Work Text:
pas skaikrasha
klin tristraka
en houd don gon
hosh trashsaka
The Skaikru council has barely left the throne room and Clarke has barely had a chance to catch her breath when a delegate from some other clan comes to speak to her and then another and then there’s a crowd forming around her, offering their loyalty and ingratiating themselves with Wanheda and she doesn’t manage to catch that breath, it flutters just outside her reach much as she gasps for it. The delegates press on, English mixing with Trigedasleng and then it’s more of a buzzing than anything else. Clarke sways forward and a man dressed in dark leather— of course he’s dressed in dark leather they’re all dressed in dark leather— catches her shoulder and keeps talking.
“Daun ste pleni,” rings out from Heda, standing above the multitude. The antler throne silhouettes her head and for a moment Clarke thinks she’s crowned in bones. Her voice isn’t raised but it’s low and every single person in the room freezes. The roaring din tapers off except in Clarke’s head. "We will reconvene in one hour."
“There is no time, the war council must—” manages to make its way out of a woman delegate, her back ramrod straight and her eyes flashing, but a raised eyebrow from the Commander stops her in her tracks.
There’s a beat but the delegates file out of the room, going where, Clarke’s not entirely sure—all she knows is that air is returning to her lungs and the white spots are fading from the edges of her vision. When she’s finally steady enough to move her legs without toppling over she moves to follow the last delegate out, her mind still racing with possible counterattacks and political strategy and the sound of Raven’s voice breaking up and the resources that each clan—
"Clarke.”
It’s not the Commander of the Blood who speaks; it’s Lexa and it’s more effective at stopping Clarke in her tracks than the two guards at the threshold could ever be. She turns and meets Lexa’s gaze but remains quiet, waiting for her to say whatever she needs to say. There’s more to discuss, even more that still crackles between them like an electromagnetic storm, but something tells her that they’re not there yet. That there’s still more electricity to generate before the tempest unleashes its fury.
(they’ll die of radiation poisoning or the sky will burst into auroral flame. there’s no in between)
Lexa takes the final step down from the throne. “You need not remain formal for these next proceedings.” Clarke starts to tilt her chin down in acknowledgment but Lexa’s not done. She hesitates before her next words, lips parted and her jaw readjusting itself a few times. “I will clean the paint off my face. It is better that symbols of war do not unjustly color the discussion. I have—do you—“ She takes a deep breath before starting trying again. “Will you accompany me? I have facilities in my room you may use as well.” It only takes Clarke a moment to process the request but Lexa jumps back in before she’s had a chance to respond. “I am asking: not ordering. You do not need to come.”
Clarke swallows but nods. She can’t quite meet her eye as Lexa raises the ends of her dress from where they’re twisted under her feet and walks to the door but she swivels around once they’re level and follows her out of the room. There’s a flight of stairs and a few darkened hallways between the throne room and Lexa’s quarters and Clarke keeps her eyes firmly on the familiar walls as they set a brisk pace.
(the walls. not the pinch of Lexa’s waist under the belt, at the long red cape tucked into it that draws her eyes down the girl’s curves to the ragged train at her feet. definitely not on her arms, bare for the first time since she’s known her, bare in a way that’s almost uncomfortable, vulnerable and raw and unguarded and soft. not on the tattoo, at the slight pink edging the lower sections indicating that it’s newer than the rest, and absolutely not on what it might mean, the recent addition)
Lexa turns to glance at Clarke before she stops at an unremarkable door in the middle of the corridor and pushes it open just enough to slip inside. Clarke hasn’t noticed the two guards that had accompanied them from the throne room and startles when one of them brushes past her to open the double doors. She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose before following Lexa into her room.
The room is dark, only a few candles flickering in the shadows, but Lexa sets to lighting more and Clarke does too, taking a single orange flame that gives birth to dozens. Neither leader speaks, nor do their private counterparts.
When there’s enough light and her eyes have adjusted to the darkness, Clarke scans the room now that she’s not distracted by her mother and Kane, unable to stop herself wondering what kind of quarters the leader of the thirteen clans keeps. What she tucks away for herself and no one else.
Not much, it would seem.
The room is dominated by an ornate and frankly breathtaking bed piled high in furs in the middle, two statues flanking the sides and covered in candles. The walls are crumbling concrete with several rusty pipes exposed and the floor is in mostly the same condition barring a few faded rugs. It’s lived in— it’s no unused guest quarters— but it feels sterile. Well, maybe not sterile. Cold, more like. It’s even more impersonal then the room Clarke’s been put in (much less beautiful, a traitorous part of her mind thinks). It’s a room she might expect Heda to keep but it doesn’t feel like Lexa.
Lexa catches her wandering eye and gives a tight-lipped smile. “This is where I stay during ceremonial and formal council affairs. My personal residence is down in the city.” Her words are clipped and somewhat rushed and the idea that Lexa is nervous lights a tiny spark in Clarke’s chest, something tiny and infinitesimal but there. She drops her shoulders and shifts her weight onto one leg.
They stand at opposite sides of the room like limp puppets until the strings snap and they find things to occupy their hands, their eyes. Clarke picks at the hem of her borrowed dress; Lexa slips into a side room and there’s the sound of fabric rustling, of ceramic being dragged along stone.
For a moment Clarke wonders if— no, if she’s honest she imagines Lexa disrobing, sliding one strap down her shoulder and then the other. Her fingers move to her belt, lifting the first buckle and threading the leather through the loop. How she takes a deep breath as the restriction loosens, how her lungs can fill completely, how her chest raises and her breasts— Clarke jumps like a teenager caught jerking off when Lexa suddenly appears in the archway, fully clothed and a basin in her hands. Several towels are draped across her arm and she’s concentrating so deeply on not spilling the water that her tongue peeks out of the side of her mouth.
Swearing under her breath, Clarke shoves the far-too-vivid fantasy into an electrified box in the far reaches of her mind. Luckily Lexa is far too occupied with the sloshing bowl to notice. She sets the basin down on a side table near a hanging mirror and set to work washing the war paint off her face, first removing the metal gear charm from between her eyes and setting it on the side of the towels.
Clarke watches. It’s not like there’s anything else to do, nowhere to even sit and pretend to pick at her nails or something; there’s an odd swinging chair that looks more like a torture device and a chair whose seat lies far too low to the floor.
(and then of course the bed. the less said about the bed the better)
She wonders if it’s intentional, the undignified choice of seating here, if Lexa uses it to discourage others from spending time in her private quarters. Or maybe she just doesn’t get enough guests that it’s ever been an issue: it’s not like Clarke can imagine the commander curling up in the chair with a book or folding herself into the swing, knees and elbows akimbo and far too long a latency for any form of effective self-defense. Both options cause her chest to constrict and she tells herself that she’s stabbing herself with a false dichotomy. It could be something else altogether. But then again Clarke’s always been a bit of a masochist when it comes to Lexa.
Once Lexa’s face is clean she rubs it dry and reapplies some lighter makeup around her eyes. That tongue peeps again and Clarke finally manages to tear her gaze away and stare at the ground. Just because she’s looking away doesn’t mean that her attention isn’t still hyperfocused on the same object and her breath hitches when Lexa eyes her in the mirror and turns around. Clarke becomes extremely interested in a stress fracture running through a few feet of flooring and under a rug.
Lexa takes three jittered steps toward her and then pauses. She takes two more steps. She finally halts a few yards away from Clarke and the white basin in her hands is shaking ever so slightly.
“Do you wish to clean your face as well, Clarke?” She holds out the water, still too far away from Clarke to reach. It’s so difficult to swallow that Clarke wonders if she may be coming down with hay fever.
“Sure,“ Clarke rasps, like she hasn’t spoken in months and has to clear her throat while her cheeks flush. “Um, yeah. Thanks.”
Lexa takes another step forward and then stops again like she’s trying not to spook a wild animal. It’s probably not entirely inaccurate. The water splashes up the sides of the bowl. “Would you like…I can help. If you prefer.”
Clarke blinks.
“It’s thick makeup. You may not be accustomed with the technique for its removal.”
It’s simple iridescent kohl and Lexa’s holding a bowl of plain water and a cloth. Her eyes are wide and unguarded and they dance around the room as she speaks. Something in Clarke’s stomach twists.
“Okay. Sure, yeah. Thanks.”
Lexa half-flinches, probably expecting Clarke to refuse, until she processes the acquiescence instead and the barest hint of a smile crosses her face until she suppresses that too. She crosses the final steps between them and sets the bowl down with a thud. Water tsunamis onto the floor and both girls look to the streaming drops across the stonework and then back up at each other.
Clarke remembers her bath only hours earlier, how self-conscious and awkward she’d felt as all the women helped dress her and braided her hair and applied layer after layer of eye makeup. Turns out that'd been nothing compared to the intimacy of Lexa biting her lip and wiping smooth strokes down the corner of her eyes and over to her temples. She can’t take her eyes off Lexa, can’t even blink, and Lexa holds her gaze. It’s gentle, her expression and her touch, it’s so gentle that Clarke can hardy breathe.
It’s been more than three months since the mountain and she hasn’t cried—she hasn’t allowed her self to cry, she hasn’t wanted to cry, out loud at least—with the exception of a frustrated tear with Lexa earlier today but she decides that must have broken the dam because she’s on the cusp of crying again. The muscle in Lexa’s jaw jumps and she drops her gaze, rinsing the cloth in the water and wringing it out with both hands.
When Lexa moves the soft linen to her face again and busies herself with the area under her brows and over her eyelids, Clarke begins to blink furiously and it only has a little to do with unconscious reflexes.
“Close your eyes,” Lexa says with the barest amount of amusement and Clarke flushes. Shutting her eyes is a relief and a punishment but Lexa is expedient at wiping away the last remnants of chalky paint.
There’s the sound of the washcloth dropping into the water, the sound of Lexa clearing her throat.
Clarke keeps her eyes closed.
“Clarke.” The object of Lexa’s quiet plea doesn’t need her visual system to know that her mouth wraps around the name; it hangs in the air and seems to echo, impregnating the room with its emotion.
Clarke shakes her head and doesn’t open her eyes.
“I have never regretted a decision I made with my head before that day.”
The air is cool on the damp skin around Clarke’s eyes and it feels like she’s wearing war paint made of ice. It melts quickly in the warm room.
“I understand your decision,” Clarke whispers, eyelashes still clenched to eyelashes. She pauses, wets her lips. Admits something she’s never admitted even in her head. “I would have done the same. Your people should come first.”
“I should— you are—"
And then there’s silence, so much silence that Clarke considers the possibility that Lexa has grown wings and ascended out of the room. But then there are soft hands in her hair, fingers tracing the loop of her braids until the palm of her hands rest on both temples as if in prayer.
Clarke opens her eyes, opens her mouth to say something but the words get caught in her windpipe. Lexa stands slightly taller than Clarke but the way she’s looking at her it’s like she’s on her knees.
Time slows, it becomes languid, sluggish, inebriated on the fermented unspoken. Lexa begins unravelling Clarke’s braids, sliding the bands off without snagging any follicles and threading deft fingers into the plaits. As they begin to loosen, a tightness Clarke hadn’t noticed until now is released; it feels like someone has taken a boulder off her chest, lifted a crown off her head, cut a band off her heart. Her scalp tingles and it grows and blooms when Lexa combs through the long waves, releasing tension and easing it down the strands until it falls to the floor and shatters.
It’s surely poison beneath Lexa’s nails because it feels like the fireplace has moved closer or it’s escaped its confines. Because it’s rampaging toward her skin, because it’s so warm and because Clarke is warm and buzzing. There’s a tug low in her belly and that’s fortunate because it weighs her down when the rest of her body feels like it’s trying to join the stars.
But time—oh, time makes up for its meandering and all too soon Clarke’s hair is back to its wild and uncaged self, Still Lexa runs her fingers through as if there may be an invisible braid left to set free. She continues long past the point of conquering the tangles as well, shifting to wrap strands around her practiced index finger until most of Clarke’s hair is fashioned into loose twists. Only then does she exhale and drop her hand back down to her side.
Clarke wets her lips, sucks them into her mouth and lets them go. Lexa’s eyes don’t shift from Clarke’s. There’s a sort of gravity or magnetism, some force that pulls them together except that it’s equal from both sides; there’s not attractor or greater mass, only two bodies drifting through space. Clarke shifts her weight forward and Lexa shifts her weight forward. Their faces are only a foot or so apart and she can feel the heat from Lexa’s skin on her cheeks. Neither girl is moving toward the other, not really, not intentionally. And maybe it isn’t an outside force after all, maybe It’s more like the distance between them beginning to contract.
There’s a knock at the door and two heads snap toward the sound.
After a moment the knock is repeated, louder this time, and Lexa clears her throat. “Sha,” she calls out, voice steadier than her breath.
An attendant pops her head in and asks if Wanheda requires her clothes to change back into; Lexa flickers her eyes back to Clarke and after a glance down at her dress with something almost akin to disappointment, she answers in the affirmative. Clarke manages a tight smile and Lexa returns it in equal measure, stepping back and taking a deep breath.
Lexa retreats to the side room and Clarke stands the the middle of Lexa’s empty room and lets the dress fall off her shoulders and down to the ground. Her own clothes, or at least what has become her own clothes, smell fresh, clean; she pulls them on and she ignores that the tug in her stomach has become a pit. She stares at the pool of gold and silk on the floor, pretending for one acheless second that it’s there for another reason.
Time races; it becomes thoughts of war and walkie-talkie noise and the thumping of drums instead of hearts. The dress is folded and on a side table by the door when Lexa re-enters the main room after calling out her presence. The Commander is back in her jacket and third eye and Clarke is back in her jacket and boots and the last few minutes fade away like an ancient polaroid picture. Neither leader is startled by the voice at the door this time and neither sighs at the news that the war council are anxious to start proceedings.
Lexa makes to follow Titus into the hallway but abruptly halts and pivots on her heel back to Clarke. Her gaze darts between Clarke’s eyes and her words tumble out like they’ve been rehearsed at a slower pace and now they’re being forced to fit into half their allocated time, knocking and jostling against each other. They’re so quiet Clarke has to turn her ear to Lexa’s mouth to hear.
“Your needs matter too, Clarke. Regardless of whether it is you who values them most.”
She looks like she wants to say more but instead she presses her lips together and ducks her head, just a fraction of an inch. Clarke bites the side of her cheek and looks anywhere but at the Commander as she balls her fists for a beat and then marches past Titus and out of the bedchamber.
Wanaheda straightens her back and follows.
Heda lifts her chin and acknowledges her Fleimkepa’s preliminary intelligence reports.
(they’ll die of radiation poisoning or the sky will burst into auroral flame. there’s no in between)
after the storm
a lightning flash
with all the world
reduced to ash
(and will you take a life with me?)