Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 And God said,

“Let there be light,”

And light there was.

-Genesis 1:3

This world truly is unfair for Clarke.

First her Father; killed for the sin of truth.

Then Wells; murdered, after wrongfully hating him for years for a crime he didn’t commit.

Then Finn; and she had plunged that knife into his heart herself.

Lexa twice; once upon a mountain which leaves her wounded and ugly; and a second time to a stray bullet as she begs her forgiveness and love.

The rest blend together; countless, nameless others that succumb to things she does not control but feels wholly responsible for anyway.

She loses everything in this world.

Time and time again she loses everything.

And she hopes this time, her truest and largest sacrifice is warranted, is worth it.

Praimfaya closes in and she does not run.

She stands and embraces it and lets death claim her whole.

They don’t know what happens after you die, and Clarke hopes the endless dark is the last of her consciousness; dying back on Earth, boiling alive.

She floats. For a time.

She cannot do much else.

And she thinks this is perhaps what her Father felt; suffocating in the nothingness of space.

She angers at death’s slowness.

How time seems to drag on and on and on; infinite in every direction.

Clarke?

She turns her head and the formless void seems to twist and turn and pulsate; as much a living being as herself.

Clarke?

Her Father appears first. Shakes his head. And leaves.

Then in quick succession; Wells, Finn, her Mother, Octavia, Raven, Bellamy; all wrong.

Then Lexa is there; stuttering in and out of existence, moving through the inky black as if it were water.

Clarke turns her head. Facing up.

Lexa is above her. Floating. Gazing down.

She had forgotten how soft Lexa is. How her skin glitters in the candlelight glow.

How the seconds before she had fallen into bed with her, Lexa looked up like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

She had forgotten how much she had loved her.

How every fiber of her body pushed and pulled and reached out when Lexa was near; eager to feel, to touch, to taste.

Clarke?

It’s time to leave, Clarke.

Where? She asks, though she cannot feel her lips move; unsure if she had even truly spoke.

We owe nothing more to our people, Clarke .

It’s time to go.

Yeah. She thinks.

She’s given her everything for her people.

Her Father, the boy she loved, the piece of her that died at the Mountain;

Lexa;

Herself.

Yeah. It’s time to go.

Lexa comes to her, floats closer, the corners of her lips lifting in a smile.

The kiss is as soft as she can remember it being the first time.

And Clarke—

—Clarke begins to fall.

And she is at peace.

Thus the heavens,

And the earth,

Were completed in all their vast array

Genesis: 2:1

She hates waking. Sleep lets her forget, sometimes. Sleep let’s her, not rest— because she has not felt rested since before the Mountain, since before the crash to Earth— but sleep allows her to turn herself off for several hours. Give in and hand herself to the encroaching dark; hoping it takes her with it.

It never does.

The weight of her existence settles over her, crushes her; wakes her with the feeling of falling.

Except, and it takes her far too long to realize, she literally is falling; hurtling through empty space at breakneck speed.

Oh . She thinks. Which is hardly a thought one should be having as they plummet from the sky above to what she assumes is the Earth below; far too nonchalant a thought.

And just before her body collides with the unbroken water, she remembers—

— Everything.

The impact should have killed her.

It should have.

But it doesn’t.

And she knows this because she is underwater, very much alive, watching the bubbles rise from the disturbed water around her.

There is no panic as she steadies herself, searching about the deep blue.

It’s a lake; crystal clear water surrounding every inch of her. Freshly fallen. A place not usually made for holding water. A divot in the Earth. Rare. Once every three years it deigns to fill; and just so have happened to days before she had fallen into it.

When she finally breaks the surface again for air, it hardly feels needed; the breath more habit than anything.

As she floats, inspecting the deep green forest beyond the shore, she tries to trace back; pinpoint the final thing she remembers seeing.

Praimfaya.

Certain death racing at her in a great wall of blistering heat.

And then, falling.

No transition. No in between.

Just everything. And then nothing.

She begins to swim, pushing for the shore in great, strong strokes. She can’t quite remember where she learned to do as such, but the action comes as naturally as any other.

And when the grass meets the water and she is free from its depths, she takes a moment to take stock. Inspecting every inch of herself.

Her clothes are not what she fell to Praimfaya in; but she knows them nonetheless.

They (now shades of white) were blue, the last time she had seen them; worn them. Soft, flowing fabric that fell around her form; her hands tearing spare cloth to change a wound on a loving hand.

Reshop, Heda.

Goodnight, Ambassador .

Lexa—  She thinks as she turns her gaze from herself to the forest beyond.

Her bare feet move before she can really comprehend the direction they’re taking her in; deeper and deeper into land that is as familiar to her as the sky.

She has no concept of how long she walks for.

But the sun, she notices, has barely moved an inch since she began.

The lake is long out of sight and at some point she had begun to trek alongside a river.

She had been too lost in her mind; retracing mental footsteps. Remembering all the way back to when she and a hundred others had crashed into a world no longer their own.

It seems forever ago now, that memory; not that she has any concept of when actually is.

She considers that she might be dead. And that this land is Heaven; the great beyond.

But the sun beats too heavy on her neck; the terrain too difficult underfoot; the world too loud. Her Heaven is quiet; calm. A field perhaps. A drawing pad. All those that she had ever dared given pieces of herself to.

A sound somewhere off into the forest diverts her course. Up and away from the flowing stream and deeper into the untame.

She thinks maybe this is a fever dream— her brain pulling her from the agony of death and showing her the world that could have been.

And she thinks maybe her people are beyond these trees; those Hundred that she had come down with all wide-eyed curiosity and well deserved freedom.

But it’s not, and they aren’t.

Because it’s children.

Nothing quite prepares her for the sight.

All gangly limbs and bright voices and loud, excited movements.

They do not see her; do not even look in her direction. Too caught up in their little games.

She hasn’t seen children since—

—The Conclave.

Her heart aches as she remembers them. All so small and strong and dearly loved .

These ones remind her of them; using crafted sticks as swords and torn bark as shields. Their faces painted with ashen-mud, not unlike she recalls Lexa’s. Sweeping curves and jagged edges.

She is too far to make out their words but close enough that she can drink her fill of them; watching until her heart’s content.

A horn, somewhere off in the distance, breaks them from their play; and they are quick to drop their makeshift weapons and derobe their armor; scrub at wrongly painted faces with torn and dirtied sleeves, more smudging the mud than cleaning.

When they are long gone— Clarke having watched them go down the path and into the woods until they disappeared entirely— she makes her way out into the small clearing, inspecting at their pile of discarded toys; reaching down to grab at one, twisting it in her hand; relishing the feel of the splintered wood against her skin.

She is so deep into her thoughts that she doesn’t register the sound of footsteps until it is too late; and her eyes rise to meet wide-curious ones on the other end of the clearing.

They are not scared.

Not wary.

Just curious. Tentative.

She places the makeshift weapon back into the pile, slowly, so as not to spook them.

Their face tingles at the back of her mind. A memory. She has seen this child before.

Her brain rifles for a name.

Something behind them must spook them out of their reverie though. And they turn quickly, just in time to not be caught up in the arms of another child. A different one. And then more and more flood in. All wearing similar armor; like badges of honor. Black. Leather.

And there, again. Her mind sparks. A roaring flame. She knows these children— all of them.

But they do not look at her. Do not notice her. Move around her like she isn’t there.

Even the first, who had laids eyes on her (she’s sure of it), does not look for her again. As if he had never seen her to begin with. Forgotten as quick as first seen.

And when the final child joins the clearing, shadowed by two guards, their existence falls into place for her.

Aden.

The Nightbloods.

They’re younger here.

Younger than she can remember them being; or happier, maybe.

Aden is fresh faced. Childish. Gleeful.

None of the hardened boy who had promised her fealty and protection in Lexa’s stead.

Whatever magic she had draped herself in, or death had draped her in— because what else would shroud her from another's eyes— lets her walk amongst them. Study them. Unseen. Unheard.

She dares not touch at them; fearing the worst of herself.

She longs to though; longs to touch and hold and promise them a better life than dying at a mad woman’s sword. To promise them long lives free of torment. Of war.

Children do not deserve this burden, she thinks, watching them now. Children deserve freedom. Deserve play. Deserve all the love of a parent and village and town.

But they are here to train; she notices.

Here to hone their skills for the moment Lexa falls to death and they are forced to take a mantle well beyond their years.

So she sits by them. Watches them. Cheers for them.

And when one happens to brush slightly too close; letting his hand scrape by at her leg. They do not drop dead. Do not come down with a curse or worse. They look at their hand, confused, as if static shocked by a charged stone. But they move on with their life. Settle in amongst their friends and comrades as if nothing happened at all.

After that, she tests it purposely.

First on the Guards; standing in front of them, demanding attention. Grabbing at their arm and watching as their face twists, confused. Hand reaching up to brush at thin air; not quite able to touch at the space she fills.

They move around her, too. Both children and adults. If she stands purposefully in their way their bodies unconsciously dodge, move, apologize wordlessly.

And when she blows a gentle wind in their face, it sends a cold shiver down their spine. And they look about. Make comment on how a stranger walks on their grave. And the others laugh.

Not magic then, she thinks.

She’s dead, she thinks.

A ghost, she thinks.

It leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

The realization that this is where the afterlife would send her; back to the war-scorn Earth. Rather than to the world beyond. Sickens her.

Of course though.

Of course she who killed thousands does not deserve a place in the Gods realms.

Cursed instead to walk about and relive these horrors; forced to watch the same mistakes made time and time again.

She shakes her fist at the sky. Yells expletives (though no words come out). Eventually resorts to pointing and accusing and flipping whatever God might be watching off; and truly, she hopes they are. Because fuck them .

She’s so wrapped up in her anger at the Heavens that she doesn’t notice the new arrival.

And it’s only when her heart almost literally leaps from her chest that she turns. Pivots so fast that it leaves her with the feeling of whiplash.

The children crowd her, eager eyes and flailing hands.

And she greets them with as much intensity and love as a doting Mother.

Lexa.

Her breath catches in her throat. Her stomach filling with a thousand butterflies and releasing them over and over.

God’s how she had missed her.

No Lexa. I love you.

I’ll always be with you .

At least the afterlife had blessed her with this; and this is a blessing. Even if Lexa does not look at her. Does not see her. Cannot.

Lexa had protected her. Watched over her in the City of Light. And now here Clarke was; the roles reversed.

She approaches slowly, carefully; lest the divine image disappear. Her tears fall uncontrolled. Heart aching.

The children scatter on a loving order, told to resume their duties. And for a moment, when the girl looks up to watch them, Clarke believes she is looking at her. But her eyes drag on, focused behind her, through her.

She cannot help herself, when Lexa moves closer, to reach out and touch. To feel at the soft skin of a love taken too soon.

I loved her, mom .

When her hand runs over Lexa’s cheek, she can see the confusion in her eyes. Can see how her brows knit together just enough at the sensation. And when Lexa’s hand comes up to join hers, connecting for a moment, before seemingly dropping through to rub at the spot touched. Clarke’s heart soars.

She had touched her. Not like the others. Not like the children who moved about and could not occupy the same space as herself. No. Lexa had, for only a moment, touched Clarke’s hand.

She watches as Lexa touches at her cheek, green eyes scanning about, looking, searching. But she shakes her head, just enough that Clarke knows that she must be feeling like she’s going crazy.

And Clarke smiles.

Lexa had touched her. Had felt her.

The afternoon goes by quick after that.

Clarke is drowned in everything that Lexa is. Walking beside her. Listening intently to the commands and lessons she gives the children. Stands by her as she fixes posture and form; occupying Lexa’s space but not daring to touch her again.

And as the sun reaches its lowest point, struggling to stay above the mountains, Lexa dismisses the children with a wave of her hand.

They leave with yells of glee and thrown fists of freedom, running about collecting their things before sprinting off down the forest path.

And Lexa stays. Hands tucked at her back. Eyes dragging along her city below. A careful watcher; a keeper; a Commander of all its citizens.

Clarke stays with her. Just a little ways off. Cherishing how the afternoon sun still warms her, even as the night approaches fast.

She’s content just watching her. Soaking up this moment of tranquil peace. She had only seen her like this twice. Once when wrapping her hand in gauze, when Lexa had worn some kind of glitter that made her skin glow, just for Clarke. And twice, when Lexa had fallen backwards into her bed, eyes filled with knowing tears, begging her not to leave.

When Lexa turns, she knows— she knows — that Lexa is looking at her.

Not around. Not through. At.

It’s the knit in her eyebrows again. It’s the straightening of her back. It’s the missed breath.

Clarke smiles.

The sun is nearly behind the mountains.

Lexa closes her eyes, rubs fingers at them. And Clarke silently begs her not to. To look and see her and take her in because she does not know when the next time will come.

She moves towards her, slowly. Lexa opens her eyes, still seeing.

And for just a moment, Clarke can see herself reflected in those pools of green. A shimmer of the evening light. Vague features. Not quite human. And the most brilliant thing of all—

—Great golden wings, folded neatly at her back.

And the sun sets. And her image is gone. Faded into the shadows of night.

Lexa lurches forward. Occupying her space. Not touching. Eyes desperately searching. Breath fast and heavy against Clarke’s face. But she cannot see her. Whatever the fleeting sunlight had shown her was gone with it.

Clarke leans up into her and presses a feather soft kiss to her cheek. Not enough to elicit the electric shock like before.

“What—” Lexa says, quietly; confused eyes still searching the clearing.

But Lexa straightens with a shake of her head. Rubbing at her eyes again before taking off down the path.

And Clarke?

Clarke follows.

Not a ghost then, she thinks.

An angel, she thinks. She knows.

An angel with great golden wings—

Chapter Text

Clarke trails her after that.

Always several steps behind Lexa. Shadowing her every move. Learning Polis as well as Lexa knows it. Immersing herself in Trigedasleng; though the language seems more second nature than not. Learning more of the girl she had met, loved and lost too soon.

She does other things too; flexes herself to see what privileges this form grants her.

Inspects her wings; first in shattered, rusted mirrors; then after learning to move them about, pulling them forward, touching at the soft feather down; watching as they shimmer with changes of light. How during the night they more or less glow.

Interacting with the world of the living; of the non-angels, comes slowly. She can move things about, one at a time. Replace things. Take objects from peoples hands and place them aside and watch as people become momentarily confused.

They don’t notice her doing as such though; don’t see the objects as if they are floating in mid air. Just one moment it is there and the next, gone; their brains hurrying to catch up with reality.

People part for Lexa, bow heads, move about her like she is a God. And it takes Clarke walking beside her for them to give her an inexplicably larger berth. And when someone gets too close, ambassadors too angry, Clarke touches at them, calms them, moves them about with the force of her presence alone.

It takes a number of days, weeks even— because this Clarke has no concept of time passing— for her to be noticed again. And it hurts when she sees by whom.

Lexa attends to an Elder. A dying seer. Well-loved by her people. And Clarke comes along, eager to learn and watch; slipping into the house and making herself appear as small as possible. Tucking her wings in tightly at her back.

The woman is very old. Perhaps the oldest person Clarke has ever met. All wrinkles and soft voice and hands that shake with every move. And she can tell from the moment she walks into the lavish bedroom just how loved she must be.

And her excitement at seeing her Heda is unashamedly beautiful. Teary, shining eyes looking up at Lexa as if she is the whole world. And maybe she is— for these people.

But as Lexa takes her seat on the small wooden stool beside the bed and the woman is free to look about the room again, her eyes meet Clarke’s and she can see the realization in them; and the absolute exaltation.

Lexa might be their Queen, and rightfully so. But Clarke is something different. Other wordly. Tangibly so.

The others in the rooms company do not see Clarke, do not see the change in the Elder’s eyes.

“You’ve come to take me, then?” the woman asks in a shaking, beautiful voice; unheard by the others in attendance. Meant only for Clarke and her kins ears.

She’s known as Wanheda— the Commander of Death.

“Yes,” Clarke says, and her own voice surprises her; since arriving she had not been able to talk, until now, until faced with the task of aiding the dying; the dead.

She approaches the woman’s bedside, sitting weightlessly on the edge, across from Lexa; hovering her hand over the other girls for a moment before touching the older woman’s arm instead.

“I am glad,” the woman says and offers her a smile and Clarke can vaguely hear the rest of the family talking, beginning to weep, “You are a very beautiful skai haiplana. What is your name?”

“Clarke,” she replies, but another name pushes to the front of her mind, “Wanheda.”

“The Commander of Death? Fitting. She who mercifully ferries the living to the dead. I am glad to have met you, Clarke. Ai gonplei ste odon ”

Clarke smiles and reaches a hand up, stroking at the woman’s face; softly, tenderly, with as much love as a Mother to sleeping child, “Yu gonplei ste odon. May we meet again.”

It only takes a moment longer.

Clarke can feel the life slip away from under her fingers. Not like a doctor would feel a pulse; a steady thump beating until the very end. A softer feeling. Like her hands are acting the part of the hourglass; sand slipping through the cracks until all is lost.

Coming back into the room; grounding herself in reality again, Clarke can see the family eager to crowd the bed. Holding back only for their Heda’s benefit. Lexa’s head bent in a silent prayer; words whispering from her that if Clarke closes her eyes and tilts her head back, she thinks she just might be able to hear.

And then Lexa is looking at her. Seeing her for the second time.

Not as a play of light or a trickery of the setting sun.

And Clarke smiles.

Lexa does not mention it—

—Turns her head away as if she has not seen Clarke. Stands and moves and talks to the head of the household. Explains an offer of a burial; because Seers are respected, well loved, and she was no different.

And when she leaves the house in long, confident strides; Clarke follows.

Confused. Hurt.

She shadows Lexa closer than is needed. Annoyed that she had taken that moment from them. Clarke is not sure how often she is able to be seen and a part of her demands rightful attention when she is.

Her anger sets off the roaming dogs; spooks the horses. Causes an already overcast day to rumble with the anticipation of a storm. People look down; even as they cannot see her. Afraid of a world far beyond their own.

Lexa turns down an alley. Dark. Dim. Alone.

She whirls on the spot and Clarke knows she cannot see her now. But an accusatory finger is in her face nonetheless.

“Stop it,” Lexa demands to thin air, hard eyes searching the emptiness; desperately hoping they see another glimpse of Clarke’s self, “Whatever you are, you are as much a part of this world as the trees and earth and sky and you are harming it. You think I cannot feel you? Stop it.”

And just like that. Clarke does.

The thunders eases, the storm abates; the dogs settle. And life goes on.

Lexa at least has the decency to look partly shocked that her demands are met. The Commander is not meant to lose her temper as such; always a pillar of society. Strong. Resolute.

She lowers her finger and Clarke steps closer. Well into her personal boundary. This close she can hear the running heartbeat, the slightly too fast breath; can feel the way the very hairs on Lexa gravitate towards her; eager, desperate to touch.

“Thank you,” Lexa says, and she can feel the shaky breath against her cheek, “I do not— I do not mind you following me, spirit. But do not expect more from me than I can give.”

And then, after a beat, “And thank you. For aiding with the Seer. I— I could, feel you there. Guiding her out.”

“Heda!” someone calls from the other end of the alley. And Lexa looks past her towards them. Pushes through Clarke like she is water (and Clarke knows Lexa would have felt as such) and moves to address her subjects. Her people.

And Clarke follows;

Shadows her as she had been. Quiet. A warming comfort and protective hand.

And Clarke thinks just how much she loves this version of Lexa.

At night she watches over Lexa as she sleeps. Sitting on the windowsill, grey eyes tracking every breath and movement and fidget from the Commander below.

At night, sometimes, when the sky is clear, Clarke thinks she can see The Ark; some hundreds of kilometers up. Blinking past. A shooting star. Her wings beat and she wonders if she can fly to it. Seek herself out. Her Mother too. Wells.

At night, when Lexa stirs with a nightmare, Clarke comes to her bed and sits and runs cooling fingers across her face. Teasing the haunt from her dreams, pulling at its strings and throwing it aside and calming Lexa. Soothing her back into restful sleep.

Clarke loves the night; for all these reasons.

This peace and quiet. The absolute clarity that the light of the moon grants.

She draws too. It takes a few tries; to grasp at both paper and charcoal, her fingers more than once crushing the fragility of both. But eventually she succeeds. And oh she draws.

Long, sweeping lines of distant memories. Her Father. The Earth as she had first seen it. Eyes that stare back at her from The Mountain; hurting, sorry.

And Lexa now, too. Sleeping. Restful. A Commander so charged with war, granted a moment of peace.

It doesn’t occur to her that her interactions with the world in this manner will show through. And she leaves the stack of papers aside on the table as the sun rises in the east, pouring a hazy orange glow in through the tower windows.

She waits for Lexa to wake— surprisingly slow at it. Brown curls burying further into their pillows to escape duty just a little longer— another hour.

But the tower wakes with a crescendoed roar. Busy lives. Busy people. A Coalition to run. And Lexa wakes looking every bit as sullied and annoyed as a moody youngling; and less of the Commander she is.

Clarke greets her with a morning smile, though she cannot see it. Watches as she tumbles out of her bed and tugs the fur blanket from it, wrapping it around her form at the permafrost cold of the tower. And she watches those tired green eyes, blinking slow, clearing the sleep from themselves.

She watches as Lexa looks to the table and sees the drawings; watches as the sleep disappears in an instant. Soft feet padding across the cold floor below and Lexa is there; touching at the fine charcoal on the paper, sorting through them, looking about the room and then back again.

No other person had seen her handiwork; brains and eyes filtering her and her creations out as if too strange to view. Too foreign. Finding the items she leaves for them, moves for them, as if they had always been there. Rationality taking hold where there is none.

And just like in the forest clearing, and just like in the sun of the dying Seer’s room. Clarke feels her heart soar.

Lexa crouches, bunching the fur up into her lap; sits and grabs at the stack of drawings. Engrossed.

“You can draw,” she says, smudging the charcoal with her thumb, looking down at it to ensure its real.

Yes. Clarke thinks. But I did not intend for you to see it .

“These are very beautiful,” Lexa continues quietly as she reverently places each one aside to study the next, “You were an artist, in your last life. But this— this should not be possible; even the Commanders—”

Even the Commanders cannot interact with the physical world, Clarke knows what she’s thinking. The finished sentence is unneeded. But the Commanders are not spirits, in her world. In her world they are memories, bytes of data left upon a microprocessor for the next Commander to sort through. In this world Clarke is tangible; real. Dead in a very alive way.

Lexa takes a deep, staggering breath; putting the last of the portraits aside and rising, moving toward the corner bathroom. Twisting and turning the old taps and listening as the ages old iron pipes struggle with the effort. When the clawed metal tub is filled to nearly the brim with steaming water; Lexa peels her clothes off and steps in.

And though Clarke has seen her naked form, time and time again; laid with it even. It causes the blush to rise at her cheeks and her breath to catch and all she can think is how beautiful Lexa is at her most vulnerable.

“Are you here?” Lexa asks, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the back of metal bath, “I can feel you sometimes, when you’re close enough.”

Clarke moves through the steam and settles on the edge of the tub, letting her hand dangle in the warmth below. Yes, she wants to say; Yes I am always here.

“There you are,” Lexa continues, not opening her eyes but offering a smile to what is an otherwise empty room, “Why are you here?” she questions, “What brought you here?”

You, Clarke thinks, it’s always been you.

“I thought,” and Lexa sighs, her hand moving through the water and coming so close to Clarke’s, floating just near, “I thought— Costia. You don’t know her but I thought you might have been Costia. Wandering. Unable to leave. But you’re not. It’s— different. You’re different.”

Clarke reaches out and takes her hand and finds a piece of joy when Lexa startles in surprise and nearly dunks herself underwater for it. And wide eyes are searching. Staring. Squinting through the mist of the steaming bath.

And Clarke breathes. Closes her eyes. Focuses on the same force she uses to interact with the mortal plane; like touching at something physical and real, but not quite. A door amidst the air.

And when she opens her eyes again, she’s staring directly into Lexa’s; the hand in her own flexing but not releasing; tightening a moment later as if to ground Clarke, to keep her there.

Green eyes well with tears, as if staring too long at her causes pain. But Lexa does not release her. Raking her form in. Drinking from her image.

Hello. Clarke thinks. Hello. I loved you and lost you and buried your body. And I’m here; loving you all over again.

“It’s a conscious effort to keep you here, isn’t it?” she asks, and Clarke nods, “Does it tire you?” and Clarke nods again, “What are you?”

I don’t know. My people and the people before you call them Angels. But yours called me a Sky Queen; skai haiplana. I am Clarke Griffin. I am Wanheda. I am yours.

She shakes her head instead, unable to answer; feeling blessed when Lexa accepts it anyway. She wishes she could ask what Lexa sees; what the woman Seer had seen. If she is just a trick of the light, featureless and vague, or if she is a corporeal being, the Clarke she had left behind and died as.

And it’s almost as if Lexa knows because she smiles and touches at Clarke’s hand, as soft as she can remember it in life, “If I concentrate on the feeling of you,” she says, “It’s almost like I can see words, forming in my head. Not my own. Like you’re learning how to talk the only way you can, touching at minds not your own.”

Clarke ducks her head, bashful. Through the steam, in the water below, she can see herself reflected for a moment and knows she looks as much a teenage mess as Lexa had been on waking.

“You’re human, at some angles,” Lexa finally says, and Clarke knows she must consciously figure out how this question asking works, but not now, not right now, “Sometimes I can see you out of the corner of my eye, when the light is right. And you look most human then. A girl. Young. Golden haired. Wild. But right now—” and Lexa rakes her eyes across her form, drinking more of her in, “—Now you’re unexplainable. Like a far off false shimmer of water. All golds and whites with tremendous wings; but looking is like staring at the sun. Too difficult to do for long.”

“You’re beautiful,” Lexa adds a moment later and releases her hand with a gentle squeeze, “Stay with me, Sky Queen. As long as the God’s permit.”

As if Clarke had any intention of leaving.

The next few— weeks? (Clarke guesses, because the seasons begin to change, though she does not truly comprehend how ; because hours can feel like seconds to her) she spends training herself; in the quiet of Lexa’s room.

It’s for her peace of mind as much as Lexa’s. It wouldn’t do to be seen out on the street. And she only ever tries to make herself corporeal when Lexa sleeps; afraid of overloading her with too much too fast. As it is, Clarke has to make a concerted effort to even attempt it; and it leaves her feeling weak and listless for a long while afterwards.

She also spends time flexing her wings; sanding out on the balcony and letting the wind take up under them and lift them out. Some days she thinks about just falling. Stepping out over the ledge and giving into fate. But she never does, just in case.

Interacting with the world has become less of a chore too. Less like searching for something in the pitch dark, and more touching at things in the evening glow; shaded but hardly hidden. And she takes full advantage of such, moving items about just enough that it trips Lexa up.

First it was the furs and blankets in the middle of a particularly cold night, and Clarke got to see her shiver and struggle time and time again before Lexa woke up, shouted out to nothing and grumpily wrapped herself up like a newborn and fell asleep again. Next it was moving the candles about just millimeters, so the room looked different but not enough to elicit anything except a tingle in the back of Lexa’s head like something was off.

That was another thing that left Clarke stumped. Most other people went about their lives like a spirit interacting with their world wasn’t happening. A screen put behind their eyes to filter her existence and meddling out. Things were just this way. Sometimes people forgot where they sat things down; there was no point in questioning it. But Lexa was different. Lexa noticed everything, even if it sometimes took several hours for her brain to catch on to it.

And her job as a spirit, or angel, or whatever her death had made her, was as much full-time as Lexa’s was. This world saw enough death to make up for whatever fun she happened to have. And so often those sick or dead or dying saw her and reached out. And she took their hands, every time; leading their unseen souls from their bodies and kissing their foreheads and sending them on to their next life.

Not that she ever tired of this. If being Wanheda meant that she gave the dying mercy rather than death itself; what harm was there in it?

In this world she is not a monster or a killer or slayer of mountains; in this world she is a savior and a healer and a guide. And frankly, if Death was going to grant her anything, at least it was this and not eternal damnation for her crimes.

“You’re up late,” Lexa’s voice tiredly calls out from beneath the warmth of the furs; not that she can see Clarke, because she isn’t grounding herself, but whatever rumination she might have been doing obviously affected the girl below.

Yes. She thinks. Who else will protect you in your sleep?

“You’re thinking too hard,” she says, reaching a hand out towards Clarke, feeling about the empty side of the bed until she finds what she is looking for; a warmth, she had told Clarke, the feeling of the sun even where there is none, or the cool where there is, “It’s loud.”

Clarke smiles and settles, crossing her hands in her lap and shutting her eyes; she doesn’t need to sleep but pretending to never hurt.

“I wonder what you think about,” Lexa continues, and her hand against the fur balls up as if she really is touching at Clarke’s dress, “Do Sky Queen's dream?”

No. I’m not even sure if I can.

“I hope whatever you dream is good, spirit. That your thoughts are good; they must be, to be so warm and beautiful.”

And Clarke knows that Lexa is all but speaking in her sleep; voicing thoughts she would never do so if she were conscious. Her stomach flip flops and her cheeks redden and she ducks her head and is thankful that at least she remains unseen right now.

Lexa relaxes again, her hand loosening its hold against the fur until she is deep in sleep. And Clarke, still blushing madly, leans down and presses the most gentle of kisses against her forehead—

—And in the distance the sky breaks open.

Chapter Text

Clarke knows something is wrong come morning.

After pressing the kiss to Lexa’s forehead she had felt the shift in the Earth. Had felt it as keenly as a gunshot wound; tearing her chest open and feasting on her insides.

She had restlessly paced the tower after that. Watching. Waiting. Hands wringing together and then loosening, trembling at her side. Her wings flit too, open and shut, without control; demanding of her to move, to run, to fly.

So when Lexa wakes to the sound of hurried footsteps, Clarke definitely knows something is wrong.

They talk of new Mountain attacks. Of how the Maunon are freely roaming the woods; of how, after this many years, there are no suits or armors; just free children, stumbling about like freshly weaned young.

And it clicks.

She hadn’t known exactly when the dropship had come— but it had been only months before the winter chill; and here they are—

It takes all of Clarke not to run.

Lexa is in and out of meetings, being hurried along by people that have no right to rush her, to push her and pull her and move her about. And Clarke follows, flitting behind her nervously, wishing Lexa could see her— could hear her begging.

Please do not go for them. Please. Please do not have it end the same as last; let her be clean of blood. Take them in and cherish them and teach them and give them the free life they deserve . The Mountain can still fall. It can still be done. Please.

But Lexa hears none of it.

Instead Lexa moves about as if their crash landing into Earth is an act of war. Lexa moves about as if these clueless children; her Hundred, are warring criminals from a Mountain they know nothing of.

As evening falls, a messenger from Indra arrives; and Clarke only knows this because she remembers his face though cannot place his name. And when he tells Lexa of their whereabouts, giving an approximate location, Clarke snaps.

Her fists hitting the table are heard.

Not by skin and bone against wood, but by the way the sky outside shakes with the force of a raging storm. By the way the walls of the tower rumble and vibrate and leave static in the air that causes hairs to stand on end. By the way the horses in every direction, for miles over, spook and panic and cause a ruckus.

Lexa’s eyes search the room anxiously. She dismisses the messengers, the mappers, the guards. Tend to the scared animals, she orders; ease the pain of the coming storm. Nothing of how Lexa must work to ease the pain of she who caused it.

Wanheda is the Commander of Death; and Clarke knows that while she may grant Mercy, it is still well within her powers to grant Suffering too. She had done it. Over and over and over again. She had died for it. And her right to exercise it.

When they are alone and the room is quiet; bar the cracking of the storm beyond its walls, Lexa finally speaks, and it’s no different from that time in the alley, soft and calming and coaxing, “You are scared, spirit, why?”

Because you are planning to kill my friends . Because your three hundred warriors will die by my order and I will vomit on their bodies and take their souls onto my shoulders. Because you never stopped being that girl on the Mountain. Because all that you do has caused me suffering.

She sweeps her hand across the map pinned to the table, focusing just enough on the action that it sends all the figures and markers careening off across the room.

It’s not like her other actions; where the world tries to compensate for a being that should not touch. Instead, it causes Lexa to startle; to take a step back and grab at the knife at her side and bare her teeth as if she were a cornered wild animal. And Clarke knows this look. Clarke remembers this look.

No Sky Person leaves this room.

Unlike last time, Clarke does not back down. Clarke is not being held on the suspicion of poisoning Gustus. Clarke has the upperhand here.

The sky rumbles louder, closer. Cracks of lightning arc down and strike at the towers tallest points. In the outside world a tree shatters with a deafening boom; sending splinters and ash everywhere.

“What?” Lexa snaps out, her eyes now scanning the room as if looking for a hidden enemy, “If you have a problem then face me.”

Her practice comes to a head when she does. And for the first time since dying to Praimfaya, Clarke feels truly a part of this world; alive.

Her appearance all but blinds Lexa, forcing her to hold a hand in front of her eyes, to look away. And Clarke knows it’s because she’s as bright as a nearby flash of lightning; less sun and warmth and golden glow, and more an embodiment of her storm.

“You are angry, then?” Lexa questions, still unable to stare at her, forced to turn her head; hardly a befitting position for Heda, “Why?”

“You would murder children!?” Clarke snaps in reply and the sound of her own voice surprises her. She has not spoken since the Seer; more the older woman's influence than a measure of her own power, she’s sure.

And it causes Lexa pause too; braving the eye of the storm to look, if only for a moment. But time is not an issue to Clarke, it might as well have been hours; because she has seen the mix of confusion, the hurt, the awe, the anger at being yelled at, the outpouring of love for her guardian spirit.

None of it is hidden to Clarke and she feels her heart skip a beat and begin to slow.

The storm outside does not ease, but Clarke does; this physical manifestation of hers less bright. Less harsh.

Lexa’s voice is laced with anxieties, mended only by the fact that Clarke can also hear the same softness that she had spoken with in her sleep, “You can talk?”

I don’t know, Clarke thinks. She’s afraid to try again. To open her mouth and have silence pour out. She tries anyway.

“They are children, Lexa.”

“They are invaders,” she replies, harsh and teeth baring; glaring at Clarke in the white glow.

“Not of their own volition! Prisoners. Rats for testing purposes. They are children.”

Lexa presses a hand against her head, as much in frustration as it is in the headache that Clarke’s blinding presence gives, “You have seen them?”

“I am them.”

Pouring her heart out to Lexa is apparently all it takes to have an all out attack put on hold.

Messengers are sent the instant after the storm breaks; grey clouds left only to spit and trickle rain, thunder easing to a low rumble.

Clarke had held her form for only as long as required; disappearing into the unseen in a flash. Returning to offering comfort to Lexa as she makes the hard choices. Wrapping around her and warming her and pressing soft unfelt kisses to her cheeks in thanks.

They are to wait, to watch, to listen; to evacuate nearby villages and move her people back. These invaders are new . They are not of the Mountain, Lexa tells them; made out as if a Messenger had told her so. Mountaineers do not walk the Earth with so much curiosity and childishness. Maunon are heartless and crazed and know this land as well as themselves; even trapped among their fortress.

And when Lexa is finally released from her duties, if only for a few hours for much needed sleep, Clarke follows her closely; hands almost intertwined, held back only by the fact that she is not corporeal.

It’s tiring, she knows, being Commander. She’d been her peoples for only a short time and it had weighed her down like nothing else. And Lexa had been doing it for years longer than her; had taken so much more death and suffering onto her conscience than Clarke had perhaps ever done.

So when she stumbles into the edge of the bed and sits and rubs her hands at her drawn face, Clarke cannot help running her fingers through her hair, massaging at her scalp; and even though she does not force her hand to actually touch , the sentiment is felt and Lexa relaxes as it goes on.

“The Commanders begged me to listen to you, spirit,” she says in a tired voice, subconsciously leaning into the not-touch massage, “Begged me. They have never done that. Even when they voiced their disapproval of the Coalition. Whatever— whoever you are, you sway even them.”

Clarke sends a silent thanks to the sky; a prayer to the dead Commanders. Thank you, she thinks.

“I have many questions. But I’ve no idea if you can show yourself twice a day, let alone speak.”

Neither does Clarke. But she focuses on the feeling nonetheless; walks the long hallway towards the invisible door and opens it and prays it works.

She smiles when she watches Lexa straighten at the feeling of fingers against her skin; but Clarke is insistent, and Clarke is an angel and her presence is calming; so instead of moving away, Lexa allows herself to relax into the touch and open herself in a way she likely hasn’t since Costia.

“Who are you?” Lexa asks after a long beat of silence, moving from the touch to turn and look at Clarke, “You said you were one of them? The invaders?”

She steadies herself, hopes to all available Gods that when she opens her mouth words pour out rather than silence; or forbid, some weird angelic sounding garbage.

“My name is —” Clarke Griffin, “—Wanheda,” apparently not, “I was. One of them.”

“Was?” Lexa replies, and though her mouth tightens at the name— the moniker, she makes no mention of it.

Clarke has no idea if it’s right to tell Lexa any of this; has no idea if it breaks some kind of universally understood angelic, spiritual lore. She’s a time traveler, she’s dead, she fell from the stars twice, she knows exactly what’s going to happen and when it will happen.

She has already changed their course by evacuating the village. The flares will kill nobody. There will not be a retaliation. This world will be different.

The hesitation must show on her face because Lexa reaches out, tentatively, to brush her fingers against Clarke’s hand; as much a coaxing measure as it is reassurance.

“I died,” Clarke eventually says, thinking, planning, “I died and came here. They are my people.”

Lexa studies her, drags her eyes across her form; and Clarke knows this is likely the most human she’s ever looked. Still mostly light, a sense of warmth; but she’s been practicing and, rather than like before in the war room, she’s not embodying the lightning and storm; she is just— Her.

“You know they are children though. Prisoners, you said. So you did not die from wherever it is they came from. You died here, didn’t you?” and Clarke feels her chest tighten, “When?”

“A year from now, I think; give or take” she says, and it’s only now, in the comfort of this room that Clarke realizes how little time had passed; how little time she had spent on the Earth, and how much blood she had spilled on it; for it.

She feels the tears well in her eyes. Outside the trickle of rain that had stayed all day comes down harder; not a storm, but the heavens cry nonetheless.

“A year is not a long time, Sky Queen. Wanheda, do you know this means the Commander of Death in my language. To be named such a thing—”

“What I did to earn it,” Clarke grits out, and the sky outside rumbles with the beginnings of her anger; at Lexa, at herself, “Is nothing to be proud of. It is as much a smear as it is not. You cannot kill these children; you cannot throw an army at them. She will never forgive herself.”

Lexa sees then— and Clarke knows what she sees— what she means.

The angel, the spirit in front of her; is among the children that fell from the sky.

And in less than a year Clarke will sacrifice everything to save the few; and she will be atop that radio tower and see death coming at her in a flaming wall and she will accept it.

In less than a year, if the same path is followed, she will die. And Lexa will have been the spark that starts it all.

She knows she nearly flickers out of physical existence; in the tears and the anguish of the remembering it all. But Lexa curls her hand around Clarke’s. Lexa keeps her grounded. Lexa is looking at her like obeying a spirits final wishes are all that matters.

Maybe life should be about more than just surviving…

Maybe it should…

Clarke knows she’s probably broken some cardinal rule at this point and is just waiting for whatever gave her this opportunity to take it back from her. To have her thrust back into Praimfaya and to experience the agony of death.

But as the hours slowly tick by; as Lexa readies her personal guard for travel— because she’s attending to the Sky Children herself — and Clarke waits and waits and nothing happens; she realizes she might have been let off the hook.

She still flits about nervously; unintentionally keeping the storm overhead. More than once she stood out on an open balcony, stretched her wings, and thought about moving ahead. But the drop is very far and she is still not sure if flying is in her repertoire.

Eventually, after less than a day, the warband is ready for the journey and when Lexa finds her invisible, intangible presence and asks how Clarke intends to travel; she hasn’t really got an idea; she hadn’t planned this far ahead. She doesn’t materialize and give a proper answer though, simply sweeping by and cloaking Lexa in a calm that is meant to signify one.

And Lexa is all armor and war paint and mounting a very large horse that Clarke can’t remember her ever having; throwing orders about to those that are coming with them; some hundred odd mix of soldiers, tenders and craftspeople.

The horse sees her, Clarke realizes, as she studies it back. On the Ark she had always been fascinated with the creatures. They were mystical, foreign, beautiful. The sole creature humans had loved so dearly and purely that they carried them with the love and care of a parent and protector. And the fact that they can see her does not surprise her in the least.

She talks to it, lowly, quietly. Stroking at its great head and pressing her forehead to its. Watching as its ears press forward, listening intently. And when Clarke thinks they’ve come to an agreement (not that the horse can actually speak), she weightlessly sidles up behind Lexa.

And just as quickly as the warband had been gathered, they were off, Lexa not quite at the front but not hidden either. A centerpiece. The most beautiful and strong and daring; flanked at all sides by loyal soldiers.

The ride is easier for Clarke than she can remember it being; even without stirrups or the curves of a saddle, she keeps her balance well. She knows it is because she weighs next to nothing, and that she’s otherworldly, but she takes her victories where she can get them.

Lexa does not ride as easily. Lexa clenches her thighs against the horse to stay upright. Lexa’s knuckles turn white at the grip she has on the reins. Lexa’s body shivers at the cold of the early morning.

Clarke would find all this funny if she weren’t so concerned for the Commander, or for the children they march towards. So she leans forward and wraps her arms around Lexa’s body, offering support and comfort and warmth where there should be none; relishing in the feeling of how Lexa relaxes in almost an instant, melting back against her.

“Thank you,” Lexa whispers, ducking her head so not to appear as if she is talking to herself, “I thought— I thought you would have flown ahead. I am glad you did not.”

Clarke smiles and pressers her face into the nape of her neck, leaving a warm kiss against a piece of skin peeking through.

She had never been this bold and brave and affectionate in her other life, and Clarke does not know what pushes her to be as such here. But the color that erupts across Lexa’s neck and face at the feeling of warm lips against her skin, is more than enough for Clarke to know it feels right.

She loved Lexa. She loves Lexa. And this world sent her back to before her time; purely to be in Lexa’s orbit. And if divine providence has granted her this life and this luxury, Clarke fully intends on using it.

The ride takes several days; resting for small periods of time to give themselves and the horses a break. But TonDC is as she remembers it, before the missile strike. Active and full of life; praising and preening at their Commander’s arrival. Even Indra manages a smile, which Clarke had never believed she would see first hand.

Their camp is to be put in a defensible position and will take much of the rest of their arrival day to set up; and with Lexa busy tending to duties beyond her ken, Clarke has time to explore the town in a way that her old life had not afforded her.

She silently, invisibly, wanders the roads and inspects every nook and open house and food stall; takes in the smells and taste and touch of it all.

In the Before, Polis had been her only real exposure to proper Grounder society; and that had been both thrust upon her unwillingly, and torn away just the same. But Polis was the capital and thereby a jumble of all of the Grounder clans and cultures. TonDC was solely Trikru and Clarke had never imagined it to be so— communal.

Children, painted in faux-Heda warpaint, ran about, darting in and out of people’s houses, performing tricks, play fighting. Older teenagers, similar in age to those that Clarke had emerged from the dropship with; helped with the town chores and work wherever they could.

More than once she caught sight of younglings being taught the ways of the craft, more so even than the ways of the soldier. And it did not take her long to realize that the position of soldier, of scout, of protector; was often kept only to the few directly chosen by town leaders; the strongest, the fastest, the best. All could fight, of course, if need be; the world demanded it. But more and more of the children Clarke saw were craftsmen, were builders, were butchers and cooks and cleaners and healers.

And the longer Clarke watches and wanders through the town, the more her heart hurt with the possibility that this could have been them. Before A.L.I.E. Before Mount Weather. Before the burning of three hundred Grounders.

She knows Lexa is searching for her, long after the sun sets and the sky is speckled with distant stars.

She had been sitting in on a Healer’s lesson; crouching beside the children and listening as intently as them, gently fixing the mistakes they made when nobody was watching. When, just as she is gently correcting a small girl, she feels an electric-like tug at her chest; her wings beating of their own volition, demanding her to get up; move; return.

It does not take her long to find the source; the electric pull calming to the feeling of the tide lapping at the ocean’s shore. Lexa stands alone in her tent, scouring maps and lays of the land; planning, formulating; her eyebrows knitted together in a way that was just very her.

The pull had not been intentional, Clarke gathers. Just a passing feeling rather than a demand. Lexa had thought of her, or something about her, and Clarke had felt it. She cannot help the smile or the blush that rises to her cheeks.

She wraps herself around Lexa, pressing her body as close as she can get to the dressed-down Commander. Her wings arching forward, invisibly trapping her; holding them and only them in this space and this moment.

Lexa relaxes. Her shoulders loosen. The tension in her brow disappears and the corner of her mouth lifts. Clarke is exerting just enough of a force that the hug feels tangible, real.

“You’ve been gone all day,” Lexa says quietly; this tent is not the same as her tower room. The walls are thin and it would not do to be heard as if she were talking to herself, “I hope you had fun.”

Clarke apologizes for her absence by pressing harder into Lexa, laying gentle kisses on skin, first on one visible shoulder and then the next; and she delights in the feeling of Lexa shivering at the touch. And though it might not have been as real as a physical kiss was, it has the same desired effect.

Lexa shrugs from her hold and pads quietly to the back of the tent, beyond the separating sheets of cloth; and sheds any unnecessary clothing, preparing for bed. The land here is slightly warmer than Polis, catching the winds of the more tropical south; and her usual sleepwear proves too much.

Clarke watches from the entrance. This is the Lexa she had loved moments before losing. Unashamed of herself; of her beauty. Skin marred with old and new scars. Tattoos that she had never gotten the chance to ask the meaning of.

But as Lexa turns and lifts her hair above her head, pining it back for sleep; Clarke sees something that makes her heart stop dead.

The tattoo still exists; the infinity symbol broken only by small dots. But the scar it had been covering, a memento of sealing The Flame away?

Gone—

Don’t worry. My spirit will choose much more wisely than that.

Reincarnation? That’s how you became Commander?

The density of the camp does not give her privacy enough to become physical; to touch her feet to the ground and demand answers to questions she cannot really express.

And the days are long, hastened only by the building fear that today is the day they travel to dropship and to the forward camp; that today she must come face to face with herself and convince Lexa kom Trikru, Heda of the Twelve Clans, to accept these misfit children into a world beyond their understanding.

But this world is different she thinks. Lexa has no scar for the chip. Whatever governs these people is not physical; it is spiritual, mental; held together only by years of practice and patience and worship. And these differences in the world scare Clarke. So she fears what she will see at the dropship.

Lexa wakes early, for once; though Clarke is not sure if she even slept. She had not laid with her the previous night and cloaked her in calm; too busy pacing first the tent and then the camp. And today shows her restlessness loud and clear; the sky threatening to break at any moment.

But Lexa is ever the diplomat and the first moment they get to themselves, she turns and quietly attempts to coax a calm from Clarke’s direction; promising that her people — and the stress of the words cannot be overstated enough— will be safe and dealt with peacefully; if they so wish it.

When they go to mount the horses, Clarke knows she is too anxious to be by them; whatever she is feeling is leeching off onto them and causing flattened ears and hooves to be stricken downwards. And no amount of quiet words or actions from the stable keepers are hushing their fears.

And Lexa cannot calm her here; around all these people. Lexa cannot take her invisible hand and stroke at it and force her to stay grounded and level-headed.

So she takes off.

She knows Lexa feels her leave. The horses calm in an instant. And green eyes search the compound for her; for even a flicker of her feeling; but Clarke cannot turn back. Will not.

She walks first; keeping her presence small, dodging about people and workers and soldiers readying for the day. But as the town thins out and the forest overtakes; she breaks into a jog and then a run.

She must find them before Lexa does, she thinks. She must talk to them. Must see the differences with her own eyes.

She had been so thoughtless up until this point. So overcome with the joy of being alive and being with Lexa, and having a second chance at it all, that she had not seen everything; had not taken everything in.

The ground is rough beneath her feet, and she can feel herself flickering in and out of having a physical form; whatever control she might have had before today is lost in the fear of it all.

Her wings beat hard behind her, rushing her along until she is all but leaping great distances at a time. Pushing from one great tree root to the next. A step far larger than any human or horse or otherwise might be able to take. And eventually she finds herself springing between the trees much the same as she can recall wild squirrels doing; faster and faster, further and further each time.

It does not worry her. Does not phase her. This is natural , her mind soothes at her; this is how you are meant to be.

And her fear at flying and falling and hitting the ground with a sickening snap are just instantly gone. So when she leaps from one tree and no others are particularly close, she feels her wings innately kick into action.

For the first time in her life she is not falling; she is flying.

Her mind pushes her to the way of the crash site; and whatever time Lexa and the horses might have made it in, she does it in an eighth.

Landing comes as natural as taking off and her feet touch at the forest floor with the softest of sounds; as though she was entirely weightless. And she moves through the undergrowth, unseen, unheard.

The camp, the dropship, is as she remembers it. Sloppily fortified log walls and scattered makeshift tents; the ship itself some way up the hill, the headpiece of it all.

She feels her heart swell when she sees people she recognizes; Murphy, Monroe, Jasper.

Her feet carry her into the camp, moving by The Hundred as she had done everyone else; wings tucked tightly against her back to make her presence as small as possible.

She all but floats when she sees Harper, Monty and Wells tucked together discussing something. And when Octavia angrily storms from the dropship and Bellamy follows her, as much a protective brother as always; the joy her heart feels cannot be described.

She runs at Bellamy, wrapping her arms around his neck. And though he does not feel it the same way Lexa does, she can see the mix of confusion but contentment cross his features. Suddenly warm. Comforted. And she cannot help the small, tired, happy chuckle that bursts forth.

She follows him inside, sticking close to offer him as much guidance as she can; give him solace and support on a world still very much new to him.

But as he climbs the ladder and she follows; her heart nearly breaks.

Whatever glee she had ridden through the gates of the encampment are sucked dry. Finn is here, alive. Raven too. And it hurts seeing him now. She had killed him, burned him, said goodbye to his ghost. And here he was.

The sky outside cracks with a round of thunder, startling the few that crowd the upper level.

“We get a few nice days and now it’s storming again,” Raven says, rolling her eyes, “Just our luck I guess.”

Clarke, finally tearing her eyes from the boy she had dared loved and then lost, sees the flares Raven had been tinkering with; and she thanks whatever might be listening that they had evacuated the village some days ago.

Today is the day they will send the flares into the sky and burn people to the ground; only there are no people there this time, she made sure of that.

She cannot help herself as she touches at Raven. She knows she would have blamed herself for Clarke’s death to Praimfaya. And she loves Raven; more than she’s willing to admit sometimes. She would die for her, for them, for all of them, over and over again if it meant they were safe.

Raven does not react the same as Bellamy; visibly flinching at the touch, wild eyes searching the ship before smacking at Finn for scaring her. And when he gives her a puppy-dog look because, truly, he had done nothing wrong; she shoos him away. So Clarke tries again. And again and again and again. Because there is some sick kind of joy at seeing your friend shy away from the warmth and comfort a spirit gives.

Eventually the stubborn piece of Raven must relent because there is no feeling of static shock, no jump back. And Clarke is learning to take her wins where she can get them; pressing a feather-light kiss against Raven’s temple; you are not to blame, she thinks.

When Raven moves off to set up the launcher; done tinkering with the missiles themselves. Clarke follows. And since she can fly now, she deigns to float; acting the part of a shoulder angel.

She knows she must leave soon to tend to Lexa again; to calm her before these rockets take to the sky. But these are her people, she thinks; and she will not be shamed from spending lost time with them.

And that’s when she notices.

Her excitement at seeing her friends; her absolute joy at touching at them in ways a previous her might not have dared, led her astray.

She whips her head around, spreading her wings in anxious bursts. Searching. Watching. Counting.

Wells. Murphy. Raven. Finn. Monroe. Jasper. Harper. Monty. Bellamy. Octavia.

She counts twice over and a third from the sky for good measure.

Not a hundred.

Ninety.

And she is not one of them.

Chapter Text

She knows Lexa’s people, forward scouts mostly, patrol the edges of the Not-So-Hundreds camp. She has seen them from the sky; hovering above just long enough to spot them and then coming back down to shepherd them about; move them away; send them back.

She also knows that Lexa has been silently calling for her for two days now; and that her patience is wearing thinner with every passing moment. The only reason she had not laid waste to the children was that Clarke had begged her not to, and the Commanders of the past had made her listen.

But Clarke had convinced her on the premise that she was saving her. A version of her. But there is no version of her here. She has no doubt that there is no version of her in the Sky either. Likely no version of her Mother, or her Father.

Two of the same entity cannot exist at the same time; that broke laws of the universe even she knew could not be broken.

And she had been so stupid to have even thought as such, she berates at herself, so stupid.

The night of what would have been the flare launch, she had tampered with the launchers; ruined them really. And Raven, scowling and throwing her hands about, so sure that they would work; is forced to repair them.

It buys Clarke time.

Time enough to sulk. Time enough to think about why Raven had come down, if not at the behest of her Mother. Time enough to think about Wells Jaha and love this version of him enough to make up for the last version of her’s hatred. Time enough to realize that, even though she is not among them this time, that these are her people and she has a duty to them.

And she intends to fulfill it.

When she takes to the sky at the hottest part of the day, she soars for a bit, soaking up the sun and relishing the feeling of it on her wings. She knows The Ark is running low on resources and that, any day now, they will sacrifice three hundred people to reserve air for the others. She knows she needs to make a plan; and do so soon.

She flies the many miles towards the Mountain; scoping their territory, dipping low to their radio towers and the entrance to their missile silo. It is all the same, she thinks. And when she flies past the waterway and the generator turbines and the Ripa caves; she knows she can do this, that they can do this.

Before this she had relied on the fact she had been taken to the Mountain (forcibly) and escaped (just as forcibly) alongside Anya; who had given her a lock of Lexa’s hair and which she had used to garner the Commander’s trust.

But this her had already convinced Lexa; this her already had the Commander on her side. This her can ground herself and spill out all of her secrets and truths to Lexa; and they can find a new opening, a new plan, a new line of action.

It doesn’t take her long to find Lexa’s camp; from the view of the ground level forest it is hidden, but from above people moved like ants on a hill, and there were enough camped there that Clarke had little trouble spotting them.

When she lands, she spreads her wings and bulks her presence and forces people to move about her like Lexa would herself. And when she moves through the flap of Lexa’s (much smaller) tent, mentally preparing to face the girl and demand her to still take the Hundred seriously, she is instead faced with the very tired image of a Commander warring between the decision to delay or to attack.

Stupid her mind chides at her; and the voice sounds too eerily like her Father that she feels like a child being sent to the corner.

Softer now, she approaches and makes herself tiny, smaller than Lexa even. Her hand shaking as she holds it out, ghosting it over the skin of Lexa’s; letting her know she is here without overloading her with her presence.

Lexa still jolts at it. Taking her hand from the map below and glaring around the tent. Angry then, Clarke assumes.

She goes slow, for perhaps the first time since falling from the sky in this world. She touches at Lexa’s hand again and when she does not pull away she takes her spot behind Lexa, and presses her body against hers, tucking her head into the nape of Lexa’s neck.

“You were gone for days,” Lexa says, and Clarke can hear the unsaid ‘Even though I am here for you’ , “I hope you found what you were looking for, spirit.”

Wanheda, Clarke mentally corrects her, Sky Queen; Clarke Griffin.

“Your people are— interesting,” she continues quietly and leans back into Clarke’s touch, giving herself over again in a way that is far too raw and emotional, “Like toddling babies touching at everything for the first time. Even Dead Zone children are not like this. Where else could they be than from the Mountain?”

Clarke takes Lexa’s hand, exerting just enough force to physically move it, and points it towards the sky. Hoping the message is conveyed just as well as it would have been had she said it.

“The sky?” Lexa says, withdrawing her hand, rubbing at the space that Clarke had touched at, “That’s not possible.”

She kisses at her neck in response; softly. Coaxingly. Reassuringly. Yes it is. I fell from the sky and you believed that, why not them?

Lexa sighs and moves off toward her bed, smaller than the one in TonDC, tucked into the far corner under a pile of furs. When she sits and rubs at her neck, Clarke follows and works her fingers at the knots there, touching at them in a way only her kind can, and they loosen as if she has control over them.

“Lincoln, he’s one of Indra’s people; a scout. He’s close with one of the— Sky Children. He thinks he’s being subtle, sneaking about the way he is; doesn’t he know my eyes see all?” Lexa laughs and turns, almost looking directly at Clarke, but the unfocus of her eyes gives away the fact she is still yet very much unseen, “I have sent for him and will ask him to arrange a meeting. If these invaders are as you say they are; prisoners and exiles, I will negotiate with them. You are lucky I love—”

And Clarke knows what she was about to say. Knows it with every fiber of her immortal being.

And she knows that Lexa knows it too. And that such a near confession leaves Lexa whiplashed. Heart racing. Breath quickening. As if such a thing was so natural a thing to think and say that it could not be controlled.

I love you too, Clarke thinks, Gods I love you so much.

Clarke walks the hallway. She opens the invisible door and steps through; and feels how much easier it is, to be doing this; to be grounding herself.

And when Lexa looks at her with a flushed, embarrassed face. She smiles and presses a kiss to Lexa’s forehead. Then either cheek. Then finally, and by far the softest one she leaves, she presses a kiss near to Lexa’s lips.

Lexa is looking at her; taking her features in and drowning in them. Lexa is looking at her in a way that conveys the words she cannot say. Lexa is looking at her with wide-blown eyes and reddened cheeks and when Clarke tentatively presses another kiss to the other side of Lexa’s mouth, she smiles into the soft skin there when she hears the sharp intake of breath.

“I love you,” Clarke says barely above a whisper, “I have and will always love you.”

And Clarke walks back through the door.

And Indra enters the tent.

“He’s here.”

Lincoln is not hard to persuade; least of all because he looks embarrassed at having been caught out so easily. And even with Indra’s sharp glare, he offers an apology in every language and way he can muster to Lexa; all but begging at her to not have him exiled, shot, and strung up as a traitor.

Clarke watches on with vague amusement, moving from Lexa’s side to brush against Lincoln, calming his fears. She likes Lincoln, she always had. He was good for Octavia, a hand to guide her. And Clarke never could quite forgive her people for what they had done to him. After so long without seeing him alive it felt good again.

When he leaves it’s in a bustled hurry, accompanied by two other forward scouts; he promises to return by mornings break with an answer. Clarke walks with him until the very edge of the camp, touching once more at the small of his back; lending him warmth and guidance and the feeling of luck. Octavia is already smitten with him and Bellamy will listen to Octavia, so there really is no need for luck; but still.

The small forward camp descends into a hush as she makes her way back through it. Night is falling and their daily machinations would draw too much attention; so fires are doused or hidden, work stops, guards arrange patrols, dinner is cooked and quietly served out.

And Clarke wades into Lexa’s tent, stopping a moment to observe from the door as the girl eats with one hand and tangles her hair into curls with the other. It’s endearing, she thinks.

Lexa had always been so closed off and unapproachable, when she had first met her; and later, when they had grown close, she had been torn away too early for Clarke to see these small tics; these small pieces of Lexa that left her heart aching with an overflow of love.

Lexa picks at her plate selectively, pushing the pieces she doesn’t like to the very edge and eating from least to most favourite. She can’t really afford to be picky, when everything they eat out here is hunted or gathered at great physical cost to those that do it; but she saves the best for last anyway. She’d hate it on the Ark, Clarke knows.

She sits by Lexa’s feet, tucking herself in as close as possible and resting her head against her knees. She knows Lexa can feel her, or at the very least feel her warmth. But she continues to eat her food in silence and Clarke knows that she’s still uncomfortable about their earlier conversation; if one could call it that.

When the last of the fires are doused and Lexa crawls into bed; Clarke follows like an obedient dog, sidling up beside her and cupping herself around Lexa like a warm, thoughtful blanket.

And she waits.

And waits.

Because Lexa does not fall asleep right away; she fakes it, for a while, desperately trying to even her breathing out. But Clarke isn’t stupid. And Clarke can feel people’s intentions. And Clarke isn’t a physical entity who will forget about things and fall asleep themselves.

So she waits.

“You’ve always loved me?” Lexa eventually whispers out, and Clarke can almost feel the apprehension at even asking it.

Yes, she thinks, not strong enough for Lexa to hear Yes. From the moment you showed me your strength and fearlessness and the way you lead your people, I loved you.

She draws patterns against Lexa’s skin in response; softly dragging her finger and leaving a trail of warmth and love where she goes, her hand eventually settling above her breast, above her heart; splaying her fingers out and pressing inward.

Yes I have always loved you, Lexa kom Trikru, she thinks at Lexa, letting her know, letting her hear.

Lexa breathes strong and deep and presses back into Clarke’s warmth, finally settling in for sleep. She will not get all the answers she wants today, and she is a smart enough girl to know it. Content instead to have the spirit from the world beyond shower her in attention, and the Commanders in her head telling her to relax, to listen, to feel.

Clarke presses a soft kiss behind her ear, feeling the tension from the day creep out until Lexa is asleep and dreaming.

She hears the commotion long before Lexa does; long before most of the camp does. Dawn has not broken over the Mountains yet and the world is still shrouded in dark, but she hears the quiet ruckus at the border nonetheless.

She untangles herself from around Lexa, not missing the visible shiver and shake that the sleeping body gives at the sudden lack of her; and moves out of the tent and through the forest at a quick pace.

It doesn’t take her long to find the source— Lincoln stands with Octavia at one side and Bellamy at the other and all three are arguing with camp guards. Lincoln was supposed to arrange a mutual meeting, not bring them here.

But Clarke knows how it would have gone down. Octavia would have said yes, Bellamy would have said no, Octavia would have tried to go in the camps stead anyway, and Bellamy would have followed. And that's how they ended up here.

She cannot help the light laugh at it all; glad for their presence. She knows Lexa will be woken soon and this moment will be broken with far more serious issues. But for now, she is content to lean against a nearby wall and watch on at their quarrel.

She wonders if Bellamy shot the Chancellor in this life. If Octavia was still a floor child. Wonders if he still read the Iliad to Octavia and played all the characters with different voices and mannerisms. If he was still the soft, kind, good man at heart that he had always been.

The sound of hurried feet has her turning, looking over her shoulder at the approaching form of Lexa; armored and made up but agitated; barely awake. She pushes off her half wall and floats at her, over her, gently touching at the corner of Lexa’s jaw.

Be kind, she thinks, loud enough that she knows Lexa will hear it, will get the message, Be soft. They do not understand.

Lexa’s jaw relaxes, her face softens. These are children; lost, cast out from their home; and they do not deserve as heavy a hand as Azgeda or Mountain invaders.

“You were to set up a meeting, Lincoln,” she says, in Trigedasleng so as to speak only to him, “Not bring them here uninvited.”

“Sorry, Heda,” he replies, bowing his head respectfully, “They are…a handful.”

Clarke watches as Octavia throws him a sharp glare and wonders just how much of the language he has taught her thus far; enough that she knows it was a slur against them, Clarke’s sure.

Bellamy looks impassive; annoyed even. But it’s a show. A facade. He’s scared of Lexa. He’s scared of Lincoln. He’s worried about his sister and his people. And these folks have swords; and they’ve got a single gun shared between their entire camp. And his sister is probably in love with the big fucking hulk of a Grounder. And he’s trying to lead his people. And—

Clarke moves to him, holds his hand at his side, rubbing calming circles with her thumb against his knuckles. It doesn’t take long for his shoulders to relax and when she looks across to Lexa; she can see the sour look on her face, as if she knows Clarke has taken his side instead of hers— as if there are actual sides in his whatever this is.

“Your friend here said you wanted to meet,” Bellamy grits out.

Lexa throws him a glare at his insolent way of speaking, and he knows he’s better off shrinking back than not.

“Yes,” she eventually says and then after a few more beats of silence, “Come with me. It is better discussed somewhere warm.”

Clarke moves quickly to keep up with her, touching their knuckles together. Showing her support for Lexa. Being on Lexa’s side. And she can see the small smile she gets in return; more in the eyes and less in the mouth.

The fire pit is cleared for them, Lexa taking the largest most comfortable log. Indra joining her at her side. And the others file in and find places where they can; Bellamy insisting on keeping Octavia close.

Clarke stands behind Lexa, and if everyone could see her, she would look more like a Guardian than ever; great golden wings spread out other side, the sun creeping up the mountains behind her.

“Why are we here?” Bellamy asks, “Your friend said you were a Commander, what does that mean? Commander of what?”

Lexa doesn’t hide her little smirk; she rarely gets to show off this way and Clarke can tell that it does wonders for her ego “Everything. You are invaders in Trikru territory; which is my territory. To the north is Azgeda territory; which is, also, my territory. To the west is Louwoda Kliron territory—”

“Let me guess,” Bellamy interrupts, “Also yours?”

Clarke knows that he’s lucky that Indra is restrained by Lexa’s mere presence, because the twitch of her hand on her sword is more than enough indication that she’d have removed his head for such arrogance; Lexa though remains passive and nods; polite, calm, diplomatic. Dealing with Bellamy as if he’s a child; because he is, in this world.

“Yes. There are Twelve Clans, all of them answer to me in one way or another. You are lucky. Usually we’d have had such brazen invaders killed; seems the stars are smiling down on you.”

Bellamy shifts anxiously, his eyes flicking to Octavia and then back to Lexa, “How do we stay unkilled?”

“Your name and where you’re from, might be a good start.”

“Octavia and Bellamy Blake,” Octavia butts in; far too keen to get a word in, eyes sparkling with as much enthusiasm about the current situation as possible. She had always belonged here, on Earth, amongst the Grounders, “We’re from the Ark.”

“It’s in space, like the stars,” Bellamy continues, shooting his sister a look, “It’s a space station. We didn’t— We didn’t know you were here, we swear. There wasn’t meant to be people on the ground.”

Yes, Clarke thinks, touching at Lexa’s shoulders in front of her. Listen to them. Open them up. Understand them. And she is so proud of Bellamy. Of Octavia. Of Lincoln for bringing them here. Of herself for calling off the original attack on Jasper that would leave them fearful and angry. Of Lexa; for everything.

The talks continue for most of the day.

At some point hunters return with fresh kills, cooking them and serving them around to the small camp. Even to Bellamy and Octavia, who Clarke knows haven’t eaten properly since arriving more than a week ago; and who devour the offered food like they’ve never eaten before. Which is partly true— The Ark was never particularly abundant with actual food.

By the end of the day though, they are all tired. The talks are adjourned and a tent set up for the two outsiders. Bellamy looks apprehensive at first, but when real bedding is proffered to him, he all but collapses into the pile of furs; he can’t have slept easily for a long while.

Clarke watches from the tent entrance for a few moments, anxious to touch at them; even Octavia, who fights exhaustion to stay up and learn more of the local language, huddled close by Lincoln.

But she moves off, tucking herself into Lexa’s tent instead. Making herself comfortable on the bed and watching as the girl sheds her armor and cleans her face of the imposing warpaint. She knows Lexa knows she’s here; she’s exerting just enough force to make it so. But she’s ignored in favor of dressing down; not that she is complaining, Lexa is beautiful in these rarely seen moments; none of the Commander’s image and all of the young woman behind it.

She knows that between there being enough people milling about the camp, and Indra’s unpredictability, grounding herself is unwise. But as Lexa turns and heaves a sigh, rubbing tired circles on her forehead, Clarke cannot help herself.

Down the hallway. Through the door.

Lexa tries not to act startled, she really does; but Clarke is perceptive and sees the jolt and hears the the quick intake of air. She smiles though, stays still. Gives time for Lexa’s brain to process what she's seeing.

“Oh,” she eventually utters out, quietly, shifting on the spot, “We need to come up with a means of warning before you do that.”

Clarke smiles wider and holds her hand out, encouraging Lexa to come sit, lay, loosen her tense muscles. When she does so without much more coaxing, Clarke cannot help the light blush that runs across her features and hopes whatever small amount of glow she’s emitting covers it.

When Lexa mindlessly tangles their fingers together and stares up at the roof of the tent, Clarke can see the questions working their way through her head.

“Seems you weren’t lying. Children living amongst the stars it’s— impressive. It’s said that the First Commander came from the stars and that she watches over us, even now. I wonder, Sky Queen, were you sent by her?”

Clarke doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. She hasn’t any idea who or what decided she was worthy enough to be plucked from death and given this second chance.

“And they say there are more of them, up there. Hundreds more. If it is true then—” Lexa takes a breath and turns her head, searching Clarke’s face, gripping their hands tighter together, “I will offer refuge, for your Star Children. If they were cast from their homes and sent to their expected deaths, as they say, then they are wanderers without homes. They will have to work hard and earn their place though. Do you understand?”

Clarke nods firmly and offers a smile. This was more than she could have hoped for, for her people. She is less concerned for The Ark in this life. Her concern had always been her diminishing hundred; the Ark had come second.

“The others they talk of, the ones who abandoned them? Will need further consideration and deliberation; perhaps even a meeting amongst Trikru leaders, especially if they intend to crash themselves into our mountainsides again. A hundred small helpless children is not a great shared burden; and many smaller villages could do with eventual extra hands. But hundreds or thousands more— I cannot promise the best outcome, Sky Queen.”

Clarke responds by bringing their hands up, watching as Lexa’s eyes trail them; interested, anxious. And as gently as possible, she kisses each of Lexa’s knuckles and fingertips and returns them back to the furs below.

“Why are you so soft with me?” she hears Lexa whisper, and she can see the myriad of questions in Lexa’s eyes, all of which will go unasked and unanswered except, “I caused your death, didn’t I? Yet here you are. Guiding me. Loving me. Why?”

Clarke hums and thinks. Remembers. She can see Lexa, coming into a tent; Clarke’s hands are red with Finn’s blood and no amount of scrubbing brings them clean. She can remember hating Lexa, viscerally, as she tells Clarke that what she has done will haunt her till the end of her days.

She can remember standing beside Lexa by the dwindling funeral flames, and Lexa pouring her past out to Clarke; for no reason other than she had sensed kinship in the Commander from the Stars.

She remembers the first moment she realizes that she might love Lexa— and the feelings that follow, the hope of a future with the Commander of the Ground.

You were right, Clarke. Life is about more than just surviving.

She doesn’t know if Titus exists in this world— or a similar one of his kind. There is no Flame after all. And she hadn’t seen him in her time in Polis. But she knows the scars of the lesson linger regardless. Costia had still died in this world; Costia might die in every world as far as Clarke knows; and Lexa loving Costia as the Commander had cost her her life.

She knows Lexa is afraid of love; both to feel it and to give it. She knows that Lexa thinks that to keep her position she must clench it with an iron fist and build impenetrable walls. And she knows that in the world before, when Lexa kissed her on the side of the Mountain, with war looming over the horizon; she was opening herself up in ways she did not think she could; and here was she doing it again.

“Because,” she says, and she hears as Lexa’s breath hitches at the sound of her voice, “You deserve it. Love is not weakness, Lexa kom Trikru.”

Chapter Text

The Not-So-Hundred are hungry. Tired. Cold.

It does not take a great deal of unseen coaxing alongside Bellamy and Octavia (and Lincoln, though they are fearful of him at first); for them to agree that handing themselves to the Trikru is in their best interest.

And when Lincoln gives the signal, back out toward the forest, that they have agreed to the terms discussed the day before; the camp is quickly descended upon by tens of hidden Grounders. Scouts. Workmen. Soldiers. Healers. Mothers. Fathers.

They bring food, water, and warm clothes. Blankets and shelter too; because the passage to TonDC will not be easy on unacclimatized feet and though Lexa and her people can make the trek in two and a half days; they will take a great deal longer. They will be accompanied, of course. Not like prisoners. Not exactly as equals either. More toddlers being taken on their first walk.

Lexa greets them too, individually. She dons her armor, her warpaint; her invisible crown. When the Grounders react as if she is a Queen, the Hundred do too. They are told that she commands the utmost respect and if they did not follow suit they will be punished for it. She is not like their Chancellor, Bellamy assures them; she is fair and patient. And they believe him.

As the camp comes to its end and everything of use is packed away, Raven releases the rockets to the sky; and Clarke guides them. Ensures they land in the river below rather than the small village they once might have. Ensures that there will be no death or destruction in this world; no reparations for her people’s mistakes.

And the trek northwards begins.

Slow and steady.

And Lexa leads them.

Clarke flies the majority of the way.

She is keen to test how far she can push herself. How high. How fast.

She soars above the clouds. Feeling no cold. No fear.

She meets with a flock of soaring, migrating birds. And they watch her like she is a funny little babe — a creature having only shed its down for feathers some days prior. They talk with her too, in their own way. Show her far off lands that she did not touch in her time here on Earth. Show her the extent of green; of life.

She lands too. Pauses her flight when the company rests. Nestles beside a sleeping Lexa every night. Grounding herself for short periods of time. Not talking. Just touching. Tracing. Silent promises of more. Later.

The Hundred tire easily. Injure even easier. Their feet are not used to being made to hike and require daily wrapping with tight gauze. Healers tending to them in periods of rest; teaching them words of Trigedasleng as they do.

And Clarke stays by them; touching at them. Offering warmth and comfort and peace. Coaxing them from their shells and pushing them in the way of learning; absorbing.

Lexa takes a shining to Bellamy, finding an unexpected kinship with the elder Blake. He had pocketed copies of his books before stowing away on the dropship. And during the evening, after his lesson in language, he quietly reads them to her and Octavia and Lincoln and Indra (who pretends she does not enjoy the sessions but wholly does).

Slowly. Slowly but surely. The Hundred integrate themselves into this marching party. Slot themselves into the areas they fit best into.

And Clarke watches it all from her spot in the sky. They will be free from the Mountains influence in this life, she hopes. They will still bring it down of course, but it will be because they see the horrors the Maunon inflict on these people first hand; not because they are captured, held prisoner, and tortured.

One week and a hundred and twenty miles later; Clarke sees TonDC. And then Clarke sees her people see TonDC. Clarke watches Bellamy’s jaw drop, his eyes light up; Octavia much the same. Clarke sees Lexa beam with rightful pride.

They are home, she thinks; Welcome home.

Gustus meets them at the towns entrance with a hardened stare.

The children, especially the youngest, instantly fear him; he is far bigger than anyone on the Ark had been. But Lexa greets him with a firm handshake and his mask slips just enough that they see he is not a monster; and they greet him too.

He is more a Father in this life than Clarke can remember him being in the last. Protective still, yes. But he guides Lexa with a gentle hand against her back and soft conversation. He helps Indra divide The Hundred into ruined but functional houses; actual roofs over their heads. Helps with feeding them. Clothing them. Greets Bellamy as if he is the Sky Children's Commander; and maybe he is, in this life.

Clarke loses sight of Lexa, more than once, as she goes about checking on her people. She knows where Lexa is, of course; she can as keenly feel her as she can the sun on her neck. But Clarke has a duty to these almost-Hundred; even as she is.

But the worry is for naught. They settle in almost immediately. The week trek has taught them enough of the language to say basic phrases— to thank, to politely request, to apologize. And the older ones are good at what they do. Their time and training and positions on the Ark weren’t for nill.

Wells is smart and has memory far beyond most others; and the way he fits in beside the Healers has her wishing to do much the same. Octavia does not disappoint her previous self; sliding into Indra’s sight by sheer force of determination. Raven, Finn, Monty, and Jasper share their own knowledge, as best as the language barrier allows, and begin work on a radio tower for when the Ark decides on a solution to their waning air crisis.

And Clarke is so proud of them. All of them. So much so that when she physically appears to Lexa that night— on complete accident, overcome with emotion— she glows bright enough that Lexa must shield her eyes.

And when she surges forward and takes Lexa’s face in her hands and kisses her; properly, for the first time; and Lexa kisses her back. She feels the sky literally shake at the action; as if torn open solely by their love transcending worlds. And when she opens her eyes, and Lexa opens hers, she knows Lexa felt it too.

In that moment she knows that she is not the being of light and warmth that Lexa described time and time again; almost human, almost describable. No. Standing here. Right now. She is looks as human as perhaps she has ever done. Skin and bone and golden hair and golden wings; but human. Physical. Touchable. Real.

And Lexa moves forward; cupping at her cheek, and presses her lips to Clarke’s. And it’s the Mountain all over again, Clarke thinks. But Finn isn’t dead. And they aren’t on the brink of war. And Lexa is warm and soft and her lips are giving.

Clarke brings her hand up, touching at Lexa’s waist; gripping, fingers digging in just enough. I’m here, she thinks, I’m here and I love you. I have always loved you. Lexa’s breath is soft on her face as her nose touches at Clarke’s. Moving. Switching sides.

When they part, Lexa is looking at her with wide-blown pupils and a shaky smile. And Clarke can feel her wings stretching out, showing her elation. And when Lexa laughs, actually laughs; Clarke cannot contain her own, laughing alongside her.

She presses her forehead against Lexa’s and Lexa is still cupping at her face, rubbing gently at the skin under her fingers; breaths mingling in the air between them.

And though the peril of the Mountain stills loom over them. And though the Ark still needs to comes down. And though her people are still new and confused and scared. Clarke finds solace in this moment of absolute peace.

Between Raven being a demanding little creature, and Jasper being something akin to a weasel, clambering to the top of the tallest half-ruined building; they manage to get the radio tower setup and functioning within days.

Lexa sits by, skeptical but intrigued, as Bellamy explains what they are trying to accomplish. That the rockets Raven had launched some days ago were just meant as a hello; a sign that they are alive down here; that the world was safe. And this tower would serve as their connection with their base in the sky. And Lexa likens it to messenger birds, which Bellamy (far too eager to relate anything to histories past) agrees with.

It takes decidedly longer to tune the shoddy device. Raven nearly deafens herself more than once on the scream that the atmosphere bounces back; remnants of the radiation and electromagnetic waves from the bombs decades before.

Clarke sits beside them all, unseen, anxious; wings beating without thought. She knows the Mountain has spies everywhere; old radio towers, antennas, barely working transceivers. Enough technology spread out that, even from nearly three hundred miles away, they will hear Raven’s S.O.S and will hear the Ark talking back.

She knows her people are safe here though. Safe for now at least. Mount Weather cannot as easily reach them. And being a stone's throw away from Polis and its reinforcements eases Clarke’s worry even more.

But still— she had seen what the Mountain is capable of first hand; knows that they will kidnap, torture, and kill for their goal if need be. They had been doing it for decades to the Grounders and her people are far more valuable (and far more vulnerable).

But as she anxiously brings her lip between her teeth; the radio lights up with chatter. And the room goes instantly quiet.

Raven is slack jawed for only a moment, because she obviously did not expect this to work so well or so fast; but as soon as the moment passes and reality settles in, she all but throws the headset free and pumps her fists in the air and screams.

And Finn and Monty and Jasper join in, crowding each other and holding one another in the air. Because they were abandoned by those people up there; thrown away like they were no better than trash. And here they were, on the ground, building a functioning radio tower.

Lexa stands off to the side, wary; eyes flicking between the too excited group of teenagers, before settling on Bellamy who just smiles and shrugs, “They are happy they contacted the people that sent them to die?” she asks.

“It’s hard to explain,” he replies, rubbing a hand along the stubble of his jaw, “A lot of them have families up there; people they love. They weren’t all bad people. But the bad outweighs the good. Maybe some of the younger ones or the more recently convicted will want to go back but— most of us were locked up for years. It’s exciting, knowing that their lives are in our hands for the first time, you know?”

Clarke can tell Lexa doesn’t really understand his point of view; her society is very strict on their ‘Blood must have blood ’ sentiment; and Lexa would quicker see hundreds put to death for treating children in this manner. But she can tell Lexa respects Bellamy and respects his opinion, so she simply nods and folds her hands behind her back; ever vigilant. Ever Heda.

When she leaves some time later, with far more important duties to attend to, Clarke stays. Clarke stays and listens to the radio chatter. Clarke watches the Hundred come and go from the building; some angry, some relieved. Most are passive, uncaring. What happens will happen.

Clarke stays and wraps her hand around Raven’s; warming her, congratulating her. Clarke stays and presses the softest of kisses to Finn’s cheek, watching the blush crawl across his face. Clarke stays and touches at the deepest parts of Bellamy that she can reach; far beyond his walls. Thank you, she thinks, watching the calm overcome him, Thank you for leading our people.

It’s a sight to see, Clarke thinks one very early morning; She had fantasized of this outcome.

On the side of the Mountain, Lexa had asked her what she would do when it was over— their siege of the Maunon. Clarke didn’t really have an answer for that; at least not a solid one.

Rest had been her first thought. Lots of rest.

And then Lexa had continued, had asked her what she wanted. And Clarke imagined a life free of this. Free of war. Free of just surviving . Living their lives out on the ground and thriving amongst the Trikru. Maybe even living with Lexa; allowing themselves to love each other.

But the world was cruel and the world was dark and the world was unfair. So it had been a fantasy; fleeting and forgotten.

Until now.

Now Clarke sits up in the highest tree she can find; perched there like a morning songbird. And she watches the sun creep from beyond the eastern ranges; feels as it warms every tiny cell in her body.

Her people below will wake from restful sleep soon. Her people will have purposeful days ahead of them. Her people will thrive here.

And Lexa—

Clarke feels the pull from Lexa’s quarters; the connection stronger now, since their interaction some days back, when the sky felt like it was bursting open.

The feeling is always the loudest and most demanding in the mornings; not that she would ever let Lexa know that, lest she try to quell her deepest thoughts, or sever whatever this bond is.

Clarke breathes.

Once.

Twice.

Lets the cold air crystallize in her lungs.

And she pushes forward. Away from the branch. Away from safety.

And she glides and she thinks this is how angels were always meant to feel; comforted by the morning sun, descending to their lovers below.

Lexa waking up is perhaps the second most endearing version of her; bested only by sleepily-chatty Lexa, Clarke thinks.

She sits on the fur-piled bed, watching the girl beneath the blankets toss and turn; fighting being awake. Fighting her duty as Commander. It has been a long few days and Clarke does not blame her for craving more rest.

She reaches out, touching at Lexa’s face; the only piece of skin available for it. Strokes long, gentle patterns down Lexa’s cheek and jaw. Watches as the girl melts under her fingers, waking easier and easier until familiar green eyes are searching the space Clarke is invading.

Clarke does not physically appear though; Gustus will likely be by soon and it wouldn’t do to be seen by anyone else. They both know this. But exerting the calming force of gentle fingertips is nothing to Clarke these days.

And when she leans down and presses a kiss into Lexa’s collarbone and breathes cold morning air across Lexa’s skin, she delights in the goosebumps that spring up; doing it once more for good measure to force Lexa to throw the blankets aside.

“Good morning,” Lexa mumbles out quietly, and Clarke stays invisibly sitting on the bed as she stumbles about the room, dressing herself in her light and more casual day armor.

Her eyes drag to the scarless base of Lexa’s neck; she has still not found the time nor the correct way to broach the lack of it.

The Commander’s still speak to Lexa, she knows that much; maybe not in the same way they had before, not in the same way they had spoken to Clarke either. But they do talk; guiding every action Lexa takes; every decision. They had told her to trust Clarke after all; and she did, without question.

There’s a great deal of things Clarke doesn’t know about this version of the world. Every new day opens new thoughts and comparisons to her own. It’s little things, mostly. But the lack of the Flame is among the most pressing; if A.L.I.E exists but no Flame then—

“Lexa, uh, Heda,” a voice calls from beyond their closed door, and Clarke tears her eyes from Lexa; dressed now, to look at the metal-plating. Bellamy struggles with using titles rather than names, and she doesn’t blame him; fortunately neither does Lexa.

“Min yu op, Bellamy,” Lexa replies and Clarke can see the small smile that plays on her features before the elder Blake enters.

He bows his head respectfully, even it’s not entirely needed, and gestures out behind him, “Raven needs to see you. She said to bring Indra; Gustus too.”

Clarke can see the worry on his features and she knows.

She knows this means the Ark is officially all but out of air. Out of time. She knows they’re scrambling up there; doing everything they can to conserve just a little more; make it last, drag it out.

At least in this life three hundred people did not need to be sacrificed for the greater good. But the inevitable descent will kill a large chunk of them anyway; and Clarke knows how hard it will be for the Council to convince the population that bringing the Ark down is the only thing that will save them.

Lexa grabs at her weapons and guards her features. Clarke knows she’s already summarized what’s going on. And when Gustus joins them in the walk to the radio tower, and then Indra, the dread begins to settle in Clarke’s stomach too.

Raven greets them at the door, one ear of the headset still pressed against her ear. The rest of the radio crew and Wells, apparently, are standing off to one side. Raven smiles and Clarke can see the exhaustion there; the dark circles under her eyes and the slump in her shoulders.

She moves from beside Lexa and wiggles her way through the small crowd, careful not to disturb anyone too much with her presence; and wraps herself around Raven’s middle. Brings her to sit, to relax. Your job is done, she tries to tell Raven; you’ve done good, now rest.

And Raven, who had only several weeks earlier angrily shied away from the otherworldly touch, instead subconsciously leans into it; soaks up the feeling of Clarke and all that she represents.

“Last point of contact was a half hour ago,” she says, rubbing at her eyes, “Chancellor Kane and the rest of the Council, they’re informing everyone up there what’s going on. Bell, pass the map.”

When the map is laid out on the table, Clarke can see how much work has gone into the past few days; and why Raven looks as tired as she does. Pocked across its surface are numerous notes and calculations and theories. Most important of which are potential places of crash landing; because there is no discernible way, in any world, that the Ark is coming down in one piece.

“They’re aiming more South than here. I gave them coordinates for the dropship; told them the Grounders still had that area evacuated. Didn’t occur to me that someone,” and Clarke can see the look of shame that crosses Wells’ features, of course, “Hadn’t told Daddy that we weren’t alone down here. So now they’ve got that concern too. Anyway that’s where they’re aiming for. Doubt it’ll go to plan. Doubt the Ark’ll even hold up on reentry.”

Lexa studies the map, looking at the notes; Clarke knows she can’t read, not entirely anyway, but she didn’t have to, to know what the notes indicated, “If they go too far South,” she says jabbing a finger at the map, “They’ll end up on a crash course with the Mountain.”

“Yeah,” Raven says and Clarke watches the numerous emotions that flit about her face; it’s only a microsecond but its enough for her to realize what’s going on, “Apparently if Mount Weather has people in it; the Ark wants to try to establish contact with them.”

The chill that runs through the room is palpable. Lexa at least keeps hers visually contained; but Gustus and Indra do not. He all but snarls. And she pushes forward, at Raven, at Bellamy; hand wrapped around the hilt of her sword.

“Teik ai frag em op en dison laik odon,” and Raven (at least in part because Clarke grips onto her tighter), manages to show no fear; Raven can’t entirely understand what they’re saying, but the meaning is there nonetheless. Let me kill them and get this over with.

Bellamy is the first to step in, beating Lexa by only the thinnest of hairs, “Heda, Lexa. Indra. Please. We aren’t those people. The Ark is scared. The Mountain was supposed to be empty; I know, we know how much pain they’ve caused you. And those of us here now— we are all against the Ark’s decision.”

Indra is held back only by Lexa raising her hand. A sign for quiet. For a moment to let her collect her thoughts and deliberate.

Clarke can see the gears turning over in her head and when she reaches a hand out from holding Raven, she feels the soft intake of breath; listen to them, she thinks, pushing her thoughts at Lexa; letting her hear when there is no voice to be heard, you can trust Bellamy.

“If your people talk with the Mountain,” she says with a sharp gaze and sharper tongue “They will be considered our enemies. And yours. Do you understand, wormana kom Skaikru?”

Bellamy nods. War-chief of the Sky. Leader of his people. Clarke beams and releases her hold on Lexa to wrap herself around Raven again; quelling her worries and fears. You are in good hands.

When Lexa turns back to the map, and Raven by proxy, she’s far softer, “When they contact you again. You will tell them that those are our terms. This is our land. I have accepted you and yours into my people, Raven kom Skaikru, but the same cannot be said for them. Tell them that if they wish to make peace with us, that contact with the Mountain is not a part of that deal. Do you understand?”

Clarke can feel Raven almost buzzing beneath her fingers; energy pent up and about to blow.

Raven who never truly had a home amongst the stars; whose boyfriend was jailed for her crimes; who was just told that she is as much a part of Lexa’s people than Indra, or Gustus or any of the other kru; beams up at Lexa, grants her a wicked smile and says, “Sha, Heda.”

Chapter Text

The Ark does not take the ultimatum well.

Clarke cannot hear their side of it, but Raven and Bellamy argue up a storm and eventually some kind of compromise must be reached, because Bellamy; exhausted but triumphant, appears from the radio tower and looks at Lexa like he’s just won a war.

“They’ve agreed to speak with you first,” he tells her, and beams when she nods her approval; Clarke wishes her version of him had had the opportunity to shine like this. He was a natural born leader and deserved the chance.

“We will leave today then, wormana; choose a small group to travel with you. If your once-people intend to arrive in much the same fashion as yours, I would prefer to see that they do not roam about unsupervised for long.”

Bellamy still looks taken aback by his new title, but he nods and offers a head bow and stiffly moves off; as if the title of War-Chief does not suit him and the way he shepherds his people about. And maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe one day, in this world, he will become Haihefa kom Skai: King of the Skies.

Maybe one day, in this world, he will ascend further and take the title purely of Heda kom Skaikru.

Clarke hopes—

It was never going to be pleasant.

It hadn’t been pleasant in her last life either.

A small detail of Grounders headed by Lexa and Gustus; and a tagged along envoy of Bellamy, Wells, and Raven make the trek back south; Clarke follows silently from the sky. Her eyes drag above her more often than not; tense, anxious.

In her last life, the Ark had unexpectedly come down at night and delayed the Grounder attack on the dropship. In this life—

The last radio contact had come some hours ago; Raven had rigged a portable device to be carried by a horse; and even then the last set of instructions were hurried. The Council was in all but disarray and fretting to keep everyone calm as the conglomerate of ships moved into position.

Clarke pushes herself higher and higher. She knows if she steadied herself and steeled her nerves, she would be able to pass through the invisible barrier the sky creates; but she prefers not to try. The ground is a long way back down and even with her connection to Lexa she fears losing everyone; losing her.

When they make final camp, some dozen miles south from the dropship site, she stays in the sky for significantly longer.

Watching.

Waiting.

The afternoon sun lingers at the mountains and she can feel Lexa subconsciously pulling her back to the ground; back to land; back to her.

And when she thinks just maybe she deserves to rest; that what happens will happen regardless—

The sky breaks open.

And the world casts its defilers alight.

The sound is immense; the heat even more so.

She remembers Bellamy once telling her about Icarus and his failing at the hands of hubris. And she thinks this must have been how it felt for the son of Daedalus; feathered wax wings melting as he flew too close to the sun.

She drops from the sky like a stone.

Falling, she thinks, every time, it’s always falling.

Her wings orient themselves only at the very last moment, meters above the small camp below. And as her feet touch at the ground with barely more than a feathers weight; the earth below rumbles and shifts and moves with the weight of what’s above.

The Grounders, even crowded by Lexa; their indomitable Heda; look rightfully terrified. Bellamy squints against the glare and steadies himself; steadies Raven and Wells too.

Clarke watches with bated breath. Her wings twitching anxiously; eager to be moving.

When the Ark tears itself apart and scatters across the sky; and Alpha and Mecha Station are sent careening far further South than anticipated and planned, she feels her stomach turn.

When the Ark tears itself apart and scatters across the sky; and Farm Station tumbles northward, out of control and out of nation borders, she knows the damage and pain it will later cause.

When the Ark tears itself apart and scatters across the sky; and Factory Station hurtles towards the eastern mountainside, she knows the casualties will be in the hundreds.

Clarke knows she could not have saved these people; even in her current form, but she will take the burden of their souls on her shoulders regardless.

Clarke knows this was always fated to happen in this world; in every world.

And still it hurts—

Lexa is quick to move her people.

A scout is ordered to head east; alone. To find the remnants of what even Lexa can tell will have been grizzly deaths.

A small party is moved north; up towards the Ice Nation. Some of Lexa’s best spies, she tells Bellamy; because she knows the border here is not far, and Azgeda patrol it daily.

The rest of them move south.

Clarke can’t find it in her to take to the sky again and she finds purchase on the back of Lexa’s steed instead. And when she wraps herself around Lexa and finds the small body of the Commander trembling; she exerts as much warmth and comfort and love as she can into her.

I’m here, she thinks, probing at Lexa’s mind, pressing a kiss against the base of her neck, I am here.

Lexa remains white as chalk as they push south. Fearful for her land. Fearful for her people. For of the Mountain. For the long journey ahead.

But her trembling stops and Clarke finds solace in that at least.

They push sixty miles in the first day; having ridden through the previous night.

Clarke finds her powers extend beyond touching at humankind.

When they stop to rest after a hard forty mile push; with both beasts and riders panting in exhaustion— her people more so than the Grounders— Clarke tends to the horses; who watch her, see her, take her in. Clarke touches at them and begs more of them and when they stamp their feet and buck their heads and call out to weary riders; Lexa takes it as a divine sign.

And when Clarke exerts more energy at the others present; silently begging at them; they rally with the horses and find it in them to clamber back up on the beasts and ride until well after dusk. And Clarke keeps touching at them all, egging them on, feeding them parts of herself; until she too is listless and exhausted.

They have not slept in over a day and when they eventually do stop. Clarke barely manages the energy to turn Lexa’s attention to Bellamy, Raven, and Wells; who all but fall off their horses and pass out the moment their bodies touch solid ground.

The Grounders work only slightly longer, setting up a minimal campsite before falling to sleep themselves.

Clarke does not need sleep; she knows from her weeks of practice in Polis; but as Lexa makes herself comfortable on the forest floor and feebly reaches out to the space that Clarke inhabits, she cannot help but curl around the girl and cover her protectively with her wings.

And when she feels Lexa relax in her arms and her breathing pan out, slower and slower until she is deeply and blissfully asleep; Clarke buries her face in Lexa’s hair and takes a breath and closes her eyes.

She does not see or hear or feel the light of the stars reaching down at her; touching at her in turns.

She does not see or hear or feel as the heavens lights descend and lower and take forms so different to hers but so similar.

She does not see or hear or feel the outpouring of love from her kin; the way their silver hands ghost over her gold.

She does not see or hear or feel how they add to her wings; plucking feathers from their own and threading them into hers.

Instead she rests and recovers and loves Lexa and pours parts of herself out over the camp; shrouding them in the peace and respite that they will need in the coming day.

Clarke pushes them hard again the next day.

They sleep deeply through the night, unknowingly protected by her; but as soon as she feels the fingers of the morning sun touch at her skin, she pushes herself at them, at their consciousnesses; stirring them into rested awareness.

She rallies the horses into hurrying their riders and before long they are saddling up and moving again, and Clarke presses kisses to the heads of each beast and to the temple of each person; giving them desperately needed energy and support.

Her anxiousness takes her to the sky, and even from fifty ground-miles out she can see the remnants of the Ark wreckage. She aches to fly closer, faster; but a part of Lexa tugs at her from below, impatient for her return.

The horses watch her as she weaves in between their moving herd, pricking their ears in her direction as she silently begs another fast day from them. And when their hooves start to beat harder against the ground and their gait turns from a trot to a canter she knows they’ll make it within the day.

They stop frequently for rest and water breaks, and each time, despite Lexa searching the area for her presence, Clarke stays above the trees; watching.

And when the trees eventually begin to thin out, broken and scorched and torn from the Earth below, Clarke feels the shift.

The shift in the travelling party. The shift in the horses. The shift in the way the world feels to her now; foreign, unmapped. The shift in Lexa; anger and anxiety bubbling just beneath the surface.

They make camp on the outskirts of the devastated field; keeping amongst the safety and shadow of the trees. One of the riders whistles to the sky above and a falcon descends gracefully, warily eyeing Clarke but taking orders from its handler nonetheless; leaving Clarke to wonder how she had missed its presence to begin with.

Lexa, despite the fact she is visibly disturbed by the forest’s destruction and the heap of smoldering twisted metal in the distance; manages to order the Grounders around well enough. Even Bellamy, Wells, and Raven; exhausted and sore as they are, help with the groundwork. And Clarke wishes she could do the same; instead relegating herself to mending unseen wounds, sapping tiredness.

They were the forward party— little more than the bare bones necessary to protect and serve Lexa’s interest. A much larger contingent is following at a slower pace and Clarke becomes painfully aware now, looking out at the remains of the Ark, of probable Arkadia, that they do not have long to sway the Arkers to their side; to her side; to Lexa’s side.

Raven tiredly sets about establishing a radio link; spying, listening. Placing the earphones over Lexa’s tentative head to let her understand the relevance of her job; Gustus demanding his own turn moments after. And if they weren’t on the brink of a situation that could potentially end in war, Clarke might have found it endearing.

Instead she flits between the camp and the open field, stretching her wings and flying up. She knows Lexa is too anxious for her to leave; and that she takes comfort in Clarke’s stalwart presence. So she doesn’t dare go too far, stretching whatever thin thread is connecting them before returning when it becomes too taut.

Her ability to keep the party rested wavers as the sun begins to fall; and one by one, starting with her people, they begin to cover themselves and sleep.

And she, exhausted in her own way, deigns to sit on an upturned log, facing the Ark; watching as the flood lights flicker on, and the guards, silhouetted against the sharp background glare, begin to pace.

She has no idea how long she zones out for; formulating a plan in her head, working Bellamy and Wells and Lexa into it; when she feels Lexa stirring somewhere off behind her.

Sleep, she thinks, without turning around, you will need it.

But the rustling gets closer and she cannot help but roll her eyes as Lexa manages to find her presence amongst the trees. She is quiet; careful not to wake the resting others; and nodding for the current nightwatcher to take a break. And when her arms come to rest on the log beside Clarke; Clarke can’t contain her smile.

“You’re thinking too loudly again,” Lexa whispers, and Clarke can hear the tiredness in her voice.

She smiles and bends down to press a kiss into the top of Lexa’s hair as a form of apology and when she receives a (slightly) happy huff in return, she does it again for good measure.

“Your people aren’t so different from the Mountain, from this distance,” Lexa continues through clenched teeth, “The children were one thing but this— I hope you are right, spirit. I pray you are.”

So do I, Clarke thinks and when Lexa looks up towards her, she thinks she might have accidentally grounded herself or spoken out of turn; but she can see the unfocused haziness in those green eyes, and knows she is just searching thin air.

“Ever since the day you kissed me, I—” and when Lexa’s eyebrows knit together, Clarke knows what she is going to say, “—Have you felt a connection? It’s— It’s like holding onto a fishing net with bare hands and feeling the currents take it downstream.”

“And just now, I was dreaming,” she continues and Clarke watches one of Lexa’s unconsciously hands reach out towards where one of her own lay, “Of some time and place from my childhood. When all of a sudden I could see plan after plan flitting through my mind. And they were not my own, spirit.”

Clarke can see the exhaustion on her face; the way that, when she reaches out to cover Lexa’s fingers with her own, her eyes struggle to stay open. And Clarke knows now, that Lexa has been feeding off her own anxiety through whatever this connection is.

I’m sorry, she thinks, and she knows Lexa must somehow hear it because the Commander simply nods and leans her weight more against the log; I was foolish to think it was a one way path.

“You were Wanheda,” Lexa says after a beat of silence, “You never did tell me how you came to have the title. Was it this? Are you preventing a war I would have otherwise caused?”

Clarke does not expect this question, and she feels the intensity of it hit her like a bullet. She is not the only one holding things and questions back, it seems.

Lexa must sense the change in her; a palpable feeling in the air perhaps, because she tenses under Clarke’s hand and becomes rigid against the log.

Clarke sees brief flashes; children burning, charred skeletons, her Mother strung up. But Clarke takes a deep, shaking breath and looks towards the stars and thinks instead about the first time she had heard the moniker.

She had wormed her way into a small Grounder village, masquerading as a Trikru trader and traveller, and in need of a place to rest for a while. She knew the language well enough to get by; resorting to head nods and grunts where she didn’t.

A farmer had told her the roads weren’t safe alone these days; that Wanheda was rumoured to travel them. And when she questioned him and he had returned with Maun-de Fraga; she felt her stomach bottom out. She never did return to that village.

She won’t be a Mountain Killer in this life, she thinks; that will be left to Bellamy. Or Lexa. Or the leader of the Arkers. Or maybe no one. Maybe in this life, she reasons with herself; maybe in this life they take the Mountain down without needing to kill every last man, woman, and child. What had Lexa said, on the eve of that battle; We spare the innocent, as for the guilty—

Jus drein jus daun, she thinks, Wanheda did what needed to be done. She knows Lexa had not heard the rest of her thoughts, but she exerts just enough energy to allow Lexa to hear this much.

And when the Commander turns to look in her space again, she can see the confusion in those green eyes. Can see how her reply builds more questions than answers. Can see how Lexa swallows an obviously lodged stone.

“Blood must have blood,” Lexa repeats, offering a slight nod before pushing herself off the log, “Come sleep, spirit. Even Death deserves rest.”

Bellamy convinces Lexa that it would be better if he wasn’t one of the approaching party members; that it should be Wells and herself and Gustus and another guard. A small contingent; easy to pass off as harmless.

And definitely not him.

Definitely not.

Clarke knows it’s because he shot the Chancellor. So does Raven; not that she would ever betray Bellamy like that. Lexa regards him with loose suspicion but eventually relents when Gustus whispers some quiet kind of compromise in her ear.

It’s still early morning enough that the dew catches to their pant legs as they begin the trek through the open field.

Clarke bunches her dress up and wades beside Lexa, tucked behind Gustus as a means of protection. The Ark isn’t expecting them; the Ark didn’t even know they were camped amongst the trees; and the anxiety at approaching an unknowing, potential enemy has Lexa (and Gustus for that matter) rigid and uncomfortable.

She can tell when the Arkers finally notice them.

First it’s just a young man by the boundary fence (still being set up), squinting and wondering if their figures are a trick of the light or perhaps his imagination. And then it’s a girl beside him, tapped on the shoulder and made to look; and she has mind enough to realize it’s not a dream.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Armed, padded guards pour from the entrances and ruins; guns raised. Workers yell and scurry in fear, tripping over themselves. As if their group isn’t four people strong and sparsely armed with swords and axes. Clarke knows Raven and Bellamy will be pressed against the portable radio, anxiously chuckling.

“Stop where you are,” an unfamiliar voice rings out to them through a megaphone.

Clarke can see Lexa and Gustus tense beside her. They haven’t heard something like this before, and someone swinging their voice in such a robotic-like manner is understandably terrifying; so she gently touches at both their arms, pouring a sense of solidarity into them; you’re okay, she thinks.

Wells instructs them to raise their hands. A show of peace. A show of surrender. And when Gustus does it immediately and Lexa doesn’t; she knows the Commander is going to get an earful about it later. But Lexa is the Commander and Lexa is Heda and she will not be surrendering to beasts unknown.

Clarke flits her wings; not anxious, for Lexa will feed off that feeling; but unsteady nonetheless. The last time she had approached the Ark without them knowing had hardly gone well; and there’s a part of her that worries for a repeat.

It wasn’t Gustus or Lexa or Wells with her then. It was Anya and they were exhausted, bloodied and partly bonded. And Clarke had all but begged the woman to return to her Commander and offer an alliance. And then Anya was shot dead and another soul was added to Clarke’s already sagging shoulders.

So when Major Byrne in all her intensity, comes marching out, flanked by a half dozen other guards; Clarke feels herself tense. Feels Lexa tense too.

Wells is their saving grace. Diplomatic. Calm. He knows these people and can work his words for them in a way that wins them favor; even dressed as a grounder as he is.

“Major Byrne,” he says, and Clarke gives him credit for managing to somehow keep a steady voice; wishing she had more time with her version of him, “Major Byrne please, it’s me? Wells Jaha. My Father—”

The shift is instant. Weapons lowered; still loaded and primed, but pointing at least to the ground rather than their heads. A soldier is sent running back into the camp before he can even be ordered to.

Clarke surges forward; touching at Byrne, at the other soldiers; looking over their shoulders at the other anxious Ark survivors. Counting heads. Counting weapons.

Her presence leaves the small guarding force calmer though, grips loosening against triggers.

“Jaha? We’ve been trying to get in contact for days,” Byrne says; tired, exasperated, “Where are the other children? Who are these three?”

“The meeting that was agreed upon with the Council, we got here as fast as we could, you kind of overshot your landing zone” he says in return; a light smile playing on his features but his back straight, shoulders square; ever a Councilman’s son.

Before the Major can reply, a ruckus comes from behind them and Clarke is forced to abandon her calming post amongst the eager, anxious guards; fleeing back to Lexa’s side in an instant.

Thelonious pushes through first, all skin and bones and wild hair. And Clarke realizes in this life he had no need to stay behind; the thrusters worked and in this life he came down with the rest and is not lost first to the desert and then to a Grounder prison.

She can see the way Wells tries to remain rigid and firm but the moment his Father pulls him into a rough hold of a hug, Clarke can see how he loosens, relaxes, melds into the comfort of a parents arms; it’s only being for a moment though, because he has a job to do and he knows it.

“Dad. Dad hang on. Dad. Stop. Where is Chancellor Kane?”

“Unfortunately right here,” a voice says; dry, with an amused rasping edge.

And Clarke had been so caught up in watching their reunion that she missed the approaching others; lost among the sea of other curious Arker heads.

So when the voice floods out she feels her stomach drop; her hands sweat; her wings beat. For a brief moment she knows she tangibly stands beside Lexa, flickering in and out of physical existence.

Not Marcus, she thinks; she knows—

And when the blonde hair settles beside Major Byrne; hands folded over her chest. A weak, tired smile settled on her face. Clarke feels the tears that gather at her eyes. Clarke feels herself move forward; invisibly brushing arms against Lexa, who must feel her move because she all but reaches out; mind begging at her to come back.

Not a Griffin in this life, she thinks; she knows.

And she cannot help the sob that pours from her; the clouds in the distance rumbling their mirrored anguish. Her hands reaching out to hover over their face. Soaking up their image.

Chancellor Abigail Kane.

Chapter Text

The rain doesn’t abate for days.

Clarke’s grief doesn’t either.

The longer she spends amongst her old people, the deeper the ache seems to settle in her chest. Rooting itself there like an infection; festering and eating away at her.

Lexa tries to help. Tries to coax her from the unseen shadows. Reaching out to the space she fills and finding it empty; void; cold.

Clarke cannot find it in herself to settle; to ground herself; to let her warmth seep off onto anyone. She doesn’t, or can’t (she doesn’t know), stay in one place for too long. Taking to the sky more often than not, simply soaring and floating around as one would in water; letting the rain soak through to her bones.

But the first day of talks goes well nonetheless; if a little tense.

This Abby is as much the same person as her own Mother; strong-willed; righteous; pacifistic; but selfish, still. Her people come first. They’re the good guys, she tells their little group; even though they sent a near-hundred children to the ground to die, something which Lexa is more than happy to remind them of.

They tell them they have stuck by the deal they had made with Raven some days earlier though. Mount Weather had not been contacted; despite the frequent S.O.S’s sent out by the Mountain over the spanning radio towers; a fact Raven quietly tells Lexa later.

It takes a great deal of patience on Lexa’s behalf, and Gustus’ too, to not lash out when they’re looked at like they’re liars, when they try to tell the Council the atrocities the Mountain commits on their people. And it takes all of Clarke’s energy, feeling their rage shoot through bringing her to momentarily stray into the room, to hold them back and tame their tongues.

Acid Fog is a thing out of horror stories; and Enraged-Zombie-like people even more so. But Lexa is adamant and Lexa is steadfast and Lexa stares down at a half dozen far older people and challenges them to question her. They don’t.

And when the first day comes to a close and Lexa tells the Arkers of her camp amongst the trees and their advancing small army; they’re allowed to leave on the condition they move it closer; within sight. And Lexa relents if only to appease the hosts.

Bellamy fidgets the entire time; pulling up his fur hood and keeping to himself and when Lexa finally snaps and questions him on his behavior; because how dare he after she had appointed him leader of his people. He pours out everything.

He had shot the Chancellor. Not Abby. Not Thelonious either; who had been Chancellor in Clarke’s world and who Bellamy had shot in the gut. No, in this world it was Diana Sydney and Bellamy had shot her in the head; twice. Because she had killed his mother and had stolen his sister and locked her up and then sent her to the ground. And he pours this all out to Lexa who looks on; vaguely proud of him.

She allows him to keep to himself after that; promising to talk to Abigail (not Abby, Lexa refuses to call her that) on his behalf. Bellamy is her people now and therefore her responsibility. And when he lights up and looks as much like the boy Clarke remembers and loves; she sees Lexa fall a little in love with him too; in her own way.

The second and third days go much slower, much more methodical. Less tense peace talks and more logistics. Back and forth and diplomatic and boring.

Gustus is Lexa’s strong arm and every time the Ark tries to push for a little more wiggle room he shifts his weight and gives them a look and they back down.

And Clarke spends the majority of the days in the sky. Pulling as hard as she can against the invisible string that connects her to the Commander below.

She can hardly bear to be in the same room as her once-Mother. Even as she aches for her presence and her warm embrace. She had earlier seen Marcus press a kiss to her temple and the anger and betrayal Clarke felt caused a bolt of lightning to strike a nearby tree, shattering it.

Logically she knows life is different here; and maybe her Father had never existed and that explained her absence as well. But it still stings at a viscerally deep part of her to see Abby as content as she is with a man that isn’t Jake and in the absence of a daughter.

And logically she knows what she is throwing is a temper tantrum and the world is paying for it in strong gusts of wind and heavy rain that spreads miles over. And she knows that the storm will slow the advance of Lexa’s small army; which is causing issues in their peace talks. But she can’t bring herself to stop.

The crescendo comes late during the third night. When she; far too restless to stay walking amongst the trees and tents and buildings; takes to the stormy clouds again and feels the lightning swarm around her like a tangible beast. Prickling at her skin and hair and wings.

And when a bolt reaches out to her; touches at her; sparks through her and leaves her dizzy; she feels a fiercely sharp pull from the ground below. From Lexa. Awake. Terrified. Shaken.

She lands as quick as she can; feeling as much like a swooping bird than ever. And Lexa is there, standing in the rain, in the dark; alone. No guards. No protection. Her eyes seeking out the space that Clarke inhabits as if she’s physically there; hands twisting anxiously at her side. And she looks so much less of the Commander now than she ever has done.

And Clarke knows the feeling of the lightning passing through her was fed back down the invisible string. And Lexa, who had been so good and patient with her the past few days, rushed from the safety and warmth of her bed to seek her out; worried; terrified even, for a spirit not her own.

The storm overhead rumbles. And Clarke shepherds Lexa back towards her tent. Back to safety. To warmth. To comfort.

Once they are alone and hidden, Clarke walks the long hallway to the metaphorical door and opens it and steps through. And she silently touches at the furious form of Lexa. Placatingly. Lovingly. Peels her clothes off and dries her. And neither deign to be the first to speak; neither sure if they even can.

Clarke is as heavy appearing as her storm overhead; different than the time in the war room. Not bright and angry. But Muted. Grey. Less of a constant glow and more the flicker of a match.

And when Lexa slips back under the covers of her furs, Clarke joins her and spoons around her; cradles her in her arms and buries her face in Lexa’s neck.

She is again reminded that it is not a one way path— this connection.

And Lexa had been shouldering all of Clarke’s grief as much as the sky; so as the thunder broils overhead Clarke feels the body beneath her rack itself with a single quiet sob.

“ Moba, Heda. I’m sorry,” she says in a voice barely above a whisper and presses a warm kiss against Lexa’s shoulder; if the use of her voice spooks the girl she doesn’t show it.

“Three days,” Lexa replies and her own voice is soft and Clarke can’t help but liken it to the time in her bedroom in the world before, moments before they made love for the first and last time; sad but accepting, “Do you forget that I’m not just here for your people or Bellamy, spirit? That I came to see these invaders at your behest.”

Clarke wonders if her explanation will break cosmic law. Nothing she had done to this point had caused any reparations; any divine intervention. And she thinks if whatever gave her this life; these wings; won’t come down to show its face anyway then she’s fine to do as she pleases.

“My Mother—” she says, slowly, carefully, “It’s different. I thought if I wasn’t here then—”

Lexa must understand because she nods and shifts back into Clarke’s body, pressing herself into her arms tighter, “Is Chancellor Kane— was the Chancellor your Mother?”

“In another world, maybe. Not this one.”

Lexa hums and Clarke can feel the weight of her grief begin to lift; from them both. The sky above lessens and lightens and she knows that come morning; the storm will have gone entirely.

“Your sadness is understandable then. And I will forgive you; for your absence and for the terrible storm. But please— I would prefer if you kept to the ground,” it does not take a genius for Clarke to hear the unsaid I would prefer if you stayed by my side.

She nods and brushes her nose against Lexa’s skin; skirts her fingers across the skin of her stomach and side and ribs and she can feel the change in herself; sees it in her ambient glow. The muted grey turning gold again.

And as Lexa relaxes under her soft fingers, finding the embrace of sleep; Clarke can’t help but feel the outpouring of love she has for the girl under her. Can’t help but feel how, even now with the storm overhead and the weight of the world rested on them both, they were meant for each other in this life; perhaps even in every life.

Commander of the Sky and Commander of the Ground.

The tension on the string conjoining them loosens come morning. The storm is gone.

Clarke stays physical for as long as possible; flickering out of existence only mere moments before Gustus pushes his way through the heavy flap of the tent.

And as much as her presence wafts calm and content; she can’t stop Lexa from immediately being petulant and cursing the far bigger man out for ruining the unseen moment.

Gustus takes it in stride; despite not understanding the reason for her outburst; and ushers her from her bed into her armor. And when she sits and forces him to braid a length of her hair (ruined from the night in the storm before), he does so without question.

“Anya will be arriving by tomorrow evening,” he says as he works his surprisingly gentle fingers through her curled mess, “I will be glad to be free of these duties.”

Lexa smiles. Not offended. Not set back. It really isn’t his place to be doing these chores; and it’s not Anya’s either. But Lexa loves them both and they know it, and these small pieces of her are theirs and no others.

“She’s making good time,” Lexa replies, “Despite the foul weather,” and Clarke feels the insult like it’s physical and she can’t help but flick Lexa’s leg in response, earning a jolted muscle in reply.

“Mmm yes. What sky god did you threaten last night to ease up on it? You think I did not see you storm out into the rain and come back soaked? And now this morning it just so happens to have eased.”

Lexa blushes. Bright red. Even the very tips of her ears darken. And Clarke silently laughs. Gustus booms his out; a great heavy chuckle.

“Oh so you did threaten the Gods? It is true then, Heda sways even them.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Anya will be mighty pleased to know you still argue with beings unseen.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“I would.”

The feeling of watching them interact like this; like Father and Daughter; causes a warmth to pool in Clarke’s stomach and chest.

In her last life, Gustus had been torn from Lexa by none other than Clarke herself. Called out on his misgivings and lies when he had only been protecting his Commander. And seeing them now, the might-have-beens; makes her yearn for this. Makes her year for this far better life. But she takes solace in knowing, at least this time, Lexa will not have to push a sword through his heart.

The disappearance of the storm; and the subsequent unseen joining of Clarke in the meetings, makes it so everyone is far more pliable; even the Council. Even her Mother.

Lexa tells them more of the approaching army; simultaneously their protection and their keepers. And though some of the members, in particular the Head of the Guard, find themselves put aside by the prospect of being sheep to shepherds; they’re grateful for it nonetheless. More hands to aid them in setting up defenses and starting food stores on this new world are hardly a thing to shy away from.

When they break for the day, Clarke can’t help how her stomach clenches when her mother asks Lexa to stay behind a moment; Gustus too. She knows her anxiety will feed off onto Lexa, so she reigns it in; keeps it at bay. Her wings flicking as she stands unseenly resolute beside her Commander.

“Yesterday you spoke of the boy who shot the last Chancellor, Bellamy Blake; he’s here isn’t he?” Abby asks; and Clarke is glad for how neutral both Gustus and Lexa can look at the drop of a hat.

Not that it matters. Her Mother had always been good at sussing people out; finding the liars and thieves and secret keepers amongst their ranks.

“No. Don’t fret. I understand he’s yours now. I would like to see him, though.”

Lexa clenches her teeth, steels her features; her eyes thin almost to slits as she shifts, folding her arms across her chest and glancing at Gustus for reassurance, “I would remind you, Chancellor Kane, that whatever crimes he committed have been pardoned by me. If you are seeking him for reparations then—”

“I would like to thank him, actually.”

And this stuns Clarke. Lexa too. Because she can’t control the look of momentary shock on her face. And Abby laughs and how Clarke has missed that sound.

“Diana was not a good person; and what she wanted hardly lined up with my own beliefs. Or most of the Councils. She got elected on false pretenses and kept the position with an iron fist. She floated— killed my first husband for a crime he didn’t commit.”

And Clarke can feel her heart break. Can feel Lexa’s break too; for her. Lexa can piece enough together to make the connection. Clarke’s father. Dead. Gone. The reason for her non-existence.

Not that the Commander let’s any of this show. She simply turns to nod at Gustus; a silent order; inform Bellamy what is wished of him. And he moves off just as silent. Just as stalwart.

“Thank you, Commander. Lexa; may I call you that?”

Lexa looks like she’s going to burst a vein at even being asked but she knows how the Hundred children had struggled with the titles over names; and this woman, this leader, is her ally more than her subordinate. Just as Queen Nia is. Just as the rest of them are. Her Clan Leaders. Her Coalition.

“Yes. But only in private. And never to or in front of my people; even my personal guard. Especially not Gustus. He would have your head for it.”

Abby smiles and Clarke aches at how similar the smile is to the one she used to give her; it was her smile. Reserved for her daughter and her husband only.

She feels herself reaching before she can really stop; ghosting her fingers over her Mother’s features; wrapping her arms around her neck and burying her face into her shoulder. Abby feels none of it; bar whatever calm and warmth Clarke emits.

“I am grateful you took our children in, Lexa. They deserve a home. I wish it could be with us; but we did them wrong. We did them so very wrong. Even Wells— his Father expects him to stay, but I can see the way he looks at you. They’ll return with you. Go back to wherever it is you came from.”

“Tondisi,” Lexa replies, informative, courteous, “From here it is many days ride. We had the Gods favour while travelling to you and made it in only a few. For those unaccustomed it will take a great deal longer. Before we leave I will have a map brought to you; and several guides. They will be able to lead you or an envoy to and from there and grant safe passage along the way.”

Clarke knows its wordy. Less about the Children and more of their home. Lexa, from the start, was not forthcoming with information regarding the Hundred. Wells had been their only saving grace; and later Raven; hushing fears that they had all been killed or held against their will. They were Lexa’s people now after all; hers to protect; to nurture.

“Regardless,” Abby says and Clarke finally releases her hold on her, moving back to Lexa’s side, touching at her arm to let her know of her returned presence, “I am glad they found welcome from you; you could have easily attacked them, killed them even and yet you didn’t.”

“I was going to,” Lexa admits freely, shrugging a shoulder, “But the Spirits of the Commanders before me speak to me in my sleep and they convinced me otherwise. Seems you and yours have some kind of guardian spirit, Chancellor.”

Clarke glows with pride. Lets her wings beat strongly. Once. Twice. Causing a gust of wind to curl about the room where there should be none. And Lexa takes it in stride with a smile; Abby less so. Spooked by it happening so close after mentioning gods and spirits; but her Mother is a child of science and of space; so it is put aside in her mind as a draft and a problem to fix later.

Bellamy enters before either can make mention of it. And Clarke is glad that Gustus is with him; feeding a strong energy off onto him. Shoulders back. Head high. You are the Skaikru war-chief, she can imagine Gustus telling him, act like it.

“You wanted to see me?” he says, voice gruff and terse.

And though Gustus bristles as Abigail moves; hand dropping to his axe; she approaches closer and smiles and holds her hand out; appeasing, peaceful.

“Seems I have you to thank for freeing us from Chancellor Sydney’s reign, Mr. Blake.”

He is cautious. Flicking his eyes between her face and her hand and then at Gustus; at Lexa. Who, almost imperceptibly, nods for him to accept whatever line has been cast out.

“Uhh—” he groans, and takes her hand, shaking it firmly, “So we’re clear, I’m not going to be...Floated?”

“We’re on the ground, so I’m not entirely sure how you think that would be possible. But no. And as far as I can tell, you’re no longer ours to deal with. Your Commander informs me you are our Children’s leader? What did you call it?”

“Wormana kom Skaikru” Lexa replies, closing her eyes and bowing her head; for respect of the name; respect of Bellamy, “War-Chief from the Sky.”

“Yes. Wormana kom Skaikru,” and though Abby’s pronunciation and accent is butchered, the point gets across and Clarke can see the tension in Bellamy slowly start to dissipate; he is safe, “We expect you will work with us, Mr. Blake. To the best of your ability. There are parents here that miss their children; they will want to see them, in the coming weeks.”

“I—” and Bellamy shifts on his feet, taking a breath and steeling his features again; every bit the boy with the curly hair who helped Clarke lead an attack on the Mountain; every bit the boy who would topple the world to save his sister, “Of course. I’ll arrange with Heda to have word sent. If they want to write letters I’m sure we could have some sent back too.”

Lexa takes her leave the moment she realizes Bellamy is in safe hands; not to be executed or tried. She still leaves a Grounder for him though; he is still a Leader and deserves his own guard. And Clarke knows when they are back in TonDC, Lexa will set him up with better armor; a horse; a weapon; perhaps even a proper entourage. But for now, Lexa is content in letting him wander about and wear in his new boots.

Plenty of the Arkers are still wary of her; and especially so of Gustus. But they still greet her. Bow their heads respectfully or offer waves of hello. And she respects them in kind. They are still new to this world and Lexa is a hard leader; but an understanding one.

As night falls and Lexa seals herself away in her tent; shedding her armor, her makeup; the persona which she dresses herself in. Clarke unseenly kisses every patch of skin that opens to her. Shoulders. Neck. Arms. Hands. Stomach. Leaving warmth and butterflies as she goes.

And when she presses a kiss against the uppermost part of Lexa’s pelvis, below her navel; she feels a hand tangle in her hair and the Earth momentarily shake in response.

And when she opens her eyes; looking up at Lexa from her spot kneeling before her, she knows she’s physical; touchable; corporeal, without meaning to be. Still angelic; still winged and beautiful and showering the world in light. But just as in TonDC many days ago; when she had surged forward and claimed Lexa’s lips for her own; she is more human than ever.

Clarke can see the look in her eyes. The Love. The Adoration. The Hunger.

The words that come to the front of her mind are freeing; the thing she had been begging the skies to let her say to Lexa since she had found her voice, “Clarke. My name is Clarke.”

And Lexa, cupping her hand against her face, smiles and nods and coaxes Clarke into standing, “I am glad to finally meet you, Clarke,” and the intonation; the accent, aches at Clarke; the way the name is so similar to how the last version of her said it, so very Lexa, “Come to bed, Clarke. We deserve rest.”

Chapter Text

She’s dreaming, she thinks.

Not really dreaming— because she isn’t asleep. She can see herself, laying beside Lexa, drawing patterns on naked skin with one hand, and reading the lines of a pilfered book splayed out on the bed with another. But she isn’t there, doing those things. She’s here, standing.

So this is a dream, she knows.

She is too anxious to move far from her uninhabited body, watching as its eyes drag along the paper, a hand reaching out to flip the page. Realistically she knows it’s safe; there are guards outside, and Lexa inside; and there are the soldiers and fences of the Ark between them and their enemies. But still—

Something pulls at her; tugging at a viscerally deep part of herself. Not like how Lexa unconsciously seems to do; making her stomach flip and flutter with the force of a thousand strong wings. No. This is a deeper feeling. Rooted in fear and dread; as if being hunted and running through a forest blind.

She has to move. Has to go.

The feeling grabs at her heart and moves her about. Slowly at first, as if it unsure where it wants her. But it isn’t long before she picks up speed; running through the wet predawn grass.

Onward. Faster. Faster. Faster.

Her wings fumble as she takes flight; sticky and rigid with distress; feeling so much more a wounded bird than ever; feathers soaked in blood and tar.

She stays low, barely a hands-breadth above the tops of the trees. Eyes scanning, searching. Heart pounding. Ears ringing.

She has no idea what she’s looking for, not really.

A feeling. The pull. Close. So Close.

The sound of a gunshot startles her; the feeling of a ricochet bullet ripping through to her core. She falls from the sky in a heap of limbs and feathers. Dazed. Confused. No entrance wound; no exit. More shots ring out; loud enough to deafen.

Faster. Go. Get up. Move. Go. Go. Go.

She pulls herself to her feet. Scrambling in the undergrowth. Pushing forward. Jogging. Running. Leaping between logs and upturned roots.

And then she stumbles through the last of the evergreen; and promptly feels her heart stop.

So many wounded; even more dead. Tens of grounders; hundreds maybe. She can’t be sure. All she can hear is their crying; the dead and dying. The ghostly spirits. Wailing for their lives lost and the families in their wakes.

She’s seen this kind of carnage before; she thinks; she remembers.

On a hill. On a horse. Heading home; or maybe not-home, then; Arkadia. And Lexa was there and it was not the first time she had seen the Commander’s heart break; because that was reserved for their time on the Mountain. But it hurt to see all the same.

It was her people that had done that slaughter there. Here, she was not so sure.

She watches as the spirits stumble over each other. Looking down at their own bodies with horror and grief and resignation. Blood still warm and pouring from them like creeks and rivers. And she is not here; not really. So they do not see her in kind; moving about as if they are lost. And she feels her heart ache at it.

“We’ve failed Heda,” one says, not at her, not at anyone.

“The children?” another asks and their voice is laden with fear and remorse.

“Gone. Gone. All gone. Anya too. We’re doomed. We failed.”

And their voices go up in regretful, mournful cries. Overlapping. Loud. Calling to the skies; to any God that will listen.

She feels their presence before she sees them. Feels how they move by her; paying her no attention or mind.

Spirits. Keyron, she knows. Like her. But different.

Silver and white winged and bathed in a glow similar to the moon; to the stars. Still emanating peace but no warmth. Just comfort. Dressed in furs and leathers and battle gear; marks of the people they were, before the spirits they are now.

Hush now, Clarke hears them say as they reach out to take the hands of the dead and wailing specters; Hush and come in peace. You’re forgiven. Heda forgives you. We forgive you.

Her feet root to the ground, keeping her steady, as she watches the spirits take hold of the wandering souls. Watching as they hug them dear and close and press kisses to their foreheads and cheeks and one by one, they disappear. One moment they are there, separate from their bodies; and the next they are not. Gone in the blink of an eye.

Some take longer than others, clinging to their physical selves and begging for another go; begging for return. But the winged creatures have eternity and wait by patiently, hands folding at their front, heads bowed. Clarke thinks its rude; angry at them for not gently coaxing, for showering the dead in the love they so obviously deserve.

But the lingering too begin to leave and still she is made to watch. Made to see. And with each soul that fizzles out, Clarke feels her wings grow heavier and heavier; shoulders drooping with the burden she now carries. The departure continues on and and on, growing the ache in her heart, until she is all that remains in the field; a dim light among darkened bodies.

And she cries.

Clarke wakes with a start. Not really waking, because she wasn’t truly asleep to begin with; but startling back into her physical self as if thrown amidst combat. Jolting forward, hand clutching at the dress above her chest. Heart racing.

She feels the tears run down her cheeks; hot and heavy and wet. Her empty stomach clenching in on itself. Breath faltering. Through the blur in her eyes she can see how her hands tremble, covered in blood in one blink and clean the next.

She thinks of Atom. Of Tris. Of Dante Wallace. She thinks of Finn. Of how the knife felt slipping between his ribs and through his heart. Thinks of her bloodied fingers and how with each death, the red seeped deeper into her pores; skin never quite clean again.

This world was so different from the last. So new and green and beautiful. But this is how she’ll always be, she thinks. This is her burden to carry. Covered in someone else's blood. Weighed down by the souls of others.

She feels Lexa shift beside her, woken by her, she’s sure. And when she chances a look and sees the half-asleep green eyes looking at her, filled with confusion and concern, she feels her heart break even more. Bile reaches up the back of her throat, and she cannot stop the heavy, aching sobs that spill forth.

Lexa is quick to move. To react. To scramble from under the furs and touch at every part of Clarke she can. And Clarke can feel their connection, this string tying them to one another, feed off onto Lexa. Watching how her eyes fill with tears for reasons yet unknown; threatening to spill over but kept at bay.

“Spirit?” Lexa asks, shaking fingers tracing the curves of Clarke’s face, wiping tears from her cheeks and chin, “ Clarke? What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t know. Or she does but she cannot say.

Not a dream, she thinks. A vision. A glimpse of truth. A warning.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out barely above a whisper, “I’m so sorry.”

And Lexa doesn’t understand. Lexa can’t. Empty apologies to unasked questions. But she continues to stroke at Clarke. Pulls her in against her naked form. Wrapping herself around Clarke and burying her face in her shoulder, whispering sweet calming noises. Stroking circles against Clarke’s back, pushing her hand beneath the fabric of Clarke’s dress to do so; running her fingers along the base of Clarke’s wings.

And perhaps if this were any other time, any other circumstance, Clarke would keen against the intimate touch; feeling it ripple through her feathers and prickle at her skin. But for now, burdened with what is to come, Clarke simply soaks further into Lexa and drinks in her love and lets herself calm.

She feels when the sun begins to break over the Mountains, and she knows, instinctively, that they do not have long. Soon there will be a commotion, an urgency, where there is none. Soon they will be descended upon by the grievously wounded and she will have to steel herself, steel Lexa too. And they will have to convince The Council, and her Mother, that this is the terror the Mountain holds.

But Lexa is soft. And Lexa is giving. And Lexa presses gentle lips against the shell of her ear. And Clarke loves Lexa. And though Lexa will not say it out loud yet; not since that very near-time in the tent. She knows Lexa loves her too. In this world. In every world.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers out again when her breathing levels and the tears are just damp tracks against her cheeks.

“For what?” Lexa asks in just as low of a voice, green eyes dragging along Clarke’s features.

“For what’s to come.”

It isn’t really an answer; but Lexa takes it as one nonetheless. She’s the Commander after all, and she knows of duty; of unsteady futures. And Clarke is an angel and knows of them too. And Clarke is hers and is here to guide and protect; which is enough of an answer in of itself.

The lack of storm takes Clarke by surprise.

She feels heavy and tired and listless and has become accustomed to the sky reflecting such feelings that, when it doesn’t, she feels a keen emptiness for it. As if the world is not her ally in this coming war.

She cannot quite manage to gather enough energy, or enough want even, to return to the unseen; to return to her world beyond the veil; far too content to stay curled around Lexa’s form, face buried in her dark hair. She knows eventually they must tend to the day; tend to what is coming. But Clarke forcefully drags this moment out as long as possible.

Lexa is quiet. Lexa is good, calming company. Naked still under the furs and threading their fingers together against her bare skin. And Clarke closes her eyes and traces the parts of Lexa that she hadn't quite got to in her last life. Small scars and bumps and bruises and curves that she maps to remember and to love dearly later.

It isn’t until the sun has made its way well over the Mountains; pouring light and warmth onto the valley below, that Clarke hears the shift in the camp outside. Hears the quick movement of feet and the muffled sound of orders thrown.

Clarke lets herself grip tighter, feeling her stomach clench and roil, her palms sweat. And Lexa looks at her like she knows.

“Clarke,” she says and the voice is soft and plying and imploring, “It’s okay, you’re safe.”

And Clarke can’t find her voice to reply. Can’t tell Lexa that she’s not worried about herself. Can’t tell Lexa that she’s worried about her. Worried that, when they exit this tent and see the carnage, everything will change, and war will begin.

Instead she shifts and leans forward and presses a feather-light kiss against Lexa’s cheek; scraping her lips dangerously close to her mouth.

But then the flap of the tent opens—

And Bellamy is there. Staring at them.

Clarke knows his brain has stalled. And it’s less about the naked Commander hidden beneath furs as it is about Clarke’s presence. She can see as such in the way his eyebrows knit together and the way his mouth twists and his head cocks to the side and—

Lexa yells an order at him; some garbled string of words that do not form a coherent sentence in any language. But he cannot peel his eyes away, even as they prick with tears.

Gustus, Clarke figures, reaches a hand in and grabs him by the scruff of his shirt and tugs him back out the way he had entered. And though she cannot hear it, she knows that Bellamy is being chewed out; threatened in low, angry tones.

And Lexa is dead silent. Lexa is glaring at the door as if she hopes a sword will run its way through and kill Bellamy on the spot. And it’s only Clarke touching a hand at her skin that stops her from grabbing her own to make it so.

“He saw you,” Lexa says quietly as she moves about getting dressed, “He saw you.”

Clarke’s not so sure. He saw something, yes perhaps. But not her. Not the way Lexa sees her. Lexa was easy. Lexa was different. Lexa often saw her without Clarke meaning it so. Seen from the corner of her eye or in the steam of too-hot baths. And Lexa felt her in keener, deeper ways than anyone else did, or had, or perhaps ever will do.

Bellamy though—

She takes a breath and touches their fingers together, a plan already forming in her head, “If he did,” she whispers, “He will come to you. Do not punish him more than Gustus has.”

Her eyes drag from Lexa’s dressing form to the closed flap of the tent again; gears turning over in her head. Chess pieces moving.

Bellamy is gone by the time they emerge; Clarke an invisible force at Lexa’s side. Gustus standing wait; face calm and collected. But she sees the blood under his nails and on his clothes; and her stomach bottoms out.

Lexa apologizes for her tardiness, but he is quick to shush her and move her along; shepherding her in the way of the Ark and into it’s twisted metal guts. She does not question why. Clarke knows she can smell the fetid stench of gore on his clothes and in his hair.

He steers them down the bent and crooked hallways and Clarke knows where they are headed. A small private infirmary. The very same she had been taken to by her Mother after she had returned to the Ark; covered then in mud and dirt and Anya’s blood.

What awaits them though shocks her. Sends her stomach turning and palms sweating; the blood rushing through her veins turning to ice.

Grounders. Two already dead; bullets riddling their limbs to their core; blankets pulled over their heads for modesty in their death. But three others are stable, alive. Flitting between unconsciousness as the second hand ticks by.

Abby hangs over them, checking vitals, stemming blood flow, packing gauze and wrapping bandages. She very nearly tries to offload tasks onto Lexa before her brain catches who is standing there.

“Commander—”

Lexa cuts her a glare and she falls silent. More subservient than Clarke has ever seen her before. But she knows it’s because this kind of warfare, and the injuries it carries, are still new to her. Patients aboard the Ark were never like this. Contained only in old war footage or bloodied movies.

Clarke moves from beside Lexa, tangling herself around her Mother and pressing a kiss against her temple. Offering her comfort where there is none or rather perhaps should be none.

“Their marks— they are from Anya’s company,” Lexa says lowly, in Trigedasleng, words meant only for Gustus, “Where are the rest?”

“Dead,” he answers much the same, “Or captured. Ambushed. This lot were sent running on Anya’s command. Told to come here and make hast.”

Clarke feels Lexa’s heart shatter from this small distance; instantly latching on to and fearing the worst. Lexa loves Anya, and Anya loves her back perhaps even more so. The thought of her dead or in the hands of the Mountain is—

“And Anya?” she says, her steady voice betraying the terror that Clarke feels.

“Taken,” a half-conscious scout wheezes, “Captured. The skai yongons too… they begged to come. Anya thought they would be safe. Forgive me, Heda.”

Clarke cannot help herself, detaching from her Mother to tend to the young man below. Pouring warmth and healing into him in a way that medicine and science cannot.

He isn’t much older than Bellamy, she realizes. And Clarke thinks in another life, this could have been him, lying here, riddled with bullets and wrapped in gauze.

A part of her is glad, at least, that Anya is not among the dead. She hopes that being captured will buy the woman time. Time enough to be rescued. Time enough, unlike last time, to not be returned to Lexa through a lock of her hair.

There is no her this time, though. No Clarke. Nobody stupid enough to mount an angry defense and escape and jump down from a cave into scarcely deep enough water below. But Clarke hopes. She hopes—

Deep in thought she does not register Lexa moving to the young man’s bedside, hand reaching out to take one of his. And Lexa is publicly far softer than she has ever seen her before. Looking at the man as if he is but a babe compared to her. An injured child.

She smiles and he manages one back, shaky and unsure but filled with so much adoration and respect. And Clarke is reminded of the Seer; of how in her final moments she had been granted an audience with her Heda and the absolute devotion she had for Lexa.

“I forgive you, now rest,” Lexa says, implores, leaning down to press her forehead against his lightly.

Abby watches on with a look somewhere in between admiration, curiosity, and anxiety; ringing her hands together. She does not understand the language, Clarke knows, and is terrified of what is going; but when Lexa rises and the man beneath her has slipped into uneasy sleep, her Mother lets out a breath Clarke hadn’t even realized she was holding.

And Lexa is looking at Abby like she understands her better now— fresh faced to this world. The same as any other new healer. The first true taste of the death and destruction and war this land offers is always the worst.

“May we speak privately, Chancellor?” Lexa says, polite as she can muster, given her surrounds, “Your fellow healers will do well enough without you for a time, I’m sure.”

Clarke is glad her Mother relents; shoulders sagging as she nods curtly. Still, she turns and directs the other doctors and nurses and assistants what she wants done. As much the head of surgery as she is their peoples whole leader. And when she has finally almost run herself haggard, she raises an arm and gestures past Lexa the way they had come.

The walk is painfully silent; filled only by the heavy steps on the floor below.

Abby’s office-come-living space is far more cramped and small than Clarke can remember it being. Especially since she had been appointed Chancellor in this life and deserved a far bigger room. But it is what it is, and she slips into the tiny room quietly and folds herself into the furthest corner.

Her Mother excuses herself to clean up. To wash away the blood and feel and stench of death. And Lexa paces, back and forth. Circling closing to Clarke’s position more often than not; unconsciously, instinctively. Seeking out the comfort and warmth and reassurance that Clarke offers amidst the cold of the Ark’s metal husk.

Clarke reaches out as she passes by the fourth time; taking her hand and exerting enough force to stop Lexa, if only for a moment. Begging her pause. Forcing Lexa to look into the empty space and see what isn’t really there.

Be kind, be patient, be understanding, she thinks, let her see the Mountain you know.

Lexa must hear her. Must understand. Because she imperceptibly nods and straightens her shoulders and takes a deep, gratifying breath.

And Abby walks out, cleaned and changed but dazed. Unsettled. Something in Clarke’s gut roars and for moment she takes it as protectiveness; a keen want for the presence of a lost Mother.

“This—” Abby starts slowly, letting out a shaky huff of air, “This is what you were talking about then, is it?”

“Yes,” Lexa replies, folding her hands at her back. A move that is meant to appear nonthreatening, to show that she has no easy access to weapons; but Clarke can see the worry in her Mother’s eyes nonetheless, “I will not play games with you, Chancellor. And I will not lie. A great deal of my people died tonight. One of my best leaders has been taken prisoner. And I regret to inform you that so has a number of your— my children.”

And Clarke knows her Mother already knew. Knows from the way her face falls at the confirmation. Because maybe she didn’t speak the language. Not yet, anyway. But the meaning of their words was never too hard to discern.

“Who? How many?” Abby replies, and the crack in her voice almost breaks Clarke’s heart; almost. The indignation growing in her stomach instead, her eyebrows twisting together.

“We cannot be sure yet. And we will not know until your healers have mended by men. Many of the Skaikru were happy in Tondisi, and the walk back is a long and difficult one. I have my doubts whether there were many at all. But any child lost is a heavy blow.”

Clarke sees then, the look on her Mother’s face. And she had missed it to this point. Overlooked it in the grief of losing her Mother. In the grief of knowing she lost her father; twice. Overlooked it because she trusted Lexa, and Lexa had told her to trust in her Mother.

Abby had always been so very good at weeding out the the liars and the fakes. And for that, she was so very good at lying to people's faces in return. The way she had lied to her husband. Lied to Clarke; had let her believe that Wells—

She feels her rage boil up. Feels how the walls of the small room around her creak and move and rumble with it. Feels how the righteous fury manifests itself as the sensation of lightning against her skin and in her bones.

“We’ve had a line open with Mount Weather,” her Mother reveals and the shame is palpable. Lexa’s reaction even more so.

Lexa, who prided herself on honesty and fairness and equivalent exchange— blood must have blood. Who had given her trust to Clarke and to Bellamy and to these invaders that fell from the sky; twice. Who had let herself believe that they were of good and honest kind in return.

She moves before Clarke has a chance to comprehend it; and well, well, before her Mother could ever hope to.

The sickening crunch as Abby connects with the steel wall behind her lets Clarke know of the already broken ribs. And if she hadn’t felt the rage within her boiling so hard, she might have deigned to heal her but now—

She touches at Lexa’s arm. Allows the feeling of the electric spark to flow through her muscles and skin and fingers; into Lexa, through Lexa. Allows Lexa to know the side she has chosen. Her; it has and always will be her. In this life, in every life.

But the touch is to also calm. To reign her in. To tell her what her words cannot. That killing her Mother would serve no real purpose bar revenge. And no more death is needed. Not yet. Not when Lexa does not have an army at her back.

“We didn’t know—” her Mother chokes out around the arm pressed against her throat, not hard enough to crush but enough to make her gag and sputter and gasp for air, “Please — We couldn’t have known.”

“I have killed for less,” Lexa hisses out, pressing her face so close into Abby’s that even Clarke is made to feel like prey, “Do you forget whose land you tread and make a home on, Chancellor? Mine. And now the children of your kins blood, of your blood, will pay for your mistakes and treachery.”

She drops, or throws, Clarke’s not entirely sure, Abby to the ground as hard as she can. Legs giving out from under her Mother. Lungs gasping for air.

“Get up,” Lexa snarls with unbridled fury, “Get up and prepare to face wormana kom Skaikru. Get up and prepare to look Bellamy in the eye and tell him that the reason his people are likely tortured or dead is because you broke your deal, Chancellor.”

Bellamy takes it about as well as Lexa does.

At first it’s confusion. Unsureness. Disbelief at first Lexa’s words and then Abby’s. As if it’s a sick joke.

But he had always been quick to anger when wronged; and rightfully so. So when he throws his chair out from under him and slams his hands down against the table, Clarke is hardly surprised.

Gustus puffs his chest out; only hearing of it now too; having been sent to fetch the boy while Lexa spoke to Abby alone. But he keeps his anger to himself, not at Lexa’s command (for it’s not needed); but because he respects Bellamy. Something akin to an elder brother letting their younger fight their own battles, Clarke’s sure.

They yell loud enough for the rest of the Ark to hear. Back and forth. For hours. Daylight drags to first dusk and then to night before Clarke even registers the passing of time. And it’s only when a young, shaking little intern from the kitchens knocks at the door and announces dinner, that the argument comes to an end.

They hadn’t really gotten anywhere with anything, beyond throwing blame in her Mother’s direction; who, and Clarke has to give her credit for something, takes it all very gracefully.

Abby swears up and down that she hadn’t sold them out. Hadn’t told Mount Weather of the incoming army. And she promises to look into if anyone else had. Promises on her own life.

She begs for forgiveness too. First from Lexa, who looks as if she’s considering chopping her hands off. And then from Bellamy, who damn near spits in her face, was it not for Clarke grabbing at his shoulder at the last moment; staying his action and his anger.

But the wrongs are still there. Out in the open now. Her Mother had ordered contact with the Mountain. Been fed their lies of being trapped underground by the savage folk of the land above. And she had eaten them up. Gobbled them down, eager to relate to a people closer to her own knowledge and kin than any Grounder ever would be.

And that, Clarke could see, was the thing her Mother was truly ashamed of. New to the ground, yes. But not to politics such as this. Clarke knows it’s the same kind of lies and manner of underhandedness that the Chancellor before her had been elected on. And Abby bows her head and apologizes over and over and over; begging to make things right.

And she will, in time—

Clarke can already all but hear the plans collecting in Lexa’s head; fed along their connective string as if they were audible words. Bringing the Clans together. Assaulting the Mountain. Tearing it and its people down and feasting on their corpses.

But Clarke has plans of her own too. Bred this morning in the wake of Bellamy seeing her. And when Lexa busies herself with work, too focused on the attention at hand; she steels herself and springs away. Moving through the tents and the wreckage and the people. Searching and searching until she finds what she is looking for.

Bellamy stands over a fire. Arms folded across his chest. Brow heavily set. She knows what he is worrying over— whether or not Octavia was among the captured. And though Clarke could fly back and see and check, she does not; would not leave Lexa here alone. Bellamy either. And if she tilts her head back she can almost see the faces of those now captured; almost .

So for a short time she just watches him. Content to let him stew on his thoughts. Watching the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath.

She settles beside him, hands folded in her front of her, wings curling tightly against her back. Even with the urgency of the day, she had not let the morning escape her. Had not let the look on his face go. Wondering what he had seen.

“I know you’re here,” he says barely above the sound of the crackling fire, “Whatever you are.”

Clarke looks at him and smiles. Always so perceptive. Seeing things others did not. Even in the last world. He had been the one to realize it was Gustus. Had been the one that had read Clarke before any other; sometimes before Clarke herself.

He takes a shuddering breath still, tightening his hold across his chest, “You’ve got a way of making people think they’re going crazy. Like seeing a fucking ghost.”

She watches as he looks up and around, checking for anyone else. He had squirreled himself away in the farthest inhabited corner of the camp. But she knows he worries, can feel the anxiety coming off him in waves.

“The Commanders going to kill me, isn’t she?” he asks, staring into the empty space she inhabits; unconsciously finding her warmth and presence.

Probably not, Clarke thinks at him, letting him hear and chuckling lightly when he jumps at the sound of a voice where there is none. Don’t be scared.

“I’m not— I’m not scared. Though I think that’s you causing that, isn’t it? I’ve felt this before. I was terrified when my sister was storming out of the dropship, but then like fucking magic, I wasn’t anymore. Like any worries were sapped away from me in an instant and I could think clearly for the first time since crash landing on this forsaken fucking planet. What the hell even are you?”

I think that depends on who you talk to. I’m a spirit.

“Yeah no shit,” he chuckles out and turns himself back to the fire, staring into its depths, “God I’m really going crazy. Talking to a fucking ghost. Or no— Angel I guess. You’ve got wings. I know I saw wings.”

Clarke takes a breath and closes her eyes and finds the familiar feeling of the metaphorical hallway. She debates, standing at the invisible door whether or not this is the right thing to do. Especially now, when the world is dark and she is bright. But still. She reaches out at the feeling in the air and steps through. And when she opens her eyes, she knows she’s settled beside Bellamy; hiding in the firelight glow.

“Jesus, you’re fucking real,” he says and shakes his head, reaching up to press his fingers against his forehead, as if he still can’t quite believe it, “Fuck. I thought Gustus was kidding when he said the Commander talked with the spirit world. Seers and spirits and ghosts and shit; that’s all stories to me. But fuck you’re actually real.”

“Yes,” she replies and holds her hand out, “Hello, Bellamy Blake.”

He does not take her hand. And she does not blame him for it. She would not have shaken her hand either; so she lowers it against her side and offers him a smile instead. One which he shakily returns.

“Why are you— why are you doing this? You could have let me think I was going insane. Nobody would have believed me. You could have just let her chop my fucking head off and been done with it.”

She pauses. Squinting and drinking the image of him in. He looks the same as he had the night she had last asked this of him. Bathed in the glow of firelight. The threat of war looming on the horizon.

“Because,” she says, swallowing against the stone in her throat, “Because war is coming. And we need an inside man. Someone inside the Mountain to lower their defenses. To turn off the Acid Fog. To open the door. Whatever army we gather, that Lexa might gather, will be useless otherwise.”

“What— and you think I’d throw myself at people that do shit like this? Get myself killed? Why should I help you?”

Clarke offers him another shaky smile. And she can see that he already knows what she’s going to say. Sees it in the way his face falls and his shoulders slacken.

“Because your sister’s life depends on it, Bellamy.”