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Lexa needs her.
Clarke remembers the words, the way she said them, lips curling around each syllable, articulate, imploring. A stone wall, the cracks grown with moss and creeping vines, hints of the life beneath, hints that somewhere, beneath the Commander, beneath Heda , a human being still struggled for air, choking every moment on her self-induced solitude.
The gaps open wider when Clarke draws nearer, promising more with every step, the scent of pollen in the air, the hope for spring. Clarke remembers the rough gravel against her palms as she begged Lexa to stay, reaching for foliage and life and a beating heart between the cracks.
She remembers the ice which settled in her veins upon realizing that on the other side of that stone wall, beneath Heda , there was nothing .
She’s given a cell, but it does nothing to banish the cold, wind crawling into the heart of this place, this lonely tower over which Lexa rules. More than once, Clarke rises from her spot huddled with her back to the wall, her tread heavy, head held high, and forces herself to the edge of her prison, the dirty pane of glass with cracks to map every year it’s withstood.
Against the window she presses her knees, her palms, her forehead and nose, and her guards mutter something darkly beneath their breaths before snapping at her to step away.
From her she can see the civilization below, the kingdom Lexa rules, the people she saved by condemning everyone Clarke has ever loved.
She closes her eyes and sees Raven, set upon the table, holes drilled into her joints, eyes half-lidded in some ephemeral state of consciousness. She sees her mother being dragged from the wall, begging and pleading no, no, no , set upon the table to die like a sacrificial lamb. She sees Rachel, Tyka, Fox, their bodies bloody and lifeless, clammy and cold and stiff, death setting in their flesh like cement.
A rough hand at her shoulder pulls her away, and when Clarke opens her eyes, the ruddy face of one of Lexa’s people frowning deeply behind a full beard.
“Sit quietly,” he tells her, not bothering with english when he knows she understands every word.
“ Wanheda doesn’t take commands from you,” she feels herself say.
He bites out a mockery of a laugh, right in her face. She must sound childish. She must sound insane. He shakes her by the shoulder and then shoves her away from the window, saying, “You don’t remember me, Wanheda , but I remember you. I have seen you bleed.”
Spite solidifies in her tone and in her knees, hard, unmovable, rising from the deep and dark chasms of hatred within her. “And the people who hurt me bled more.”
The grounder’s lips twitch, and he looks her up and down, scoffing beneath his breath. He touches the sword at his belt and gives her a flash of steel from the sheath. “Stay away from the ledge.”
With that he turns, his partner watching from the door they guard. She knows they won’t hurt her - Lexa has forbid it - and she hopes it rankles at them as much as it burns at her, fury rising at the thought that after everything, Lexa still pretends to protect her, to lure her in with the promise of warmth, of wildflowers on the other side of the wall.
But she forgets. Lexa needs her.
Clarke turns back to the window, the wind howling around the tower, the floor beneath her feet swaying with the force of each gale. It’s a wonder the glass doesn’t shatter; she felt it flex beneath her hands, and to break it, she knows she would only need one hard shove.
The sound of the lock clicking yanks Clarke around, her heart rising in her throat, hands open and wishing for the gun she doesn’t have, the dagger she lost. She needs to arm herself, make herself out of angles and jagged edges, dress her soft face with dirt and blood until it’s not her, until it’s not Clarke Griffin, until the night welcomes her as it does all predators, all hunters, all killers.
She closes her eyes and sees three hundred men rushing upon her settlement, her home, her people, her friends. She sees the wizened face of Dante Wallace as he hits the ground, his eyes wide, face pale, mouth forming the soundless words stay the course, stay the course . She sees bodies riddled with radiation, skin peeling from muscle, opening in lesions and boils, faces contorted with agony.
Clarke opens her eyes and sees Lexa.
Resplendent in red, she sweeps into the room flanked by Indra, defenseless save those eyes which beg kindness, which soften with hidden affections. They widen just a fraction when they meet Clarke’s, and Lexa drops her gaze and turns it on the guards instead, perhaps finding their stares easier to stomach.
“Leave us,” she says, voice thick with something.
They turn with lingering looks in Clarke’s direction, and after them, the door clicks shut, sealing the three of them in together: Indra, Lexa, and her.
None of them move immediately, Lexa stepping into the room, scrutinizing the floor, the walls, the windows at Clarke’s back. Once Clarke’s stomach flipped when that gaze traced her body; now it curdles with disgust as Lexa dares examine Clarke’s shoes, exhaling sharply.
“Forgive me,” she says, raising her head, regal even now. “I should have dismissed the guards before, when you were brought to me. Our reunion didn’t require an audience.”
Her breath stutters, and before she knows it, disbelief bubbles from her lips as laughter. It’s broken, grating, hoarse, and humorless, and Lexa realizes her mistake before it’s finished rattling out, crimson mantle swaying at her step forward.
“Clarke - ”
The sound of her name kills the laughter in her, and Clarke spins on her heel. She watches the reflection of Indra touch the sword at her belt, face pinched in acute concern, for her or Lexa she isn’t sure. “We still have one.”
Lexa chances another step toward her. “I should have prepared better, but the man who brought you sent no word. Please, Clarke.”
“You’re begging my forgiveness for not being prepared for me to be dropped at your feet.”
“Clarke… The choice I made at Mount Weather - ”
Clarke whirled around, finding Lexa closer than before, three feet between them, no more. “Would have killed my friends!”
Lexa doesn’t flinch; her mouth parts like she’s struggling to find the words, like she hasn’t rehearsed this all before. The look she’s giving Clarke is the same one she gave her after they left an entire camp to die, pitiful, like fear and regret killed the Commander, made her small. It was enough then, but Clarke knows that look, and she knows it doesn’t last.
If there is guilt to be found in Lexa, it hides in the parts of her not even she can detect.
“I won’t ask you to forgive me for the choice I made, but I did what I needed to protect people…” Lexa consumes the distance between them with slow steps, close enough to touch. “I will always live with what I did to your people… To you.”
Her breath is warm, subtle with spices, eyes so unsure, so vulnerable.
“I don’t expect anything from you, but I beg you to just listen to what I have to say, Clarke.” Voice dropping, her hand edges closer to Clarke’s, fingertips like phantoms on bloodied knuckles. “Not a day has passed that I don’t regret… Please, Clarke. I need you. People need you. You’re the only one who can stop this before it begins.”
A hand hard with callous trails up her arm, hesitating at her shoulder before cupping her face, flesh radiating heat. It feels like being pressed to granite again, life and love calling to her from the other side. “You’re the only one who can save us.”
Clarke closes her eyes when Lexa’s eyes flicker to her lips. She sees black fur, a pelt dark as night. She sees crescent claws hooked to hold, curved fangs long and sharp and gleaming. She sees yellow eyes set upon her through the twilight.
The scars on her shoulder burn hot as she surges forward, seizing Lexa by the neck and spinning them, the hard impact of her back against the glass reverberating through them both, chips of the window breaking free. Indra’s sword finds the base of her skull, but Clarke doesn’t flinch, driving her forearm into the hollow of Lexa’s throat.
In Lexa, she sees sincerity for the first time since she arrived, the crunch of the glass threatening to give sparking true emotion in the depths of her cold body.
“Clarke,” Indra hisses behind her, the point of her blade driving into soft flesh. “Don’t do this.”
Lexa swallows, clinging to Clarke’s front like a lover, desperate. The cruel pressure of Clarke’s forearm won’t let words pass her lips, but the shape of her mouth still forms her name, her eyes pleading.
Clarke hates her. She hates everything about her.
Leaning closer until there’s nothing between them but a history spelled in blood, Clarke whispers, “When I needed you, you didn’t save me .”