if Indra had let Leksa’s soul pass completely. But she’s already lost her second, and the idea of losing her second’s second spreads an ache in her chest that might have killed her too.
Though it’s normal for someone as badly injured as Leksa to need time to recuperate, it is clear to Indra from the start that a part of Leksa is missing. Despite her status as an omega, there had always been so much alpha in her, so much strength and dominance and power. But now, Leksa is passive, looks almost relieved to discover that her knee was damaged so badly. Her voice is softer, weaker, and she barely speaks to anyone. When they finally arrive, weary and broken, to Polis, Leksa looks out of place in her old home. She lies in bed, tentatively touching the deep wound running down her face, staring out the window, clutching her dagger, her warhorse’s bit, the small, dirty braid of blond hair her alpha had given her the day they met. Indra sees the child she was before she became Heda. And though she still sees - buried beneath the pain and insecurity that clouds her eyes - the strength and the power of the old Commander in her, there is none of the aggression, none of the fire, that bore it. Indra lingers in the capital with the rest of the clan leaders while they discuss the previously unconsidered possibility that a Heda may live without the Commander’s Spirit. No one seems to know how to handle it.
“Go home, Indra,” Leksa tells her one day, her voice rough and pale with disuse. She doesn’t talk much anymore, and when she does, it’s only ever to Indra. “Tondisi needs you.”
Indra stares at her sidelong. The order lacks the usual hard-edged authority that was once a signature of Leksa’s voice. She just sounds like a shadow of herself now, and Indra still is not used to it. “You need me,” Indra insists, and hesitates because she can’t call Leksa ‘Heda’ anymore, but it has been over a decade since she’s used Leksa’s given name. Leksa doesn’t even spare her a glance. Guilt spears Indra, because she knows how wounded Leksa’s pride and strength are over her invalidity, but it’s still the truth. What worries Indra most, however, is that Leksa does not argue.
Once the search for the new Commander begins, Indra declines to help personally in searching for the new vessel of their Heda. She sends representatives instead, and helps Leksa learn to move around on her cane. She begs Leksa to come back to Tondisi with her. But Leksa refuses every time.
“Polis is my home, Indra,” she murmurs at the end of every long, one-sided rant Indra gives on the subject. But Indra suspects the real reason Leksa will not come back to Tondisi is because of how close it is to Camp Jaha, and because she knows how often Klark travels there on business.
“And what of Klark?” Indra finally asks one day in a voice so resigned and so tired and so worried it doesn’t sound like her to her own ears. “What of your alpha?”
For once, Leksa looks up at her, sullen green eyes bright with pain and her mouth twisting in the first expression Indra has seen since the battle at the Ice Queen’s palace. “She won’t care,” Leksa’s voice cracks over the words, “and the person I was has died. So don’t tell her. Please, Indra, don’t tell her.” Indra clenches her jaw because she sees fear in Leksa’s eyes. She doesn’t know how to feel about Leksa’s request, doesn’t know how to feel about the stench of terror rolling off the omega in waves, doesn’t know how to feel about the complacency and passivity Leksa shows about everything.
But she uses it to her advantage.
Two needs become apparent to Indra. First, Leksa needs something to do. Work will give Leksa purpose, and Indra hopes will help her forge a new identity. Second, Indra knows that when the elders find the new Heda, Leksa will no longer be welcome to stay in the Commander’s squat little house in the center of Polis. Because this situation is unprecedented, their people will not know what to do with Leksa when that happens, and Indra is the only family Leksa has left. If Leksa refuses to return to Tondisi with her, if she refuses to leave Polis, she will need somewhere to live and a way to support herself.
Ollon is rough around the edges. Bitter, hard, detached since his son died three summers ago. But he is a good man and Indra trusts him. His most recent apprentice has left to make his own smithy and he needs help running his shop. It is ideal, because Leksa knows her way around a forge, because she can work seated on a stool, and because Indra thinks the company would do both Ollon and Leksa good. When Leksa’s leg has healed enough to allow her to limp around on it, Indra takes Leksa to the smithy and introduces them. He promises to protect Leksa, to keep her safe and fed and housed while she recovers as long as she pulls her own weight at the shop. Leksa trails her fingers along the worn tools and holds her hand over the heat of the anvil, dull green eyes glittering in the firelight.
“You can still come back to Tondisi with me,” Indra murmurs to her after Leksa has already agreed to the arrangement. Leksa turns to face her, cheeks a little flushed in the thick, smothering heat, and shakes her head minutely.
And then Indra cannot put off her return to Tondisi any longer. She stays only long enough to make sure Leksa has everything she needs, that she is comfortable in her small room at the forge, and that Leksa will not change her mind about returning with her. Then she packs her things together, regroups with her warriors and finds a young healer willing to come to Tondisi to take Naikou’s place, and leaves.
Though the war has been over for nearly two months, news has yet to reach Tondisi of its end and of the Heda’s demise. Indra sees Klark in her village not a week after her return, and sees on her face the instant the whispers reach her of Leksa’s death.
It’s cold, and Klark’s nose and cheeks are bright red with the chill. But the wetness of Klark’s eyes and the sudden pallor of her skin is not from the freezing temperature. Indra sees the grief for only an instant as it cracks across Klark’s face before the alpha draws in a deep breath, closes her eyes, and puts it away for later. For an instant, Indra considers breaking her promise to Leksa to tell Klark that her lover still lives. But only for an instant. As far as Indra is concerned, Klark has not earned that peace of mind, and has not earned Leksa's love. Let her suffer while Leksa recovers. Let her feel the pain of a love lost while Leksa recreates herself in peace. Indra is not sure she trusts Klark to be of any use to Leksa now anyway.
Klark does not stay in the village for long. She makes excuses to the village elders, Indra included, and leaves before their usual, mostly friendly, games of chess begin. And after that, Indra rarely sees Klark in the village at all. Instead, she starts to see Abi in her place, Belomi sometimes, Kein on the very rare occasion. But Klark almost never comes at all.
And Indra only sees Leksa once a year at the Harvest Festivals because Polis is simply too far away from Tondisi and Indra's responsibilities just don't allow for that much travel. Still, she sees Leksa between meetings with the delegates Klark sends from Camp Jaha, for as long as she can manage.
“You move better with your cane now,” Indra observes out loud the second time she visits. Relief warms her insides when she sees Leksa smile at her. It’s not a happy smile, her green eyes are still dark and melancholy, but it’s a smile and it’s more than Leksa has bothered with since they returned from the north three years ago. “And your shoulders are broader,” Indra continues, arms out now and fingertips touching over the ball of each of Leksa’s shoulders as if measuring their width.
“Ollon has me shaping metal now,” Leksa explains, and Indra is a little relieved to hear some confidence in her voice again. It is still a far cry from where Leksa used to be, but that Leksa takes pride and interest in her work is a good start.
Every year, Indra sees little improvements. Every year, she hears a little more alpha bleed into Leksa’s voice. It never quite holds the same strength and power Leksa once held as Heda, but it gets close. Some of it stems from the new responsibilities Ollon gives her - a clear indication of the faith he has in Leksa’s capabilities. Some of it stems from simply growing accustomed to her new status as any ordinary grounder. Some it it - perhaps most of it - stems from the freedom Leksa is slowly learning to find in no longer being responsible for the fate and wellbeing of their entire people. Still, a piece of the puzzle remains missing, and Indra knows that there is still one thing that Leksa needs to find happiness again.
And then, perhaps five years after Indra brought Leksa home damaged and broken, she finally sees Klark again. It is early fall, in Polis, during the Harvest Festival, and Klark is hollow-eyed. She knows she cannot break the promise she made to Leksa and tell the alpha that her lover still lives, but she knows that this is the final piece of Leksa’s puzzle, and that she must do something. So she follows Klark through the city, always just out of her line of sight, and waits until Klark has made her excuses to Belomi and starts wandering through the city alone, presumably to return to her rented room in the quarter of the city reserved for visitors.
Klark is sunk in thought. She seems not to know where she is walking at all. So Indra gently pushes and nudges her as she walks, topples baskets of food ‘by accident’ to keep her walking past the streets and alleys she means to take, and herds the Skai girl without her knowledge away from her room and under the bridge and straight into Leksa’s forge.
He is nine, almost ten, when Clarke announces at the end of a Basic First Aid lesson that her mate is looking to second someone under her. His ears perk, because although his father makes sure they both have everything they need to survive, even live comfortably, he wants to be able to contribute too. He wants to have the skills and the ability to provide for himself, and working at a forge just sounds cool.
He also worships Clarke and Lexa as his own personal heroes. The opportunity to spend time around them, to learn from them, is too good to pass up.
He’s scrawny, but determined, and manages to push past the other kids clamoring for Clarke’s attention. He has to yank hard enough at her shirt-sleeve to start a rip at the seam, and for a moment, he’s terrified that Clarke will be angry. Instead, Clarke turns to look at him, searches his face for a moment as if trying to place him (there are so many people and so many kids always clamoring for her attention), before her eyes light up in recognition.
“Peter, you ripped my sleeve,” Clarke says, but her voice isn’t unkind.
Peter swallows and nods, and holds his ground even when bigger boys try to push him out of the way to show off their muscles and prove their strength to the alpha that co-leads their community. A smile quirks on Clarke’s lip, she turns to the other children, and for a moment, Peter is crestfallen because he thinks she’s done paying him any mind.
Instead, Clarke shoos everyone out of the make-shift classroom and puts her hand on his shoulder to hold him back until the sound of footsteps ringing across the steel floors of Ark Hospital fade away.
“It’ll be hard work,” Clarke says after a moment, and leans back against the table behind which she demonstrates her lessons. Peter hunches under her thoughtful look, a little shy and embarrassed and wondering what made him brave enough to ask for her attention in the first place. “It’ll be hot, hotter than you think,” she continues, arms crossed over her chest while she regards him, “and Lexa won’t go easy on you. She’ll have high expectations, and you have to meet them.”
He nods his head stubbornly.
“It will be exhausting, and you’ll probably get burned a lot.”
Again, Peter nods. He chances a glance at Clarke’s face and meets her eyes, but they are smiling and Peter feels bravery bloom in his chest.
“I’m tougher than I look,” he says, the edge of a challenge in his unbroken, little boy’s voice, “and stronger.”
Her smile widens. She looks down at the small tear along her shoulder, then looks back into his eyes as she answers, “I know.”
For a few moments, they just stare at each other. Peter shifts self-consciously under her examining gaze. He knows he’s not much to look at, he’s a shrimp and doesn’t look quite as old as he is. He doesn’t look strong or tough or like anything much really, but he can do this. He will do this, given the chance.
“You’ll have to ask your dad for permission,” Clarke says finally, her eyes narrowed slightly in contemplation. Peter nods his head vigorously, his mind a blur of possibilities, numb to the idea that Clarke is even considering him as a candidate.
“I will!” He vows, voice shrill with excitement, “I’ll beg if I have to!” And then he turns on his heel and sprints away, because the anticipation and the hope filling him up from head to toe is too overwhelming to contain.
At first, his father says no.
Actually, at first, his father says, “No. Not under any circumstances,” but Peter won’t take that for an answer. He begs and wheedles and pushes and fights, because Clarke and Lexa are his heroes and he wants to be just like them. But his father feeds him nonsense about just being a kid and enjoying his childhood, and Peter yells that he’ll enjoy working for Lexa and just won’t let it drop. His father looks at him, his face creased with exhaustion and worry and a sadness Peter has never seen him without, and Peter only squares his shoulders, puts his hands on his hips and stares back.
When his father still says no, he sneaks off to Lexa’s newly built forge in the morning anyway. It’s just past dawn, and there’s a sharp, bitter chill in the air that bleeds right through his clothes, into his skin and sinks deep into his bones. Winter has arrived in full force this year, early and hard, and the grass under his boots crunch with frost. But light spills from the wide threshold of Lexa’s forge, and the moment he steps foot inside, heat envelops him in the warmest hug he’s ever received. It burns the cold from his cheeks and makes his eyes water, and he stands in the golden light of the fire roaring inside and takes a moment to gather his bearings.
Despite the early hour, Lexa is already inside and hard at work. Her skin glistens with the slight film of sweat, brown and crisp and glowing in the shimmering heat. She’s bowed gracefully over the anvil, and the bare muscle along her arms and shoulders flex magnificently as she hammers out the tapered edge of what Peter thinks could be an ax. The ring of her blows is deafening, but Peter doesn’t mind. With her back to him and the sound of her work drowning out his footsteps, he has managed to come in undetected, and he has time now to gawk in awe at the one person he admires even more than Clarke.
She’s beautiful. Dark braids waterfall between defined shoulder blades, and a dark patch has spread along the small of her back. She’s small, like him, and yet still powerful and commanding and so incredibly resilient. He would be lying if he said that she doesn’t terrify him, that he isn’t wholly intimidated by her, but that is part of her allure. If he could grow up to be half as strong as her, half as tough…
Lexa stops and dunks the cooling iron into a huge bucket of water beside her. Steam explodes from the surface and hisses fiercely, and that’s when Peter forces himself to take another step inside and into Lexa’s field of vision. Her body straightens immediately, and Peter’s mouth goes dry when fierce, expressive eyes catch his own.
They’re green and woodsy and flecked with gold, just like he’d heard in all the stories. Her mouth curls just slightly at the corner and Peter’s heart explodes in his chest, hammers hot blood through his veins, and his hands grow clammy. He thinks he might be in love.
“You must be Peter,” she says, and Peter stammers out a yes past the voices screaming in his head with excitement and nervousness. He can’t believe she already knows his name. He can’t believe he’s standing in front of Commander Lexa and that she’s actually talking to him. Lexa’s tiny smile quirks, then spreads a little, and butterflies break out in dance somewhere in Peter’s middle. “Are you here to tell me you got permission from your father to be here, or to tell me I’ll have to find another second?” Lexa asks, and the low, rough sound of her voice makes Peter feel almost a little sick with excitement and apprehension.
“I’ll be your second,” Peter says quickly and blushes because his voice cracked embarrassingly over the words. He feels bad, because though he didn’t exactly lie, he didn’t actually answer Lexa’s question or tell her the truth. But he’s nine, almost ten - almost a grown man, he thinks - and can make this decision for himself. He’s rewarded with another minuscule smile and a slight nod.
“Then you’re late,” she says, and Peter thinks he’s going to have a heart attack because he hasn’t even started yet and she’s already admonishing him for his tardiness. “Be here an hour before dawn from now on. Take your coat off, you’ll get too hot like that.”
He realizes quickly that everything Clarke warned him about is true. First - it is volcanically hot inside the forge. Less than an hour into his work, he feels charred and dry and stretched thin, his skin feels brittle and hot, his eyes burn, and his hair smells singed. Second - Lexa is far more intimidating than he’d ever given her credit for. She may be an omega, but everything about her is alpha. And she doesn’t go easy on him, doesn’t treat him like anything less than a fully grown, fully capable man. She has high expectations of him, and will not lower them merely because of his age or size.
For all of this, Peter lives for the tiny half-smiles he can see quirk the corner of her lip sometimes, and for the sparse, hard-earned praise she rarely offers. And her high expectations, her refusal to allow him any of the excuses his father constantly makes for him, only spurs him on to do more, to do better, and to feel more capable. By the time his first day of work is through, he is sweating and sore and burned, and barely has the energy to drag himself home and to bed. He’s completely love-sick too, and dreams of Lexa’s eyes and her mouth and her voice through the short night until the hour before dawn.
When Peter wakes the next morning, sore and hurting and still exhausted, and hauls himself out of his cot to get to the forge an hour before dawn, he finds his father waiting for him. He realizes how foolish it was to think his father might not notice immediately - no matter how overworked or stretched thin his dad is, he always notices, always pays attention. At first, they just stare at each other. Then, Peter takes a few steps forward, a few steps closer to the door to their hut, and his father slips in his way, puts a hand on his shoulder and stops him.
“Please, Dad,” Peter begs in a whisper to keep from waking any of the other families that share their hut, “she’s counting on me to show up. I promised not to be late this time.”
Something flashes in his father’s eyes, and by some miracle, he steps out of the way. At first, Peter thinks he’s won, that he’s off the hook and that his father has no problem anymore with allowing him to be Lexa’s second, and he grins, big and wide and victorious. But the moment he steps foot out the door, he finds he’s shadowed by his father, who keeps a hand on his shoulder and walks with him all the way to Lexa’s forge.
Terror and guilt war in Peter’s chest. His hands start to shake and he feels vaguely sick. He realizes his untruth the day before will be uncovered by his father, and is afraid that when Lexa hears about his lie, when she finds out his father hasn’t and won’t give permission for Peter to be there, he won’t be allowed back in Lexa’s forge ever again. He imagines the fury on Lexa’s face, pictures her disgust with him, and he’s numb to the bitter chill of the air and breaks out in a cold sweat. He fights himself not to cry.
It is both too long and all too soon when they step into the orange lamp-glow of Lexa’s smithy. Peter can’t look into Leksa’s eyes. All he can see is the tiny smile of approval for his timely arrival that curls at the very corner of Lexa’s mouth, and how it morphs into curiosity and concern when she sees Peter’s father behind him. Sick to his stomach, Peter scurries inside from under his father’s hand and sets about immediately with his work. Start the fire. Fill the bucket. Roll out the cloth over Lexa’s workbench and lay out her tools. Stoke the fire to burn it hot and high.
He can hear their quiet murmurs behind him, and at one point, Lexa pulls his father outside completely to speak with him in greater privacy. Peter’s hands are shaking as he pulls out Lexa’s hammer, and despite the blistering heat of the forge’s fire, he feels bitterly cold. He struggles to remember his instructions, polishes her tools and wipes down the anvil even though he cleaned it yesterday, for good measure and because Lexa and his father have been talking for so long he’s finished his tasks and does not know what else to do.
Finally, Lexa leads Peter’s father back inside. Her expression is passive, and Peter cannot read her face. There is a sharp glint in her shadowed eyes and Peter gulps because behind her, his father stares on, face creased with hard, stern lines.
“Come here, Peter,” Lexa’s voice is low, quiet, but there’s a sharp edge to it that makes Peter quail and his knees knock together. He can feel how the blood drains from his cheeks and thinks he must look pathetic, that Lexa will treat him now like a little boy just like everyone else and he can’t stand that. For a moment, he considers running away. Better that than to have his hero talk down to him. Better a coward than a failure.
But what kind of man would he be if he ran away from his problems?
“You lied to me, Peter,” Lexa says, when Peter is standing squarely in front of her. He hangs his head, because he cannot argue with her and because his shame is too heavy for him to carry. “You also disobeyed your father,” she goes on, and Peter wishes the ground would open beneath his feet and swallow him whole. “This is more than just disappointing. How can I trust my second when he lies and disobeys orders?”
With a start, Peter jerks his chin up and looks into Lexa’s eyes. The idea that Lexa feels she cannot trust him breaks his young heart to pieces. “No - Miss Lexa - I didn’t mean to -,”
“Didn’t mean to - what, Peter?” Lexa’s eyes are hard and flinty, and she seems to tower over Peter. Her fists balance on either hip and Peter’s father beside her only looks down at him, his face a mask of disappointment. “Tell me what you did and did not mean.”
He can barely manage to pull enough air into his lungs to keep breathing. His mouth is dry again, but not for the same reason it had dried up the day before. His heart shivers behind his ribs and the instinct to run and hide and never come back out is almost overwhelming. He fights the tears burning in his eyes and swallows the lump in his throat hard before he can force himself to form words. “I just want to learn from you,” he whispers harshly, and twists his fingers together because his nerves and his shame need some form of outlet, “I want to be strong like you, tough like you -,”
“Sneaking around behind our backs is not strong, and it’s not tough.”
His father’s voice drips disappointment. Peter can’t look up into his eyes, because he knows his father’s right. But he’s not sorry. He can’t be. All he wants is to be seconded by Lexa, and if he’s achieved that even for a single day, even if he achieves it by lying and sneaking around, he can’t be sorry for that.
“What did you mean, Peter?” Lexa insists, and Peter looks at her, mouth dry, hands clenching into fists at his sides. Her glittering green eyes are shadowed, opaque, insistent. He can’t disobey her. He has to answer.
“I want to be your second, Lexa,” he says squarely, jutting his chin out though he trembles in his boots, “even if my dad says no. I won’t say I’m sorry, because I’m not. And I won’t stop coming every morning before dawn to prepare the forge for you.”
It’s the most daring thing he’s ever done, defying his father like that. He’s terrified, his guts squirm and his heart feels faint and weak, but he holds Lexa’s stare, determined, stubborn, stalwart. They’ll have to drag him out kicking and screaming, and they’ll have to keep doing that every day for the rest of his life.
The corner of Lexa’s mouth quirks, and Peter is too scared to hope that she might be smiling. Her eyes are still dark and hard. His father’s arms are still crossed over his chest.
“Good,” Lexa says then, confusing Peter so much he actually rubs at his ears because he doesn’t think he’s heard her right, “because you made a commitment, and it’s not one you can back out of. It’s not one even your father can get you out of.” Lexa’s arms cross over her chest, and Peter is still confused. Does this mean he can continue being Lexa’s second? Why would he ever want to get out of that?
“You’ll have to earn back both of our trust,” Peter’s father says then, and Peter stares at him and wonders if he’s dreaming, “and just because you’re Lexa’s second does not mean you get out of going to school.”
“Every morning, you will be here an hour before dawn to prepare the forge. You will go to your lessons every day, and when you’re not at your lessons, you will be here,” Lexa continues for him, and Peter is struggling not to shout his surprise and excitement, he struggles to contain the massive grin creeping across his face, “it will be exhausting. You will work harder than you’ve ever worked in your life. You will not complain, and you can not quit. Is that understood, Seken?”
Peter is elated. He doesn’t know what Lexa must have told his father to make him agree, he doesn’t even know if Lexa is still angry with him for lying, or if his father is still angry, but Lexa has just told him he will be her second and his skin is buzzing with joy. He nods furiously, his voice cracks again as he squeaks out “yes, Ma’am,” and when his father bends to look him in the eye, Peter throws his arms around his shoulders and hugs him tightly.
“Don’t thank me yet, kiddo,” his father sighs, sounding tired and sad and worried, but Peter feels a big hand on his back and when he pulls away sees the smallest of smiles lighting his eyes, “I hope this makes you happy, Pete,” he says slowly, and cups Peter’s cheek with his big, warm, rough hand, “I fought too long and too hard for anything else.”
He thanks his father anyway, and continues to thank him. Even when Lexa insists he start to learn Trigedasleng and he discovers how bad he is at languages. Even when Lexa starts him learning combat techniques from Lincoln and Octavia (her knee disallows her from training him herself) and he ends every session with them battered and bruised and feeling nearly broken. Even when he comes home well after dark at the end of a full day so exhausted he can barely drag himself over to his cot before he passes out. Even when dawn comes a few hours later and his whole body is still aching and he is still worn out from his double loads of training, classes, work on the fields and work at Lexa’s smith. Peter’s father smiles on grimly at first, and as the years drag on and Peter never once complains, as Peter grows stronger, tougher, more resilient, Peter sees that smile turns from grim to proud.
When news reaches her that Leksa is pregnant, Indra makes a special trip just to see her. It is a momentous and joyous occasion, because as Heda, Leksa could never even entertain the idea of being mated, and could never hope or dream to have children of her own. Back then, all the twelve clans were her children, and she was mated to her position as Commander.
When Indra arrives, it is to a flurry of activity. Camp Jaha is as busy as ever, but there is also a strange excitement in the air. People’s eyes glitter, and Leksa’s second, a boy Indra guesses cannot be older than seven or eight summers, arrives bright eyed and jittery to take her horse for her. Though she does not smile at him, she waits while he unsaddles her horse and stables it, and follows only him through throngs of people to Leksa’s home.
He is easily as excited as Klark and Leksa, and yammers on about his hope that the baby will be a boy like him: a little brother for him to protect and teach and take care of. He quiets once they arrive, and Indra thinks he’s a good boy, if a little too easily excited and too loud, but there’s time to train the noise out of him yet. He shows her in and squats obediently at Leksa’s feet as Indra greets first Leksa, then her mate. They are both home after their daily duties, it is warm despite the cold outside, and there is good food on the table. A big improvement from the last time Indra made a personal visit to the Skaikru camp- nearly a decade ago when the peace between grounders and Skaikru was still fragile and tentative and there was no dinner at the end of a long day of training.
And Leksa…
“You glow,” Indra says to her old Commander. She keeps her expression studiously blank, but can’t keep the approval or the warmth out of her voice. Leksa smiles - an expression that used to be so incredibly rare but now looks at home on her lips and in her eyes. She smells of earth cradled in mist and the warm sky that stretches over a forest, and Klark’s alpha notes are clear and strong in her scent. A fresh scar lines her throat, pink with new skin. There is a matching scar along Klark’s throat, and their scents are the same. Indra offers Klark her hand, and Klark grasps the forearm, grip firm and strong.
“I never thanked you for bringing her back to me,” Klark says in her soft, raspy voice. Indra shifts uncomfortably. Neither she nor Leksa know the true extent of that statement. She avoids looking into either of their eyes for precisely this reason.
“I didn’t do it for you,” Indra replies gruffly, but Klark’s mouth twitches upward in a smile and she shrugs before she says “thank you anyway,” and that’s that.
Indra is only there for a couple of days. She goes with Leksa to her forge in the morning, and watches the way Leksa trains her second. Peter is small, especially for his age (which Indra discovers is two years older than she had assumed), but there is a light in him that reminds Indra of Leksa at that age. He pours his heart and soul into his work, takes pride in his accomplishments, squares his jaw and swears to do better in his failures. He is starting to learn Trigedasleng, and though it is a struggle, he seems to at least be able to anticipate Leksa’s needs out of habit and observation even if he doesn’t understand a word of what she says. She offers him a single smile before she goes back to Tondisi, and the boy grins back at her like she has given him the moon.
After that, Indra visits more often: every time Leksa discovers she’s pregnant again and every time she gives birth. She struggles and fails not to choke on tears when Leksa and Klark announce that their eldest daughter will be named Onia, after Leksa’s mentor. She forgets herself and coos at Wilou as she sleeps in her bassinet, while her mother and sire sleep in a hospital bed beside her. She arrives late for Jeik’s birth, and though her heart is hammering in her chest with worry for Leksa because he came too early, she forgets her fear entirely when the babe is put in her arms, small and beautiful and carrying Leksa’s scent from before she was mated. And though Indra will deny it to her dying breath, Leksa’s children bring out a softness in her she forgot she had, and a joy she never believed was possible.