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Her hands tremble as she waits, exhaustion and adrenaline and emotion all at once.
There had been one night, ensconced in their bed of furs during the hours that felt the most still and holy, where Bellamy had whispered, fingertips skimming along her skin, “Do you want to have kids?”
Earth had never failed to ask questions Clarke hadn’t considered previously--about the best way to prepare for snow, how many lives she could carry on her back, which lines crossed couldn’t be forgiven.
What she wanted from her future.
On the Ark, before her arrest, she never wondered. There was no question. It was all but defined: she would marry, would raise a child, would contribute to the preservation of the human race in whatever ways deemed necessary.
After her father died, there was no chance. Only isolation and space.
She didn’t have an answer for this question, for him or for herself. It had never been a matter of want, before.
The ground had also brought new strains, new scars—things that had tempered her reaction to the bright bolt of hope that sounded inside of her at the thought of a person, half Bellamy and half her, entirely and not at all theirs.
Clarke carried so much fault with her, so much weight, even years after the dust had settled and the blood had dried; even after she and Bellamy had found their peace, their light with each other. She still woke up sweating in the dead of night on the worst occasions. He did, too. They just held each other, these days.
They could be vicious and quick in their defense of peace now, but they still knew. They still knew what they had done to get there.
They still carried the people that had brought destruction to the world, had distressed and harmed even though they always meant it well, always meant it for each other, always meant their breaking to build back stronger bones. They still owed this earth for all the hurt they caused.
The joints still ache when it rains.
But she had found him in the dark, found her flesh beside his skin, whispered yes into his mouth so that they were shaking, scared, agreed.
She waits now, heart tied so thickly in her throat as her mother severs one lifeline, hands her another dressed as a traded wool blanket.
Her daughter. Their daughter, her and Bellamy and some chance of the universe wrapped in linens and pallid, bloodied skin; tiny and wrinkled and wailing and a miracle.
Bellamy’s hand finds her shoulder, his breath rushing past her ear as he slots himself in behind her, his warmth holding her still.
Clarke reaches out, traces her finger down the scrunched up face, the puckered lips, the soft-skinned arm to the tiniest nails she could fathom. She prods the fist lightly and her daughter blinks her eyes blearily, roots back into her chest, and grabs hold.
Strong and sure and sacred; five fingers clinging to one.
Abby is still waiting for the afterbirth, and the camp is still waiting for the sun, but Clarke doesn’t care. Her focus is glued to where her daughter’s fingers curve, where her skin touches skin. She leans against Bellamy, presses her damp cheek to his and settles in the peace that with this, this thing they’ve done, this life they’ve formed--they bring something good and new and pure into the world in return for all they’ve wrought. In thanks for all they’ve gotten.
She takes a deep breath.
“Hey, baby,” Clarke murmurs, quiet. “Welcome to Earth.”