Chapter Text
one.
"You were right, Clarke. Life is about more than just surviving.” The words ring in Clarke’s ears constantly; they haunt her during the day and torment her at night. Moving on is what she’s supposed to be doing, for the good of her people, for the good of herself, but how can she move on if Lexa’s all that consumes her thoughts? It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. Lexa wasn’t supposed to go this soon. But here she is, and Clarke’s lost, completely mystified by these overwhelming emotions. The only thing she can compare it to is drowning. (She’d tripped and fallen in the river not too long after arriving on the ground, so she remembers the experience.) It’s like having the water tugging at you, trying to pull you down into its inky depths, and every time you get your head out and breathe for five seconds, you go back under. Replace “water” with “grief,” and it’s an accurate analogy, in Clarke’s opinion.
Bellamy doesn’t understand it. Well, to clarify — he understands grief, but he can’t understand why she mourns Lexa. Clarke’s pretty sure that he’s always thought of the former commander as a savage, a brute compared to the overly civilized people of the Ark. She doesn’t blame him, though she wonders if Octavia’s ever reprimanded him for it.
Her mother tries to understand, but she can’t either. She only knows grief in medical terms, the shiny pages of textbooks and the cold, gleaming metal of examination rooms. It’s true that Abby mourned Clarke’s father in her own way after he was floated, but she never let her grief totally encompass her like Clarke has. Abby’s always been the type to get up, brush off the pain, and keep moving. Clarke’s not like that; she can’t do it. With Wells, Finn, her father — it was possible. She did her best, and the unfeeling blank canvas of her jail cell especially helped when it came to her dad. But Lexa was the one ray of light in a world that was trying to smother Clarke completely. Lexa made her feel so deeply that Clarke’s not sure if she even knows what emotions are anymore. Lexa was special, and it sounds so cliché, Clarke knows that, but it’s true. And she can’t move on. She won’t.
To their credit, Clarke’s people have let her be. They’ve got strategies to create and plans to make, and they don’t need a dead weight like her dragging them down, so it’s probably more of a logical thing than a compassionate one — but still, she appreciates it. She probably seems like a melodramatic teenager to them, another irritating obstacle to try to overcome. It’s pitiful, really — going from the revered “Wanheda” to a girl who locks herself in her room all day in a matter of minutes. Bellamy, Raven, Octavia, her mother, even Jaha — they all try to drag her out, try to make her go and do something with them, but Clarke won’t let them, and after a few weeks, they’ve stopped trying. They have more lives to think of than just hers, and that’s okay, she respects that.
It’s been about a month since Lexa’s death. She hasn’t heard who the new Commander is, but she prays the Conclave went well. If Clarke had the ability to hope anymore, she’d hope for Aden to be the chosen one, but all of her hope died with Lexa, so instead she just forces herself to accept that it’s probably some random Nightblood sitting on Lexa’s throne.
A week ago, Clarke started a new routine. She knew her body was craving fresh air, so she snuck into the food storage and packed a lunch and some water. She ventured into the forest, walked for about an hour, ate, and then turned back around. Every day since, she’s gone a little farther, gotten a little closer to the city that holds the remnants of Lexa. And today, she’s going to go all the way. She’s going to Polis.
She leaves before the sun rises; she has to depart early if she wants to make it to Polis and back by nightfall. The satchel of food over her shoulder is heavy, filled with plenty of bottles of water and lots of high-protein snacks. Clarke won’t forgive herself if she can’t make it to Polis because she’s too weak.
It’s a nice day out, she thinks, shifting the satchel’s position on her back. The sun is rising now, creating a pink and purple sky so ethereally beautiful that Clarke would believe it if someone told her it was a painting. Sometimes Earth astounds her with its ability to be so gorgeous. How can something so potentially lethal be so utterly captivating? Then again, Lexa was like that too. Her chest stings at the thought, and Clarke wishes her heart would just shut up for five seconds and let her brain take the reins.
She hikes for hours, her logical side fighting her emotional side the entire time. Her brain tells her that this is stupid, to go back, asks her what will happen if the new Commander isn’t so welcoming and orders her killed. Meanwhile, her heart sings with every step closer to Polis — it’s a bittersweet tune, and more bitter than sweet, but still, it’s enough to keep her going.
When she smells the combination of smoke and earth that is the scent of Polis, Clarke stops. She’s a mile away from one of the entrances to the city; it’s a smaller, lesser-used entrance, so there’s only two guards stationed there, but she doesn’t want to take any chances. It could be that the new Commander doesn’t like Skaikru and has ordered her to be shot on sight; that’s a fear Clarke particularly worries about if Ontari has become the new heda, as after what Lexa did to their Queen, Clarke’s close relationship with her probably made the Ice Nation hate her, too.
Clarke leans up against a tree and just breathes. The scent of Polis is comforting to her, and the sounds of Trigedasleng from the guards nestle in her ears and makes her think of her Grounder nickname. Wanheda. There’s a tear sliding down her cheek, and Clarke chuckles bitterly to herself. Would they still call her the commander of death now, if they saw her like this? Crying over the death of a girl she only knew for a few months? It’s stupid to fall in love with a Commander; Indra, Octavia, and Titus had all reminded her of this many times, particularly in the last few weeks before Lexa’s passing. But she hadn’t listened, she’d made herself vulnerable, and now she couldn’t serve or protect her people like she’d always said she would. Pathetic. Lexa would be so disappointed in you. She never let feelings get in the way of protecting her people. Clarke closed her eyes, willing the nasty little voices in her head to shut up and leave her in peace for once.
When the voices go quiet and let her just exist for a moment, Clarke thinks she can feel Lexa’s presence, sidling up to her and whispering in her ear. Relax, Klark kom skaikru. My people will not harm you, and neither will I.
Clarke’s eyes fly open. Wait. She’s not imagining this, and that’s not Lexa in her ear. It’s Titus.
Clarke blinks for a second, not trusting her own eyes. She’s not sure what’s worse: the fact that, after killing her lover, Titus has the sheer nerve to even talk to her, or how he’s standing over her with a knife to her throat.
She doesn’t try to escape. It would only be pointless, and some small, secret part of Clarke prays that Titus will kill her. Wouldn’t that be better than this endless cycle of grief? Clarke curls her hands into fists and tries to shove that part of her away. It’s a dark portion of her mind, and she hates it, especially in vulnerable moments such as these.
Maybe it’s muscle memory from the last time a Grounder had her trapped like this, but Clarke spits in Titus’s face, rather ungracefully. He doesn’t even flinch; maybe he was expecting it. “If you’re going to kill me, hurry up and get it over with,” Clarke snarls. “Otherwise, get off of me and tell me why the hell you just put a knife to my throat.” It’s more of an angry whisper than a snarl, really, as she still doesn’t want to arouse the suspicion of the guards nearby, but it works. Titus’s eyes darken for a moment, but he pulls the knife back and holds it by his side.
“I believe I just told you that I do not wish to harm you, Clarke,” Titus says, voice low. “The knife was merely a method I used to ensure that you could not run away when you saw me, because what I have to say is rather important.”
“If it’s another apology, I don’t want to hear it,” Clarke hisses, picking up her satchel from where it fell to the ground and slinging it over her shoulder. “It’s going to be dark soon, and I need to start heading back.” She goes to move, but Titus gently pushes her back against the tree, maybe a little more forcefully than intended as Clarke winces at the scraping of bark against her thin T-shirt.
“Believe me when I say that I have a million lifetimes’ worth of apologies I could say to you, Clarke, and I would mean them all,” Titus insists. Clarke’s not sure, but she thinks she sees his eyes go a little glossy at this. He lets out a sigh. “But I know those apologies would not matter to you, and they would not make up for my errors in the least.” So that’s what you want to call Lexa’s death? An error? You tried to kill me, your commander took the bullet, and you consider those to be errors? Clarke’s blood is boiling. She’s not going to be able to stand this much longer. “So I brought something much more valuable,” Titus finishes. His hand reaches into a hidden pocket in his shirt and closes around something. He gestures for Clarke to extend her own hand, and so she does, leaving her palm slightly curled like she’s feeding a horse.
Something drops into her hand. It’s a glass vial, filled with a purple-tinted liquid. Clarke looks at it questioningly, waiting for Titus to explain further. But after a few moments, it’s clear that Titus thinks she already knows what this is.
“I’m not following,” Clarke says, brow furrowed. Titus looks surprised.
“Heda never told you about this?” he says.
“No.”
“Then I suppose I will have to.” Titus sighs. “Our people have been making this potion since we knew how. It’s meant for someone who has lost their soulmate.”
“You think Lexa and I were soulmates?” Clarke asks.
“She did,” Titus responds. “If she hadn’t thought you to be her soulmate, she wouldn’t have instructed me to give this potion to you if anything happened to her.”
Clarke’s cheeks flush. The fact that Lexa thought they were soulmates has her torn between wanting to cry and wanting to smile. Instead, she chooses to continue to listen to Titus.
“This potion enables you to see all the previous reincarnations that you and your soulmate have had,” Titus explains. “You may not be reincarnated every century. You may not be reincarnated every millennia. But at least once, you and Lexa were soulmates that did not end up together, which is why you were not able to be happy in this timeline, either. If you drink this, you will have to relive all of those lifetimes, and experience everything once more. But you will get to see Lexa; granted, with a different name and in a different time, but the same at her core.”
Clarke knows her eyes are probably bigger than plates right now. “But won’t that hurt? Losing Lexa over and over again?” she asks, biting her lip.
Titus shrugs. “If you believe that the pain is worth what you may gain, then take the potion. It may provide you closure to see her again. If you do not feel it is worth it, then do not take the potion. Either way, my duty is done. I have repaid you for the pain I caused, and my soul may be at peace.” He raises his knife, and Clarke freezes. Was this all just a ruse, a way for him to distract her long enough so that he could quickly and easily get rid of her?
“Please, don’t — ” Clarke begins to beg, but Titus cuts her off.
“Relax,” he says with a wave of his hand. “This is not for you.” He holds the knife to his throat, and meets Clarke’s eyes. “One last word of advice for you, Klark kom skaikru. Do not try to alter the future. Do not try to save Lexa or make her aware of the reincarnations. Otherwise, you could destroy the future for all of us.” With those words, Titus pulls the knife across his jugular, sending a spray of crimson across the front of Clarke’s shirt and making him crumple to the ground, clutching at his neck.
The world seems to spin in slow motion as Clarke falls to Titus’s side and kneels by him, trying to stop the bleeding with her hands but failing miserably. Titus tries to push her away, and he’s gurgling something, but Clarke can’t understand him. With what seems to be his last remnants of strength, Titus rasps, “Run away, Clarke. Run now. Or they will kill you.”
And suddenly, Clarke understands. The Grounders. They’ll think she murdered Titus, and they’ll have her head. She will face the same fate as Finn, and the new Commander likely won’t be as merciful as Lexa was.
Her body has gone into survival mode, and she has no time to feel guilty about leaving the dying man or to make sure his last moments are filled with comfort. Clarke picks up the potion, where she’d abandoned it on the ground when Titus slit his throat, and shoves it into her pocket. Then she runs, faster than she’s ever gone before, adrenaline and fear coursing through her veins. When she’s about a few miles away, she hears Grounder shouts, and knows she doesn’t have much time before they figure out it was her. After all, Clarke realizes with a panted curse, she left her pack behind, and that will certainly be traced back to Camp Jaha. From there, it’s just a matter of deciding who the most likely suspect is — and the Wanheda is sure to be number one on that list.
When Clarke’s lungs burn and she can’t run anymore, she stops in her tracks, doubling over and breathing heavily. Every gasp is torture, her body screaming at her, but she only allows herself a minute to recover before she continues on, wishing she’d thought to bring the water back with her. All she has right now is the potion.
It’s sunset when Clarke reaches Camp Jaha. As she enters the camp, her mother passes by her, and starts asking questions about where she’s been and why there’s blood on her shirt and if she’s okay, but Clarke just keeps walking, breaking into a jog as she nears her room. Abby’s following too close for comfort, and when Clarke slams the door in her mother’s face and locks it, she feels a small pang of regret in her chest when her mother begins to freak out and bang on the door. When Abby threatens to go get Jaha and Bellamy to break the door down, however, Clarke knows she doesn’t have much time left.
She pulls the potion out of her pocket and holds it in shaking hands, unable to do anything but stare at the vial that could change her life. Clarke doesn’t have much going for her now — she knows that. In less than an hour, Grounders will probably be here to arrest her and execute her for Titus’s death, and Lexa isn’t around to save her. She’s a dead weight that her mother, Raven, Octavia, and Bellamy are all being forced to carry around. Clarke doesn’t want to be that anymore. She wants to at least explore something new, because she’s reached a dead end with her mourning. Her grief does not make her human and real anymore; now, Clarke thinks, it makes her weak. It makes her a liability.
She needs to remember. She needs to see all the times that she and Lexa have loved and lost. Maybe it will serve as a reminder that they just weren’t meant to be. Maybe it will just be comforting to get to hold Lexa one last time, even if she goes by a different name. But Clarke needs to at least be able to tell herself that she tried.
Metal screeches behind her, and voices are yelling. With a start, Clarke realizes that her mother has actually followed through and retrieved Bellamy and Jaha. She has to make a decision, now.
She screws the cap off of the potion, throwing it to the floor. Abby’s screaming, begging her not to do anything rash. Clarke throws her head back. There’s a loud bursting noise as the door finally gives way under Jaha and Bellamy’s combined strength. Everything is tingling, and Clarke swears she can see every particle that makes up this cold room. Her chest hurts so terribly, she feels like her heart must be bursting.
There’s a white-hot flash of pain in her head, and the last thing Clarke sees is her mother, running to her side and taking her daughter in her arms, crying.
Then everything fades to black.