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—One—
Leksa kom Trikru first witnesses death at the tender age of three.
It comes on the point of a sword. Her father stands tall and proud—strong—for a moment. Then, he slumps, and there is blood pouring from his back. There's silence inside Leksa's mind, her hands aching to reach out of her hidey-hole to clutch at her father's shirt, but she remains still and silent—strong—for her father. The light dims from his eyes, and his gaze grows duller with every passing moment. Yet, Leksa remains still, she remains silent, and the thieves ransack her home but not the tiny hole underneath the cupboard.
Leksa waits, and when they leave, she crawls out of her hiding place and smears her hands in her father's blood.
He is the first loss of many to shape the cracks in Leksa's heart.
—Two—
“Yu gonplei ste odon.”
Leksa kom Trikru whispers the words to a boy—the rough stumble running along his jaw makes him a boy, not a man—before standing to lift her dagger to the sky. Blood runs from the blade down the contours of Leksa's young forearm, to drip from the point of her elbow to the ground, splattering on foot compacted soil.
The crowd are silent, reverential, respectful.
Leksa turns away from the body, and paces out of the arena, her eight year old frame easing into the shadows. The crowd roars in approval. Leksa frowns at the loss of life.
The boy—Alek—becomes the second prominent crack on Leksa's heart.
—Three—
At seventeen summers, and sixteen winters, Leksa kom Trikru sits upon her throne with a spine made of steel and a heart floundering in ice.
Her forest green eyes peer into the depths of a wooden box, and her heart throbs angrily beneath her sternum. She recognises the soft brown curls of hair in the box. She knows the glittering silver beads that run through the top of the braids.
There is a hand inside her chest, reaching through her sternum, to clench around her heart. It shudders beneath the stone grip, desperate to beat, but crushed under the weight of the hand.
“Leave me.” Leksa orders, and her voice crackles, but her guards stream out of her throne room one by one regardless.
Leksa lets her hand hover over the bridge of a fine nose, dipping to run the tip of her finger over the curve of a gentle jaw, before the lid is reattached to the box and set beside her throne.
A reminder. A promise. A vow.
Costia—lovely Costia—fair Costia is the third, and perhaps, the most painful crack to splinter Leksa's heart.
—Four—
Leksa kom Trikru remains perched on her thrown as Clarke of the Sky People leaves her tent, and Onya kom Trikru's braid sits mockingly in the palm of her hand.
It is a searing pain through her chest, and a slow throb through her veins. It is the hope of for a lie, spoken from the careless demons of the sky, even when she knows it is the truth. It is a plea for her friend to slide out of the shadows and rest her hand on Leksa's shoulder in the way that she had done many times over their shared lives.
Leksa tightens her hand around the braided strands of hair and reaches into her jacket to tuck them into the pocket above her breast.
Onya—Anya—becomes the fourth crack rendered on the surface of Leksa's heart.
—Five—
“May we meet again.”
Leksa kom Trikru can only clench her jaw as she turns away from Clarke of the Sky People to suppress the tears that threaten to rain down her cheeks and blockade the pounding of her heart against her sternum.
It is the pain of a fragile heart begging her to turn around, to march back to Clarke's side, to face the Mountain together. However, it is also the twisted relief of seeing her people walking out of the crypt, returned to the land of the living.
The fifth, and perhaps, most painful crack to stretch across Leksa's heart is of her own making. It is a curse of the Heda.
—One—
“I need your soul to remain where it is.”
The words are whispered into the curve of Leksa kom Trikru's collarbone by pink lips that cause her heart to thunder in her chest and her lungs to tighten. The words are accompanied by a tender brush of the woman's mouth and a squeeze of her arms around Leksa's hips.
“Don't die.”
“Sha.” Leksa mumbles in return, lifting her hands to cradle Clarke's cheeks in her palms. “Ai hod yu in Klark.”
“I love you too.” Clarke murmurs nudging Leksa's palm with her nose. “Come back to me, all right?”
“Always ai Hodnes.” Leksa answers, a blinding smile crossing her lips as she smooths her hands down the length of Clarke's torso to the slight swell of her stomach. “And our yongon.”