the upset in clarke’s expression seemed to carry some permanence now, whether it was her entrance, reports from those who had tended to her afterwards, or now watching as multiple emotions crossed over her features. anger was familiar, she often found it hiding behind the the niceties of her council, of faces among the crowd. compared to others, this was too personal. clarke was angry with the woman behind the treaties, the title, as she had made the promise to join her in the fight for mount weather. the betrayal had not been one that expected, nor one she had come to terms with.
why? the question hung between them, not needing to be elaborated on. her initial explanation might have been enough for some, for those who understood the weight of her rule. what benefited her people was not what was always aligned with personal interest, now just as much as it when the choice had been between revenge, and allowing costia’s murderers to be welcomed back into her good graces. their commander had looked the other way, yet leksa had not. would clarke feel the same distaste as long as she did? selfishly, she hoped not.
there was one clear thing to address the small girl tucked into her sash. they were not related, she would have no children, would never truly know a mother, a sister. anya had been the closest, and she too was out of reach, never to be seen again. she knew little of children this young, the warmth she brought made it difficult to turn her away. “ she is of my blood. “ her fingertips touched the edge of the sling, gently enough not to stir. waking children was something leksa preferred not to do, having learned from experience.
they had both chosen different paths, different ways to cope with the immeasurable weight of leadership. clarke had run, a luxury she had never been afforded but not one she could be blamed for. war was no simple undertaking, the sight of mass dead, the loss of loved ones, the physical toll wore down the strongest of warriors. still, they were two leaders on two opposing sides, and she could not first think of others over her own. her expression attempted indifference, knowing emotion could not sway the same as reason could. “ my choice was to save my people, or step over their bodies to save yours. i did my duty. “
her duty was bitter in comparison to what they had shared. regret had only ever been present twice in her rule, twice due to the complicated feelings she held for women in her world. twice, she had been made to choose what she had been taught to choose. the natblida were not given a choice. perhaps if they were, she would have chosen in a way that would have left clarke less upset with her. it didn’t take much to cave, to grow softer in the face of the grief she knew was present behind the blonde’s anger. “ i did not want to hurt you. i am sorry. “
there are questions. for the babe wrapped in lexa’s arms -- asleep, for now, and surprisingly, with the way the anger boils just beneath the surface of clarke’s skin, just behind her eyes, just there, just an almost --- it’s almost out. it almost claws its way up her throat and out of her mouth with the same spiteful, split tongue that makes the inside of her mouth bleed. almost. there are questions for the child, and for lexa. the commander. the alliance that now sits, torched in the space between them, spat at and condemned. this was never about being equal. this was never about them living side by side. lexa never wanted them to survive -- it was a long game, a long and cruel and arduous way of rescinding any welcomes into any alliance.
‘ --- that’s --- that’s not good enough, lexa.’ if it’d been a plan -- a tactic -- if what was bundled in lexa’s arms and wrapped tight across her chest was supposed to placate her for a moment, give her a level head, make her consider before she draws out the knife from inside the cuff at her wrist, then it was working. cheap, and wrenching, and though it might make her careful before she opens the commander’s neck in her own chambers, it crushes something else within her. it’s manipulative, and that’s the only word she can come up with right now. everything’s too fast. everything happens, and everything seems to make her eyes flicker from the commander to the child to -- anything else in the room, because now it feels like she can’t breathe and she can’t think and she can’t do anything and it’s ---
‘you left, lexa ---- ’ you left and i killed them all. commander of death. i don’t want to be this way. i don’t want to be this person. i don’t want any of this, i never wanted any of this. and it’s all you. you did this. you hurt those people too.
‘i -- i hate you.’ there’d been words she’d been meaning to say. there’d been the constant upheaval of anger and hurt and guilt and regret. it came out the way she bled: it ebbed, and pressed, and no matter how much pressure she applied to it, it kept on coming, and spilling and --- it covers her hands, and she can’t tell anymore if the anger or blood is hers or lexa’s.
‘i hate you. i hate you.’ at least there’s one thing she knows, and one thing that spills from between her lips as she takes that step back toward her and stares up. she never knew what lexa was thinking. she never knew, however many times she’d look over, what was going on in there. but now, all she knows is that if lexa put her to death, it’d be a peace offering. kill yourself or put me out of my misery.
‘go float yourself. now let me go, before i do something you’ll regret.’
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