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Language:
English
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Published:
2024-12-30
Completed:
2024-12-30
Words:
1,759
Chapters:
4/4
Comments:
10
Kudos:
14
Hits:
389

Broken

Summary:

What if it was Clarke and Lexa speaking? Not the rational mind, not the heart beating frantically, but that deep voice that rises when the world stops, suspended.

I wrote what I felt, not with my hands but with my breath, like a whisper the forest keeps safe. A chance meeting—or perhaps not. Perhaps fate enjoys drawing paths that intertwine, like roots beneath our feet. Clarke and Lexa, figures carved from light and shadow, find themselves there, among the still trunks and the wind telling stories never heard.

I imagined pain as a thin flame, one that doesn’t burn but warms, and feelings as a stream that can’t hold back, breaking through the banks without asking permission. Maybe there’s nothing new here, and yet every word I wrote feels new to me, born from the moment the image exploded in my mind. It’s like a dream that doesn’t want to fade, that stays with you even when you open your eyes.

Happy reading. And be gentle...

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Chapter 1
Broken

The light filters through the leaves, golden blades slicing the green, but it can’t reach me.
I walk among the trees like a shadow searching for itself. Every branch breaking underfoot is an echo of what I’ve lost, a cry that reminds me of who I’ve become. Clarke Griffin, the savior of all and the nothingness of myself. The air smells of damp earth and silence, and in that silence lurk ghosts. Of them. Of her.

I shouldn’t think of her, and yet here she is. Lexa. Her name is a knife I no longer know how to pull out. I hate her. I love her. There’s no word for what I feel. There’s only the forest, my heart beating like war drums, my breath unraveling in a dissonant rhythm.

And then I see her.

She stands still, as if the world around her were carved from stone and not made of wind. Her figure is a painting I cannot erase, the black of her eyes burns me more than fire. Lexa. Not a ghost, not a memory. Flesh and bone and betrayal.

“Clarke.” Her voice is a taut string, every letter a weapon aimed at me.

I don’t answer. Words die in my throat, like seeds that have never known light. I want to strike her, I want to hold her. I want to run. But her hands are empty, and for the first time, I notice her eyes are too.

She doesn’t look at me like a commander. She doesn’t look at me like someone who broke my heart. She looks at me as if she’s broken too, a shadow wandering through the trees, searching for something she’ll never find.

And in that moment, I realize betrayal isn’t a boundary, but a bridge. That we’re two lost souls in the same forest, two lines that will never cross, yet continue walking beside each other, not knowing how to stop.