Archive of Our Own ^beta

Life, for all its beauty, was full of karma. Checks and balances, a cost for every comfort, an eternal quest for equilibrium. Lexa saw the invisible hand of "Nature vs. nurture" tug people along. 

Handymen let their personal projects and house siding go to ruin while their employers' homes shined in their intricacy.

Chefs worked tirelessly on food their own children would never eat, and a personal trainer's quality time playing ball with his son replaced itself with the flicker of channel surfing. 

Money, they said, was the answer to all life's problems. 

If they had more money, if they had enough money, they could, would, should. 

Lexa had money. More than she could ever spend. And she still found herself a slave to the invisible string that tugged and tugged at her heart.

The God Praimheda had been good to her people. They flourished, ferocity was smoothed out to culture, and practiced patience. 

It was a time of peace and of cultivation. A time to prepare for harder, crueler events ahead.

A time Lexa inadvertently should have planned for. A time when her family's legacy of leading her people out of war should be put to rest.

But the Grounder blood in her had not cooled at the going down of the sun. It had pulsed, churned, and thrummed in her body, pushing her to fight, fight, fight.

Coalition Industries was booming. 12 years to the month, Lexa was already sitting on more money in one bank account than her entire village could have imagined gaining in a lifetime.

The CEO checked her watch for the thousandth time and still came up with the same result.

And as Jane Fulton put it, Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.

Time. The invisible string tugging Lexa to choose responsibility over recreation was no different than any other professional's.

Criminals had rotten luck. Technology nerds became millionaires; everything came with a price, and every bill was due. 

 An eternal bout of nature vs nurture and morale competing with morals. 

There was a downside to every victory, unfortunately. 

Like business, the universe believed in checks and balances, and no effort was ever fully in vain or fully in reward. In Lexa's experience, every gift came with a price. And every good deed did not go unpunished. Checks and balances, a cost for every comfort. 

She relied on this universal truth, hired the best of the best, and exercised as much unity over her companies as she could to glean these results.

The more money she made, the less time she had to enjoy it. 

Ever a balance, she too was a slave to the firmest taskmaster of time. 

And she had made herself rich by preying on her employee's gifts.

In Lexa's experience, every gift came with a price. And every good deed did not go unpunished. 

And so she found herself doing something she never thought the universe would ask of her: editing her son's 7th-grade election speech. Given she shouldn't have asked him how it was going and whether or not it was ready for presentation—that was lax on her part.

"Your mother is better at this." The CEO fiddles with her watch while she comes up with a strategy to get out of painting 'Vote for Woods' posters. 

Nothing comes to mind, and she curses her maternal instincts. 

She says, trying to let the awkwardness dissipate as mother and son paint flyers for the heir's election. "She's had more practice."

Her artist wife would cringe as she wields the paintbrush like a saber. Her hands were built for tearing dynasties down, not for folding paper cranes to stick on her son's 'A Wish for Woods = A Wish for Change' posters. (Clarke had a million other clever slogans stenciled onto overpriced cardstock and fridge magnets; they would never see a return on investment.)

"Do you have a speech ready?" She tries to sound authoritative, even interested in distracting from her complete ineptness at painting within the 'foolproof lines' Clarke speed sketched in case she would be held up at Lincoln's. 

"Mom said she'd help me with it before tomorrow." It was already 6:40, just an hour before Aden's bedtime. 

And unless Bob Ross came through the door, there was no way it was going to get done at this rate.

Lexa knew an opportunity when she saw one.

"I once helped a Senator prepare for his debate against his challenger as a personal favor, if you need any tips."

"I know you're busy, Nomon . I can wait till Mom gets home."

Lexa knew this was the other out she'd wanted, but her damn Woods pride wouldn't let some artist (as brilliant as Clarke was) take precedence over a double major in Political Science and Global Innovations.

"Let me take a look." At last, Aden had come to the right person. 

To the CEO who made speeches in her sleep, a seventh-grade proposition was nothing.

<When her son suggested Class Presidency, Lexa had supported him with full interest. He was a Woods, after all, and Woods held themselves to a standard of excellence in every pursuable field, including elementary politics.

Clarke was less than thrilled with the development, as Lexa prepared her son for mortal combat should his front-runner try to use force during open lunch hour to intimidate Aden from his goal.

Lexa was a successful businesswoman, but she remembered hell perfectly; teenagers did not fight fair in middle school, and self-defense was a basic necessity.

Aden already learned mixed-martial arts as a means to channel his energy as a child, and Clarke insisted he take gymnastics (which Lexa actually supported with private parkour lessons neither mentioned to the blond for their own good.) 

The next step in her son's maturity was gonplei and its fleimkepa ideal of 'Jus drein jus daun.'

Of course, her sky woman would speak her mind about such things and their improper use in a modern world where traditions were considered mere suggestions and clan wars were middle school rivalries.

 "He's eleven years old, Lexa. He doesn't need to know street brawling."

Heda paid little mind to her houmon's criticisms as she demonstrated the proper way to disarm a knife hand and use it to slit the opponent's throat (a letter opener was hardly satisfactory training, but she knew better than to send her son to fetch a Henckel's paring knife with Mama Bear Clarke on the watch.) 

Instead of seething at their ways of being criticized by an outsider, Lexa tried to be congenial.

 "Hush, Clarke, you went to a private school." 

The CEO warmed their obscenely expensive, obscenely uncomfortable couch that night, but it was all for the best. 

If Aden was to rule Arkadia Middle School, it would be by any means necessary, and come to a thousand Azgeda branwadas, he would see victory.>

Lexa pushed up her reading glasses and began the arduous task of sitting through her son's ideas for student council. 

Fragments of the speech were not even her son's handwriting; looping bubble letters one sentence, choppy chicken scratch the next (and cheetoh stains he bashfully did not acknowledge)

I's dotted with hearts and dinosaur doodles in the margins and told her everything she needed to know. 

The first step is to fire her son's campaign managers and start over. 

"A mutual consensus from your party, son?"

The blond sheepishly nodded, embarrassed at being caught out. "Jodie and Morris might have helped a little. But the conclusion is mine."

Silence prevailed, and he preferred it when his Nomon was grumbling about paint stains on her favorite tie.

"It's stupid…"

"Your promises are…" outlandish, unorthodox, impractical, "ambitious." Disneyland, unlimited pizza parties, spa days for the teachers; her son was assuming the sale, she'd give him that.

"I don't see you touching on any of the issues you presented to your mother and me when you first decided to run for office. What about the bullied underclassmen or giving the science club fair time at share hour?" 

Her son was playing to his opponent's strengths; she could already tell. 

As Clarke encouraged Aden to find his voice in the political world and explained the inspiration behind his choice to run, their son opened up about the injustices he had seen during his short time in Middle School.

Lexa wasn't surprised in the least by Aden's accounts of bullying and teasing of minorities (children to same-sex couples included, though he left that part out; Mrs. Cartwig had already informed the Woods of it last PT meeting), and Aden had had enough. 

The best way to unite all minorities was to represent them the best he could and be the candidate for the underdogs. (Clarke tried to make 'Underdog Aden' a thing and get 'Woof-Woof-Woods' patented for support t-shirts, but Lexa put her foot down.) 

"I work in this city."

"I am impressed with one thing especially: your dream to unite the student body and bring peace to the masses in a tumultuous time. It is noble. And very Woods." 

Hormones were their own worst enemy, and Lexa would be glad for her son not to have to suffer through middle school the same as her.

She knew a good idea when she saw one, and she had become rich off of going for the jugular, but more importantly, trusting her instincts. 

Aden had the drive for leadership. It was Clarke's gift to him—the vision for change.

Lexa planned to nurture that desire, that hope her family had for the future, with every scrap of her spirit.

"Passion, my son, is key to any successful presentation. You want every word to burst with it if you want to win. And this," the CEO waved the paper with gusto, "is jam-packed with passion." Aden perked up at that, grateful to have his mother's approval after a false start. "Your classmates will feel your desire for improvement and prosperity, motivating them to accept necessary change. Let them want it as much as you do." Lexa smiles, proud of Aden and Clarke, by extension, for giving her such a good-natured son. 

Gods only knew he needed to be if he was ever going to survive under a Griffin-Woods roof.

The CEO winked. "And you can never go wrong with a dash of Naitblida No. 8 and a charcoal suit."

Dressed to impress in ironed khakis and a smart button-up (he'd never felt the need for business wear before, and now he wished he'd paid more attention to how his Nomon knotted her ties), Aden inspected himself once more in the mirror before resigning to go tieless. First, the suit, now this.

"Woah, there Heda Junior." His Mom patted down the rooster tail at the back of his shellacked head and effortlessly worked a tie knot without even having to look. She was amazing at everything. 

"Trinity knots are tricky, but once you get the hang of them, they say, 'I can commit.' Voters love a family man. Remember that." 

She was teasing, of course, and Aden liked that about his mother. Where Nomon was serious and unyielding in matters of business and presentation, his Mom had surprising ease and a knack for making jokes to dissipate tension. (A Griffin recessive gene, Mom claimed, one he had yet to see manifest but was assured would in times of real need.)

He affectionately called them Mom Jokes, which she took full ownership of and made a point to tell Lexa, even when the brunette did not appreciate in times of merger pressure.

"They want to hear your ideas, kiddo. Don't hold any punches."

"I won't."

He only stumbled a couple of times, and that was because his mind was buzzing a thousand miles a minute, and he couldn't keep up with his thick tongue. Thankfully, only a few kids laughed, and Mrs. Cartwig shushed them so it didn't really matter that he forgot his speech somewhere in the house.

Aden proposed hall monitoring for the smaller kids to eliminate hall traffic and bullying in between classes, and he openly supported the science department (space travel was the future) by inviting them to share at the next open hour about modern technology's investment into space technology and he lastly encouraged every student to come equipped with a mobile device and a yearning for learning (Jodie said it was a cheesy line, Morris thought it would sway Mrs. Cartwig and her T.A. Aden chose to keep it just to sweeten the deal.)

Every kid with a cell phone perked up at the opportunity to use it during school hours, and he left to a standing ovation (from Jodie and Morris, but it still counted.)

After agonizing hours of waiting for her battered hero to return, Lexa thought she might have to concede the battle and actually do some work.

Hearing the door open and the tell-tale sign of her son removing his shoes, the CEO made a show of looking busy but her heart just wasn't in it and her head thrummed with possible outcomes for Aden's election.

Every Woods made their mark, some earlier than others. This would be her son's first step towards leadership, and she aimed to make his first conclave as monumental as possible.

"How does it feel to be the man pushing the buttons for a change, Mr. President?" it was dorky and kind of silly and took embarrassingly long to come up with, but Lexa wanted her son to know she supported him 100% in his new role, even if humor was more her wife's outlet.

When Aden dropped his bag by the door without removing his homework first, she knew something was up. And when he didn't greet her and instead quietly dismissed himself to his room to study, she knew the election hadn't gone well.

Fickle preteens and their mass-produced ideals of societal figureheads; Lexa wished they'd choke on their own retainers. 

"Aden," he ignored her, two knocks too many. "Aden Reed Woods, this door has a time limit." 

It only took one slammed door in their history to teach the boy Nomon made good on her threats, and the boy conceded defeat before he lost his privacy privileges on top of his pride and peers. 

There wasn't much more a man could take after a day like this, and it wasn't even six o'clock yet.

He bravely took a breath and opened his door wide enough that Nomon could see he wasn't trying to hide anything. He couldn't, even if he wanted to—the rejection was all over his face, in the slant of his brow and the twist of his shoulders (probably inside his socks, too.)

He would have to face the worst rejection of all in his own room. And it ruined him further to think of how his proud mothers would take the news. 

He'd deliberately missed the bus so he wouldn't have to face his Mom back from her studio or a patron's gallery. But he hadn't anticipated Nomon to be home early from CI, and the day just kept getting better and better.

"Good choice." The brunette watched her son with a steady gaze developed over years of fault finding; the same look he'd gotten as a kid for breaking ugly lamps neither parent liked or sneaking mildly sweetened biscuits before dinner (both offenses Aden looked back on in embarrassment at the childish worry he felt at getting caught for minor infractions.) 

Now, Nomon was looking at him like his hands were full of flaky spoils, and he resisted the urge to hide his hands behind his back.

It was in her nature to be intuitive, resourceful, and ruthless. Add motherhood to the mix, and she was a cumbersome foe when crossed.

"I'm not too late for the celebration parade, am I?" Clarke held up a lighter and old birthday candles still unused. "I got sparklers!"

Lexa continued their silent stare down. "Aden isn't feeling much like celebrating. A grueling campaign can drag out fatigue even in the best warrior. We'll leave you to your thoughts." She gripped the door, ready to resign her son to isolation (a very Woods approach to crushing failure).

"No, I'm good. I mean, you don't have to go if you don't want to. It's a free country." Another time, Lexa would have hummed in disapproval at the very teenage expression out of her well-spoken son's mouth (when did her little boy learn sarcasm?)

Clarke kneeled beside her son, party favors forgotten on his desk. "What happened, baby? Did you forget your speech?"

"I memorized most of it, so it's no big deal." In his excitement, Aden had left his speech on his desk, right next to his Yujleda fashion catalog. (A charcoal suit was out of his weekly allowance budget, but a guy could dream, and he tried to pair his outfit as best he could with the style guide and his current school wardrobe.)

"How did the election go, youngon?" Lexa wanted to be patient, to console her son and let him tell her in his own timing, but Heda couldn't let their hard work go unanswered. She'd gotten glitter and paint on her favorite polo, for God's sake.

"I gave my speech, an' they clapped. And then Joylynn Chalmers gave her speech, and everyone thought it was funny, and Garrett Pike gets up and decides not to give a speech and invites the whole class to the common room for treats."

Lexa bites her tongue before she prattles her son for details on the boy's obvious disqualifications for such an underhanded and sneaky move.

"What kind of treats, Aden?" Clarke is pressing for irrelevant information, but the CEO allows it for the sake of fairness and timing (her wife did miss quite a bit of Aden's campaign, taking care of their overdue surprise and overseeing renovations at Lincoln's Bakery on Pauna Boulevard)

"Garrett's uncle Stanley brought his cotton candy machine."

With one final crack, the dam holding back Lexa's opinion on childhood bureaucracy burst open.

"What kind of sick, self-deprecating,"

"Lex," Clarke warns without having to say anything really.

"I can tell you right now that charlatan doesn't have a current food vendor's license,"

Clarke rolls her eyes but tries to tame the Heda rising, advocating that no one needs a license to share cotton candy at a recreational school activity.

Aden watched on in horror as Nomon challenged her wife with the safety of strange food brought by a man 'supposedly' named Stanley. (A fake name, if she ever heard one.)

Finding no luck in consoling her wife, Clarke immediately takes the defensive as Lexa absurdly questions what else the cotton candy is laced with to garner such a rash decision as Class President Garrett Pike.

"It's just sugar."

"Too many things look like sugar and aren't Clarke. We could have a mass murderer on our hands."

As the two squabble back and forth about the legitimacy of such a crime (and if Stanley's a murderer, why isn't every kid dead yet?) Aden finds the strength to laugh for the first time in what feels like ages.

"Talk of homicide amuses you, Mr. Woods?" Lexa's temper is otherworldly, and her son can't hold in his guffaws.

"No, c-course not…"

Clarke sees the glint in the boy's identical blue eyes, and before Nomon can ground them both' till they're retirement age, she joins along.

Traitor.

"Et tu, Clarke?" Lexa laments ever telling these two cackling hyenas anything and not going straight to the board of Arkadia.

"Lexa, can't you see how ridiculous this is? We're upset about Aden losing the election, and here you are cataloging possible sue—" she snickers at the word itself, and Lexa rolls her eyes at the childishness, "—pseudonyms for a fictional axe murderer we probably will never meet in person." The blond wipes at warm tears, and she pulls her son into her side to hold her up. They both look like twins at this moment, and Lexa refuses to fetch a camera to preserve the moment. This is one afternoon she does not want to remember twenty years from now.

"No, that's not—not it." Though it is funny, he'll have to tell his friends tomorrow after the pledge of allegiance. 

Aden can't take the suspense anymore, and he uses the Griffin recessive gene mom promised would come in handy someday. 

"Nomon, it couldn't have been drugged, cuz," he and his Mom are crying, and he doesn't want to admit that part of it isn't because of the punchline, "…cuz I got the first bag of cotton candy."

Lexa watches on in horror as her wife and son guffaw longer than is suitable for either of them. At what, she does not even know anymore. Her head is starting to pound at the injustice of it all. 

Here she is, the laughing stock of her family while some cotton candy drug dealer gets by without even a cautionary look. Justice was indeed blind and deaf, and her works were all but dead in lieu of modern technology.

She ached for the days when Heda had all judicial power over a traitor's fate, and she could have hired a bowman or assassin to take care of 'Stanley Pike' for good.

"Lex, where are you going?"

"To get a stiff drink." Heda resigns to solitary until her headache dissipates (or the Pikes get caught up in their net of deceit and, well, Lexa never really much cared for fishing metaphors…but she knows how this story should go… Heda throu daun hard core—upends Middle School politics—Aden liberates the student body from homophobes and Lexa dips a sparkler-wielding Clarke for a climactic kiss…and scene.)

Even in her study, pouring amber liquid into a chilled glass (the last of her stash) and dialing Indra's private number for legal validation, she can hear her family's chortling voices and thanks her lucky stars Aden is an only child, and Clarke only has one parent still in mortality.

These Skaikru were going to be the death of her.

After the dust settles and Nomon's lawyers are on standby, the three congregate in the sitting room for a much-needed revival of spirits. (Though no actual spirits are to be had after Clarke cut them off last New Year's and just recently smelled the scotch on Lexa's breath and, in a bout of self-righteous annoyance, made her dump out the last of her stash.)

"I'll be glad to call it a day."

"Actually, I have one more thing to talk to you two about."

Aden retrieved his 'Vote for Woods' poster and one of Clarke's spare easels to set up in front of the TV.

"You didn't do half bad, babe. It's almost readable." Clarke teases, and Lexa rolls her eyes in return.

"My artist wife was off on another frivolous crusade, I made do with what I had."

"You have me." Clarke nips her wife's ear and whispers something Aden chooses to ignore.

"Moms, please. This is important." With their full attention, he flips the poster to reveal a graph of some sort. Clearly, his artistic abilities were squandered by Lexa's charisma gene, because it's all Greek to them.

"Mom, Nomon , I'm eleven years old now—practically a teenager."

"Not for another year, you're not." The CEO grumbles into her chilled glass of ginger ale. It wasn't bourbon, but Clarke and Heda both agreed (mostly Clarke) that encouraging alcohol around a maturity-seeking preteen was last on their agenda. 

So, slowly but surely, the family had weeded out booze in favor of other drinks, less habit forming. (Like koolaid wasn't addictive enough) None quite satisfied the same need within, like a good o’l scotch on the rocks and a scoop of validation, and Lexa sorely missed the days when Aden believed she was drinking apple juice after a long day at the office.

And after this all-around shit day, the CEO would take whatever distraction she could get.

"Almost a man," Aden insists, and Clarke smiles behind her own drink at her son's enthusiasm. He may almost be the same height as her, but he was still her little boy. No date on the calendar could change that. "And a man's got needs…"

Lexa tunes her son out because Clarke's always been the better parent when it came to matters of change, and who was she to break their winning streak? She mulled over exactly how long it would take Indra to get back to her on legal intervention in middle school politics and how she could manipulate a cotton candy explosion to look like an accident.

Aden addressed her directly. "—Right, Nomon ?"

Lexa takes a swipe at the air and comes out winning. "Of course, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. I applaud your ingenuity. Well said, son." 

Aden dances in victory and Lexa hopes she hasn't agreed to something too out of character to be allowed to sleep in her custom bed tonight.

Her wife's stare combusts like summer heat, and she looks at her cautiously, hoping she doesn't get burned in her quest to hold the sun's gaze.

Damn, her wife is beautiful. If she weren't in questionable trouble right now, she'd find every excuse to touch her. 

"That might have worked this time, Woods, but the next time your son asks you for a favor, it probably won't be for an extended bedtime," Clarke warns her wife discreetly as Aden cheers childishly and very Griffin-like over his small victory.

Lexa nods carefully back, not sure whether she is in the 'treehouse' or not. "Noted."

Clarke takes a sip of her wife's ginger ale, unblinking.

The family only gets through one episode of some Marvel moneysucker before Aden excuses himself to his room (this time to work on homework for real, he promises.)

Clarke inspects her wife's handiwork all over the futile election posters, and Lexa checks her phone for an update. 

There are no known criminal records under' Stanley Pike,' but the kru is on standby for a description, and before Lexa can dispatch them his last known whereabouts, Clarke interjects.

"He's upset, you know."

"Who?" Lexa hums with disinterest. Can't her houmon see she is trying to protect her seingeda from total creeps and can't be bothered with more diluted Marvel story arcs? Story arcs remind her of Arkadia and Lexa mental notes to call them first thing tomorrow for a total recall of the rigged election and possibly a replacement for Cartwig. 

Letting a student pay her off with cotton candy was low, even for an Arkadia seventh-grade teacher whose yearly salary accrued as much as Lexa's yearly candle bill.

"Aden," Clarke says saucily. Her wife looks up, surprised she has her hands on her round hips and her hair thrown up in a messy bun with a 'Vote for Woods' pen woven in.

"Yes, he lost." Lexa's mouth goes dry at her wife's exposed collarbones, and the shadow of her blessed cleavage Lexa swears could solve world hunger. When had she not noticed those before…in her haze to get the Pikes convicted of palm-greasing? 

Work and revenge always came before pleasure and hickies, unfortunately. She sorely wished to rectify that post-haste.

She says at Clarke's pointed look, "and one is known to become upset when one loses in front of their peers to a candy machine and an opponent at a grade four reading level."

Clearly, this is not the right thing to say and her wife does not reward her for analyzing feelings appropriately with lavish kisses and rounds of couch makeouts they are both too old to know better than to do (and too young not to participate in, extensively all the same.)

"The braun-wah-dah isn't the problem, Lex." She presses before Lexa can groan at her wife's improper but tantalizing use of gonasleng . That's a kink she hasn't nurtured in a while. "Your son's spirit is. He's been crushed."

"You're exaggerating to prove your point. Aden is not crushed by this. It is a minimal defeat in an equally menial project. Seventh-grade politics aren't worth anything in future endeavors or philanthropy, and he knows that—"

"But your son's feelings are." There was Wanheda in all her commanding and death-defying glory.

 Lexa concealed the urge to hiss at the sting of Clarke playing the feelings card; one of her choice hands in discussions turned debates that she would inherently win because she was of the sky, and Lexa lived to serve her sun goddess in all things. 

Though civilized, the brunette was Grounder, after all.

"Aden, if you're still upset about the election, there's a position for secretary and treasurer Mrs. Cartwig informed me of. It's still open; if we brush up your campaign for both and order a dozen cake pops from Lincoln's Bakery, you could run unopposed." 

Let it be known when Heda dueled at all, she swung two swords. And her son wore the crest of Trikru on his heart; whether in battle or in ballot boxes, it made little difference. They would rise on the morrow and smite the head of the fickle student body, once and for all.

Evidently, from the cotton candy incident, Lexa had overestimated the student body since her own days walking the halls of middle school. 

People only cared about the big jobs, the management positions, glorifying popularity contests, and ribbon-cutting ceremonies (children of Arkadia fared no better, it seemed)

That was why the CEO detested class politics at any age; the common folk were fools to penny candies, and the forerunners blinded by their own campaigns. 

It all amassed to a messy system, whether in modern politics or classroom agendas; human nature ruled out.

They didn't even know that the secretary and the treasurer were the bottom line when it came to funding and schedule. (Always know thy enemy, adolescents…) And without an okay from both offices, the president was powerless to reign.

Aden could take control of the entire seventh grade if he so wished. It was all a matter of perception and delegation, and he could have Garrett in the palm of his hand.

Really, the powerhouse was found in the most meek of positions. (A powerbottom, Clarke would say if she wasn't putting the finishing touches on Aden's surprise and letting Lexa 'take one for the team.')

"What troubles you, goufa ?"

"I couldn't find a charcoal suit." He shrugged his lithe shoulders like that was why he hadn't won. 

After all of their talk about unmet promises and sloppy presentations, Aden blamed himself for his peer's rejection. (A joint Griffin-Woods trait, to be unfairly critical and self-reflective when things fail to thrive.)

The CEO doubted that anyone could have won against free, fair food, even in a tasteful two-piece, but she knew better than to nurture the beast within, and instead, she took on the persona of Nomon before the opportunity was wasted away. 

He rarely confided his weaknesses with her; it was usually a sky thing to do, and Lexa hoped she wouldn't ruin this for him with her ineptitude for all things above the trees.

“ Chit bilaik thri bakon kom hedplei ?” (What are the three pillars of being a Commander?)

"Noun, fiyanes, en uf. " (Wisdom, compassion, and strength) he answered in a monotone. His mothers had a sixth sense when it came to giving lectures and improv speeches. Aden buckled himself for a doozy if Heda was addressing him directly with trigedasleng .

"Who qualifies to be a leader, Aden?" when her son doesn't answer, Lexa asks again, quietly in her mother tongue. " Chon ge sad op gon Heda ?" (Who is chosen to be a Commander?)

" Non sef em ge sed in kom keryon na hed op ." (None but the one chosen by the spirit can rule.)

“Taim Heda na ban em geda op ?” (When does the Commander leave their post?)

Aden could not answer her. He knew his expectations as a Trikru heir, and he had never considered anything more than humbly serving his people. It was who he was. He was born for the same service as his Nomon . He had never allowed himself to think beyond being a Woods and, in time, Heda .

"Aden, when is a leader's time up?" 

"I guess when they're of no more use." He says sardonically, already seeing where this is going but powerless to stop the tide from rolling in. He succumbs to the waves.

Lexa doesn't allow her son's room to waste away. "To their people or to themselves?"

His silence is answered enough.

"My Nomon asked me the same question when I was cut from my College Fencing Team in favor of another Captain. I was so angry and hurt, and I blamed myself for not being yuj enough or snap enough, and I didn't want to admit that maybe, maybe, I wasn't cut out to rule as much as I thought I once was. I threw away my uniform and refused to even look at my saber."

Aden had never heard about this. His Nomon seemed immune to failure and rejection. She was CEO of Coalition Industries, Heda of twelve united clans (technically thirteen, if his Mom had a clan bigger than her and Grandma Abby), and most impressively, married to his Mom, Clarke Griffin (she kept her maiden name for her art and for tax reasons).

"Late one night, after Nontu went to bed and I'd sulked enough, we walked the forest. Nomon made me walk until I couldn't bear the silence any longer, and I asked her what she wanted of me. (I thought I was in trouble for being cut from the team.) She asked me when Heda's time was up. When I couldn't answer her directly, she told me: ' Leksa, sen ai op ," Nomon's voice softened considerably as though she was embodying her own mother's tender spirit, and Aden listened closely for his komfoni's wisdom. “ Taim kom bilaik em keryon ste odon kom graun-de en ste ogud na gyon klin, na yu hod op. ” (Lexa, listen to me. Only when your spirit is done upon the earth and ready to be passed on can you stop.)

"I thought a rejection so poignant had made me unfit to have the spirit of Heda indefinitely, and I was better off as nobody."

Nomon straightens up. "Is your spirit ready to be passed on, nomfa ?"

" Nou, nomon ."

" Trikru nou set daun, osir throu daun." (Grounders don't give up, we fight.)

"Okay."

“ Nomfa, ha oso na hed op mou os gon Heda ?” (Son, how do we best lead as Commanders?)

"By serving our people, oso badan oso kru op ." Aden recounts part of his lessons from toddlerhood. These are simple answers and simpler questions, but it is so very Trikru to use tradition as a method for learning. And Aden is grateful for the familiarity. With a Skaikru mom, it's always a ballpark guess what she'll say next or contribute in teaching or lecture settings, and the teenager does like the consistency of his Nomon .

Lexa smiles softly, proud of her heir. 

He was every good thing, and she would abdicate her mantle as Heda just to be nomon if she could. “ Yu gada uf, jova en hodnes in. That is worth far more than any cotton candy machine." (You have strength, courage, and love.)

Her son chuckles wryly (very Clarke-like), and Lexa thinks that he is trying to be brave for her.

A crushing defeat is still a crushing defeat, even in the eyes of Woods.

"Leadership, nomfa , is measured by more than the resources fanfare and free candy can equate. It takes resiliency, vision, and sacrifice. That's what it means to be a Woods, to look into the eyes of your people and promise them a new future where everyone can thrive without the shadow of fear hanging over their heads."

"You can be a leader your people look to. Pour their hopes and dreams into it. You were born for this, same as me."

Clarke waves small at the doorway, and Lexa feels such a burst of pride in her heart for having such a golden angel in her home and, by priority, her heart. 

Heda feels the shift in the air, and Nomon agrees it's time to address her son's self-analysis directly; he is ready to hear the other half of the truth. 

"A suit is a tool, youngon , to make an impression. Much like a good business platform or a profit portfolio—its only purpose is to catch the eye and distract long enough for the real leader to ascend. Without keryon kom Heda , there is no guaranteed win."

"Seemed to work for Garrett."

If Heda never hears that name, it will be too soon. "Garrett's time will come." She could attest to that. 

The proud and the Pikes (Professor Charles Pike, to be exact) would fall in time. There would be other elections, debates, protests, and positions of power for her son to ascend. He had all the right qualities to be a leader his people would look to and, in time, follow.

"As for looking the part, I'm sure we can fix that. Yujleda just released a single-breasted suit that I think any campaigner would be proud to wear." She tapped the well-loved catalog in her son's hands.

While other boys read comic books before bed or less conventional magazines (Jasper jokingly bought Aden a Playboy for his upcoming twelfth birthday, but Lincoln assured Lexa it never made it out of the shopping bag nor would it in the future), Aden had a special love for Yujleda's superior selection of customized suits and sporting equipment. 

She'd regularly caught her son reading articles on textiles and fashion do's under the covers after lights out but never had the heart to scold her son for loving something to do with her companies. 

"I don't think I want to be a campaigner anymore, Nomon ." Aden cradled his face in his too-big hands, and Lexa's heart tugged at the boy who played at man and failed. 

Hot tears welled in his beautiful blue eyes, ashamed to have ever wanted something so stupid that still meant too much to him to let go without mourning. 

“ Ai gonplei ste odon .” He whispered, hoping his Nomon hadn't heard him. 

He would throw the catalog away and try out for the popular basketball team or some other equally mind-numbing athletics program. 

Clarke rolled her eyes at her son's last epistle before he consigned himself to social execution by never caring about anything ever again.

 Melodramatic was also another Woods-quality mother and son shared, part of their charm, really. 

(In College, it had scored Lexa dates with Clarke—when she'd sworn up and down they were soulmates, and she wouldn't let the blond out of her sight without knowing her name and whether she felt the same ethereal pull—Clarke knew she was in for a wild four years.)

"I'm sorry to hear that." Lexa waved Clarke in, both impatient to unveil their present. 

The blond crept on her toes, not wanting to interrupt the obvious heart-to-heart (Heda-to-Heda) but practically bursting in excitement for Aden's reaction.

"Woods may have keryon kom Heda , but a politician is only as good as his tailor."

Aden gaped through his tears at the suit decorating his Mom's arm.

The only word even close to describing it was beautiful. Charcoal and single-breasted, just like his Nomon's, and with a bold blue tie to match his mother's eyes, it was everything he'd ever wanted and more.

Clarke smiles big and hugs her boy to her. "Now that you're a man with a mission, we thought you should look the part. For future campaigns."

"This is dry clean only; that means no roughhousing, Mr. Woods. Your constituents won't appreciate that."

"Loud and clear." Aden laughed with his Mom at the absurdity of it all. Elections were being won with pink fluff and priceless suits being earned through failure; it was all so confusing and them, and Aden couldn't help kissing both his mothers on the cheek for believing in him. Lexa chuckled as he thanked them a hundred times over in trigedasleng and English for the awe-inspiring investment.

" Mochofmochofmochofmochofmochof—,"

"— I think he likes it, Lex." Clarke shared a proud grin and teased in her sky way. "Although I can't tell for sure, it's still hanging off my arm."

Aden needed no more encouragement. He accepted the suit with reverent hands and charged down the hall to change in the bathroom (not wanting to wait a moment longer to try on his dream suit).

The couple barely had a moment to exchange satisfied smiles before their son strutted back into his room, suit-clad, barefoot, and smoldering with pride. (A Trikru , through and through)

"How do I look?"

Presidential, Lexa wanted to say and knew it would be the last thing she ever did to ruin an iconic moment for her family.

"Dapper." Clarke supplied for her speechless wife. "A real man's man."

One day, her son would grow out of his suit and move on with his future—conquering worlds and making dreams come true for visionaries just like him who never thought their dreams would see the light of day or the backing of investors.

He would use his spitfire Skaikru antics and Trikru resourcefulness and make something of Heda's tutelage and Wanheda's nurture.

And Lexa's throat would bob, just like it did now. 

"A tie is only as good as its knot, gona , so watch closely." 

The CEO handed her wife her own wilted tie for demonstration, and all three of the Woods family practiced their way through the basics of the Elie knot and, in time, the Eldredge.

"I was going to save this until your birthday, but you proved to me today that you're ready for a little Griffin wisdom on the side." Nomon rolled her eyes at Mom's antics. "Can't let the Woods have all the fun."

"But I lost,"

Clarke chimed in. "And you learned a valuable lesson about failure and the right to rule lying in the hands of the people. Even if they're total patsies and sell-outs sometimes."

Lexa hums her agreement. She traces her own watch with a practiced thumb.

The artist offers her thoughts on being overlooked for the status quo. "If I could count the number of times someone sold out on a project I cared for…in any case, you took a shot even when you knew you might miss. And then, to top it all off, you raised your living conditions when the outside world wouldn't accept your ideas. That, Aden Reed Woods, is cooler than pizza parties or a trip to Disneyland." Her speech is a bit unconventional, but Aden likes it. He likes everything his Mom does.

"Not a spa day?" he teases in their easy skaikru way Lexa can't quite manage.

"Oh, I'm not letting you back out that easily, mister. Your mother and I deserve a second honeymoon with all the drama Arkadia's put us through this year." 

Nomon perks up at that, and Aden's parents share simmering glances that he wishes he could not be in the middle of. He makes a face, and his Mom takes control of gift-giving again. "Enough drama, open it up, Dapper Woods Junior."

As carefully as unwrapping fondant from a cake (Clarke really needs to stop working late with Lincoln), Aden uncovers his early birthday present.

"Now, mind you, while this is your main present, it holds the most meaning to your mother." Lexa prattles because the suspense is killing her, and how long does it take to unwrap a single watch box with hands that big?

"Mom…" Aden smiles all watery, and he's so Clarke in that one expression. Lexa forgives his favoritism. Clarke was always the favorite in times of peace, and she couldn't blame him for it; she was biased as well.

"It's a little big, and I know you wanted to pick out your own when the time came, but this was just calling to me on our last trip to the Netherlands, and I couldn't ignore the Siren's call."

And Heda's wife painted the Woods side dramatically; she made it sound like a crusade when she'd already commissioned a craftsman with her own design before they even set foot on European soil. (And Lexa had footed the bill, mochof very much.)

"Tease," Lexa says for her wife's ears only. Meanings and implications Aden chooses not to think about for his own sanity.

"The Griffin side has always taken a liking to timekeepers and watches. It's in our DNA." Mom chuckles at her private joke. 

She was named after the author of 'A Time Odyssey'—if that wasn't a chrono fetish, she didn't know what was. 

"My dad gave me his wristwatch before he left for research in Cambodia." Clarke's voice solidifies, and both of the Woods think back to pictures and anecdotes about Jake Griffin, his goodness, his humor, and his vision for the future of mankind. "He told me as long as that thing kept ticking, there was always hope for humanity." She rolls her eyes affectionately at her dad's cryptic wording (she was 10 at the time and believed he was invincible and clung to his watch more than her mother's hand when they lowered his empty casket into the ground.)

Jake was a sky-boy, never meant to be buried in the cold earth, and Clarke found it poetic justice that his body disappeared in a flash of light and fire. 

Lexa takes over, sensing the memories to be too painful for her wife to recount alone.

 "When I married your mother, she designed a timepiece for me to remind me of my own fragile mortality, the delicate balance between endings and beginnings," she says for Clarke, though she doesn't have to. "It is my most cherished possession."

Aden thinks back to his mother's previous story about her saber that she proudly displayed above her study mantle.

Out of all of her trophies and awards and Yujleda suits and Heda's sacred pauldron passed down from every Commander since the old world—she cares most for a skaikru gift.

"As you know, every Woods to date has had a fleimkepa , a distinguishing credo to keep them going in times of scarcity and trial. A guiding beacon, you might say. It rouses our courage and maintains our humanity. It holds us accountable as leaders and as gona . I engraved my fleimkepa on the face of my watch, to remind me always of our potential as mortal beings, and my place as a servant of the people."

Aden knew his nomon's fleimkepa off by heart. He'd recited it over and over as a small boy to spur his own strength when facing off against bullies much larger and stronger than himself or his teachers who didn't understand his loyalties to a culture long since forgotten by most of the world.

Kiken raun bilaik mou kom kiken thru…

He'd never understood its full significance until this year, and the words burnt his soul alight with just as much desire for progression as his mother's individually and together had.

He used to sit for hours as a child to listen to nomon recount stories of the old world before cars, TVs, or modern hygiene (she never appreciated when Mom slipped that in) were invented. While he traced her prized watch round and round and fought to keep his eyes open, Nomon, in hushed words, spoke of their people.

Trikru . The namesake of her thriving business before Coalition Industries was even a thought.

The proud heritage of survivors and saviors as they rose from the ash and rubble of hell itself inspired Aden. ( Nomon liked to exaggerate when she had a listening ear, but Aden never corrected her on the logistics of surviving the underworld's fire and brimstone for the payoff of staying up past his bedtime when he thought his Mom didn't know, and nomon couldn't see the time under his small fingers.)

“ Mema ai goufa, kiken raun bilaik mou kom kiken thru .”

Life is about more than just surviving.

He knew Heda's fleimkepa was a story in and of itself, one he hoped his mothers would share with him.

Not all fleimkepas were so noble, so optimistic. Each clan had adopted a fleimkepa together before Heda united the clans under one cause. Jus drein jus daun still lingered on the lips of the old and the stubborn, even today, and it hurt to hear of people using it as an excuse to seek revenge for things long past done.

Uncle Titus (Lexa's least favorite but most influential mentor in the Woods line) had lectured his fleimkepa " Hodnes laik kwlenes " only once to Aden before his Skaikru mom pulled rank and had a few choice words with him.

What nomon had wanted years to be accomplished was set in stone in less than a moment, and Titus was no longer permitted in the Griffin-Woods home, and every Trikru, in turn, took note of the lessons they prioritized teaching the budding heir with Clarke involved as his protector. 

Fierce as a lioness and more feared than death through one small encounter (though Aden believed there had been many more to bring her to this point), Clarke Griffin-Woods wore the name Wanheda .

(Aden never liked Titus much anyway, so the loss wasn't felt in the plethora of more welcome Trikru relatives that had just as influential fleimkepas to teach him.)

There is no trigedasleng on the face. The boy gingerly turns his new watch over to the back.

His disappointment at seeing an empty plate is only for a moment before he smiles again, rejuvenated and resplendent that he qualified for a Griffin tradition in the first place, even if he was not given his own fleimkepa .

He may be Trikru claimed, but he was a copy of his mother in more than looks, and he shared her same hope and vision for the future. His Mom was the reason he wanted to venture into politics when he came of age in the first place.

"Just as I chose mine, nomfa , so should you."

His Mom says, "We can get it engraved with whatever you want your flame-keeper to be, kiddo." (Her attempts at speaking Trigedasleng are noble, and the Trikru smiles at the skaikru who holds their hearts permanently in her artisan's hands.)

"What should I pick?"

Before her son spirals back into his "my fight is over" mentality from the pressure, Clarke assures him. "You have time." 

She smiles sincerely, then defends against her family's exasperated reactions. "Pun not intended, joke police. At least, not this time ." She winks and basks in the groans of her son and wife from a 'mom joke' done right. 

She made Jake Griffin proud.

Clarke forces a yawn. "Oh, look at the time, I better clock out. I got a busy day tomorrow and don't want to be late—my how time flies," Nomon mercifully closes her son's door as she placates the blond's Griffin-need to tease and affectionately antagonize.

Aden sets to work scribbling on a looseleaf paper different ideas for his fleimkepa .

Clarke came back into her son's room at 8:38 to check on the spent warrior while Lexa recycled all but one of their son's promo posters (the daylight savings time graph Aden had made to solidify his position for a later bedtime was going in the family gallery for sure.)

The 'almost man' rested precariously against his desk, one hand on his dead DS and the other clutched tightly around his early birthday present, out like a light.

Clarke felt pride flutter inside her ribcage.

 The watch was almost an exact replica of her dad's (engineered and designed by him, originally), the main adjustments being the face's light (blue, Aden's favorite color) and the Trikru crest embedded into the steel framing with the Skaikru symbol painted on the face, to remind Aden of his shared lineage.

"It'll withstand a nuclear apocalypse if you treat it right, sky-girl, just like me." Clarke laughs quietly at the silly promise her dad made her, one that was impossible to keep, and yet she never doubted him, not even now as her own timepiece ticked backward on her wrist.

Without wanting to distract her wife from her dutiful task of waste management, Clarke turned down the covers and found a pair of pajamas.

"Hey, kiddo. This suit doesn't iron easily."

Aden blinked groggily into the sleepwear his Mom handed him. "I wasn't sleepin'." He changed sluggishly but had the care to hang his suit up.

"I won't tell," Clarke promised.

After all that effort and tenacity he'd pumped out, it would be cruel to poke fun at his internal clock betraying him.

Once her son was tucked snugly into bed and his watch safely put back in its case, Clarke dimmed the lights.

"Ma?"

"Yeah, honey?" she lingered by her son's bed, ready for anything.

"Thank you, for the gift. An' the suit," there was more he tried to say, but she shushed him gently, brushing a thumb over his puffy eyelids. She'd made those eyes, and she'd done a damn good job if she said so herself. Her boy was handsome, thoughtful, and so very conscious of the people around him. 

Feyenes , as Lexa called it, was his strongest pillar towards being a leader, in Clarke's biased opinion.

"You're welcome, sweetheart. Thank you for being such a good sport."

"I should lose 'lections more often." He teased, tired and slow. Clarke kissed his brow softly.

"I have no doubt your luck will change. Goodnight Aden."

" Reshop nomon. "

Clarke lingered just a moment longer before her boy aged any older than eleven and a half.

Eleven years, full of birthdays and milestones and moments only a camera could capture, fully swirled behind her eyelids, and the artist's past self would have smacked her for being so 'mom-ish' and sentimental, but she couldn't help it. 

This was her baby boy, the same seven-pound, four-ounce little guy (that she had endured 10 and a half hours of labor to meet), and he was even more beautiful than she or Lexa could ever have anticipated.

He had her eyes and her wife's steadiness and his own unique goodness that neither really knew where he inherited from, but they were grateful for it all the same.

Teething was a nightmare, potty training permanently blocked from her memory, and the Woods household invested in ear plugs all through his electric guitar phrase…but through their journey's many ups and downs (more ups than downs), Aden had come into his own. And through aging, found refuge in humanitarian projects, Trikru annual soccer games (conclaves that Clarke would never call that), and Griffin-Woods family games nights, just the three of them.

He was a bright boy, a compassionate soul, and a dreamer. All the things that combatted a politician. 

But he was also a Woods, and he knew that if leadership was to be his legacy, he would want it to be for peace.

And he would lead in every way that mattered most to his world (new Class President Garrett Pike be damned.)

He advocated for children's rights in the foster system on social media, supported his local food banks, and made sure Clarke wrote a cheque to the community's last church every month. If she wasn't going to even consider attending, she could at least keep it running. 

(Sometimes Clarke grumbled that Aden should be a bishop or preacher with his self-righteous talk, but it was so like her dad she couldn't even be mad.)

As the years went on, she saw much of Jake in him; the richness of his laugh and the easiness of his smiles and his genuine goodness (ah, that's where it came from. Clarke could put that mystery to bed now) all evolved into one exceptional kid.

He loved his family. What more could any mother want from an eleven-year-old boy?

After only a short time in the vast bigness of a lifetime, one impending birthday, one speech in front of a seventh-grade class, and her son was a self-proclaimed man who wore suits and had crushes (she knew all about Jocelyn Cassano thanks to Mrs. Cartwig) and aspired for Politics and change his class wasn't ready for.

Clarke felt too young to be the mother of a teenager and wondered how her own mother survived the surprise of adolescents.

Clarke smiled to herself at her son, moments ago asleep on his desk, cradling his watch like a teddy bear and broad shoulders slumped under the invisible weight of maturity too heavy for him to carry alone.

Like his new watch, the invisible clock all mortals were tied to would keep ticking.

Grades would change, student body presidents resign and graduate (if Garrett knew what was good for him), friends no doubt would follow the same course, and her son would tower over her and Lexa before they knew it if he kept up with his growth spurts.

And even as all these fragile moments slipped away, her son would always be her Dapper Woods Jr, the heir of two houses, the best of both skaikru and trikru worlds, and in this room under the constant light of the Polaris star, Clarke painted eleven years and six months previous, her little boy.

" Reshop, goufa ," Clarke whispered into her son's hairline, careful not to wake the warrior beneath her chin. “ Yu gonplei ste begon .”