Work Text:
“She left us to die in that mountain.”
Bellamy takes another step closer, sparing Lexa a steely glance before turning his face back to Clarke’s.
She stands still and regal, so foreign yet so familiar. Her once-golden hair is red and strange; her black-rimmed eyes are shining. He watches as she takes a deep breath, knows she’s feeling the weight of Lexa’s stare from behind.
“She will always put her people first.” He speaks slowly, deliberately. “You should come home to yours.”
His fingers flex with the longing to reach for her hand, to cross the space between them, to hold and keep her. His eyes, instead, hold tightly to hers, speaking, silently shouting what he’s said before, what he’s afraid to say.
Please. Clarke. Please.
Behind her, Lexa steps down off the platform. The room is quiet now, all eyes shifting between Heda and Wanheda.
“Clarke.” On Lexa’s lips, her name is a statement, a command. “The Clans need you here.”
Clarke is still studying him, and he drinks her in, storing up images of her hair, her lips, her eyes. Just in case.
Finally, she turns to Lexa as she speaks.
“My people need me.”
Bellamy draws in a quick breath, his heart pounding with relief.
“We’ll send word when we’ve reached home. Don’t follow us.” She speaks with all the cool authority of a seasoned leader. Then she turns back to him, and her brows give a tentative lift.
“Very well,” says Lexa, quiet. Then, addressing the room, “The Skaikru shall have safe passage from Polis to Arkadia. Anyone who dares do them harm will face my sword.” She finds Clarke’s face for a moment more, then steps away.
Bellamy glances over his shoulder at the door, sees the empty hallway and knows their people are waiting just beyond. He turns back to Clarke.
“You ready?” he nearly whispers.
I’m here. You’re forgiven. We’ll go back together.
She nods, takes a shaky breath, gathers herself up to the full height of Wanheda, and strides toward the door. He follows.
They reach the hall, moving forward together, and the door closes behind them with a click. In the sudden darkness, he feels a pull on his hand. He wheels around, and Clarke crashes into his chest.
Their joined hands are clasped between their bodies, and his mind flies back to the last time he was hit with an armful of Clarke. He doesn’t hesitate before wrapping his other arm around her. She’s warm, breathing hard, her shoulders trembling. Is she crying?
She lifts her head from his shoulder, and the silk of her hair brushes his cheek. She looks up, tears gathered but unshed, and through the paint he sees not the mighty Wanheda but —
“Clarke,” he breathes.
She takes a small step back, pulling his hand to her chest, then raising it to her forehead, eyes closed. Holding him, keeping him.
She sniffs, then speaks in a tiny voice.
“You came.”