'Before you,' he said, 'you can see more women than warriors. Cowardly, unarmed, they will give up the moment they see the weapons and bravery of their conquerors who have given them such a drubbing so many times before.' (Tacitus, Annals XIV.36)
The first time Clarke sees the Head Girl she’s sitting on a throne, presiding over her dominion with a piercing stare and a crown of braids in her hair. Her warriors are spread at her feet, a multitude of them, all long-haired and wild and clad in identical brown regalia. There’s something of the sacred about her, like the crimson cloak draped across her shoulders and her divinity are one and the same.
[ID: Image of two Lacrosse players hugging on a pink background. Text reads "More Women than Warriors, Fanwork Friday" with the Fanlore logo in the center. /End ID]
It's Fanwork Friday! This week we're featuring "More Women than Warriors", a very popular Clexa fanfiction by steklir (SilentStars).
Set in a modern boarding school AU, the fic won the hearts of many, many readers, as well as the Best Modern Fanfiction award at the 2017 Clexa Fanfiction Awards. The fic also inspired many pieces of fanart, edits and fanvids. Check out the Fanlore page for "More Women than Warriors" to read more about this amazing fic and the other fanworks it inspired!
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Christmas, 2020: United States President Lexa Woods has recently been re-elected for her second term, has three Nobel Peace Prizes under her belt, and a 97% public approval rating. None of this, in any way, prepares her for the pretty girl her sister brings home to the White House for Christmas.
note: this is the heaviest chapter yet (and probably of the whole fic) so pls read these words of caution before diving in. tw for child abuse mentions, gay slur mentions (not actually said, but discussed), and blood.
the chapter has a happy ending, but there’s some angst first. if you want me to expand on any of these warnings or spoil it for you before reading just message me. i have a feeling ppl will like this one in spite of everything...
You’re an even-tempered person, most of the time.
You had to be when you were younger, back in the lab. You learned that it was best to cooperate, to hide your emotions as much as you could. And you were successful. Mostly.
But sometimes, it would gnaw at you. You’re not sure how to put ‘it’ into words -- the marble of resentment and rage that formed in your gut and grew and grew until you couldn’t contain it anymore.
After you lashed out, leaving bruises and scratch marks on the guards who had to sedate you, Papa would ask why you were so angry. Why couldn’t you be good? Why would you act out, knowing that you’d be placed in that tiny cell of a room they threw you in when you misbehaved.
Weren’t you smarter than that? Didn’t you understand cause and effect?
Even if you had an answer, you wouldn’t have told him. Back then words were especially hard to pluck out of the fog in your brain. But now, thinking back on it all, you know why you lashed out.
It was a way to prove to yourself that, even while wearing a ratty hospital gown in an underground lab, you still had free will.
***
Breaking Jimmy Kenswood’s nose had nothing to do with asserting your free will.
But something about him brought back all those feelings from before, and the familiar stone of fury had been sitting heavy and hot in your belly for months.
He was a bully, plain and simple. He made fun of everyone for anything and everything, mocking Lily for dressing like a boy and you for looking like you belonged in kindergarten. Once he even stomped on your beloved yellow keds.
You’d met bullies before -- plenty of them -- and, with Mike’s help, you learned not to let them get to you. In the group home, at least, you felt bad for the bullies. They came from messed up backgrounds, some even worse than yours, and on some level you could relate.
But something about Jimmy was different. Jimmy’s dad picks him up from school every day, and he doesn’t shut up about his mom’s corner-office job in some high rise in the city. You can tell his family loves him.
Or maybe it’s you who’s different. Maybe Jimmy was the one fly in the milk of your new lovely life. Maybe ugly souls like his stood out even more now that your life was so soft and bright.
But the reason doesn’t matter now.
All that matters is when Jimmy called your moms a name -- some word you hadn’t heard before, but it sounded sharp and hateful and it made Lily flinch -- you decked him so hard that blood splattered on your hand and dribbled down his chin and onto his white polo shirt.
***
Clarke doesn’t say anything as she drives you home from school.
She must have been out running errands when the principal called her to say you have to stay home for three days because there are a bunch of grocery bags in the backseat. They look like they were thrown in haphazardly. A few oranges have fallen out and are rolling around the floor.
You breathe slowly and try to find that place in your mind where nothing hurts, but you can’t quite get there. Instead you focus on Clarke’s hands, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turn white.
When she pulls into the driveway she doesn’t take the groceries out of the car.
At first you sit in the kitchen, hanging your head as she calls Lexa and then your social worker. You’ve never heard her voice sound like this before and it makes your chest feel tight. You pick at the dried blood on your knuckles and open your mouth to try to catch your breath.
You could have been happy here. You were happy here. And now you’ve ruined it.
Clarke hangs up the phone and she turns away from you, running both hands through her hair. She can’t be more than three feet away, but she’s never felt so far.
There’s a bouquet of flowers that you and Lexa picked the other day -- the last from the summer garden -- in a vase on the table. You study them and wonder how something so beautiful can exist in the middle of the worst day of your life.
Then you feel Clarke’s hands on your knees, and you’ve never been so grateful to be pulled from your thoughts. She’s kneeling in front of you, clutching your knees and looking up at you with wide, red-rimmed eyes.
“Hey,” she says. She reaches up to cup your face, and you lean into her touch, even though you don’t deserve it. “It’s gonna be alright, okay?”
You shake your head, because it’s never been so clear to you that you don’t belong here, with these good-hearted people. You hurt someone, and Clarke’s worried about you.
“Yes it will be,” she says. “We’ll figure it out. We have to. We’ll figure it out.”
You wonder if she’s saying it for her or for you.
***
You’re not sure how much time has passed when you hear a car door slam out front and then Lexa’s rushing in the house.
Clarke’s shoulder’s deflate when she sees her, and Lexa nearly trips over Waffles when she steps forward to take Clarke in her arms. From where you’re sitting you can tell that both of their eyes are closed, and something like relief is written across their features.
They’re stronger together. You close your eyes and try to save the moment in your mind.
When you open them again Lexa’s standing in front of you. She takes your hands and gives the blood a once-over before gently tugging you to your feet.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
You follow her to the big bathroom upstairs, down the hall from your room. Lexa puts down the toilet lid and sits while you wash your hands with soap three times over.
When you’re done you glance at her and she just tilts her head and raises her eyebrows. You’ll miss that about her -- the way she can ask a question without saying anything at all.
“Jimmy -- the boy I hit -- he called you and Clarke a bad word.”
You almost tell her you didn’t mean it, that this was all an accident, but on top of everything you don’t want to lie.
Lexa nods and asks you what he said. You don’t want to repeat it -- don’t ever want to say it -- so you spell it as best you can. You wait for her to react, somehow, but her face doesn’t change as she nods again.
The next thing you know Lexa’s pulling you into her lap. It’s a bit awkward, balancing on her knees on the toilet seat cover, but her touch makes your muscles relax. You lean against her chest, wondering if this is how Clarke feels wrapped up in Lexa’s embrace.
“People fear what they don’t understand,” Lexa says. “And sometimes that fear manifests itself as hatred. Anger.”
“And Jimmy sounds like an idiot.”
You both look up to see Clarke leaning against the bathroom doorframe with her arms crossed.
“And based on what I’ve heard, he’s had something like this coming for a long time,” she continues.
“Not that it’s ever okay to hit someone,” Lexa says.
“Right, right. Of course.”
You look between them, these two amazing women, and a part of you wants to laugh. You can feel it in your chest -- a little burst of happiness -- but the overwhelming sadness and panic beat it back. You swallow.
“Will they take me away?”
Clarke steps into the bathroom and brushes her fingers through your hair. She regards you for a moment, like she’s not sure exactly what to tell you.
“I don’t know,” she says quietly. “But if they try, we’ll do everything we can to stop them. I promise you that.”
Lexa kisses the side of your neck, and for the first time since your fist made contact with Jimmy’s nose you feel a glimmer of hope.
***
The social worker is not happy. It’s a man -- someone you haven’t seen before -- and his suit is full of wrinkles.
You answer his questions as concisely as you can, only expanding your answers when Clarke prompts you or when Lexa looks at you with pleading eyes. Then, when it’s clear the conversation has shifted to the adults, you slink away to your room.
You close the door behind you and lean back against it, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. A few minutes ago, back in the kitchen, you bent down to pet Waffles and caught a glimpse of Clarke and Lexa’s entwined hands hanging between their chairs.
Their knuckles were white.
It made you realize that no matter how hard they fight to keep you, the state can still take you away. They’re powerless, ultimately. You all are. That’s why Clarke hesitated when she answered you -- she didn’t want to make any promises she can’t keep.
You hear soft scratches on the other side of your bedroom door and you open it to let Waffles in. He purrs and rubs his head against your shin before jumping onto your bed and curling up on the duvet.
For all the time you spend in this room, you’ve never truly looked at it. It’s blue and pink with two windows -- one looking down at Harry’s house and the other overlooking your backyard, with the patio and your treehouse. Some of your artwork is taped on the walls, and on your dresser is a framed photo of you, Clarke, and Lexa from the Fourth of July, decked out in your red, white, and blue.
You pack that romper first. Then you pack your pink-and-white polkadot dress, the one you wore to Clarke’s birthday picnic, followed by the dress that Clarke said will match the tree’s cherry blossoms in the spring. (The ones you’ll never see, now.)
After a few more dresses and headbands your backpack is nearly bursting and tears are finally threatening your eyes.
They’ve given you so much. There’s still a whole closet full of clothes you’ll leave behind, not to mention the new therapist you actually like, and Waffles, and Lexa’s Sunday breakfasts, and Clarke’s goodnight kisses, and the almost-painful happiness you feel when you crawl into their bed on Saturday mornings and cuddle in between them.
You’re standing in the middle of your room with your backpack at your feet quietly sobbing when Clarke and Lexa appear in the doorway. Clarke guides you to your bed with gentle hands, and Lexa nudges Waffles over so the three of you can sit.
“Shhhh.” Clarke wipes your tears away with the pads of her thumbs. “Everything’s okay. You’re staying with us, right where you belong.”
You take in a hiccuping breath and look at her through bleary eyes. “What?”
You turn to Lexa, on the other side of you, and she grips your hand. “The social worker just left,” she says. “We have to have more meetings with him, your principal, and Jimmy’s parents, but you’re not going anywhere.”
Relief floods through you and you start to cry harder. But as you feel Clarke and Lexa hug you from either side unexpected frustration builds inside you. You don’t deserve this. Why can’t they see that? You wonder if it’s like what Lexa was talking about earlier -- one feeling masquerading as another.
You pull away from them and stand, turning to face them. They seem surprised, and Clarke looks a little hurt, which only makes your scowl deepen.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” you ask, and you can hardly recognize your voice. “I almost ruined everything. Why aren’t you mad? Why are you letting me stay?”
Clarke blinks and she looks at you with a confused sort of smile.
“Because, Eleven.” She takes your hand and pulls you in until your knees bump. “We love you.”
Your jaw drops, and you must be taking after Clarke, because you gasp softly.
“You-- you do?”
“Yeah, kiddo.” Clarke nods and a tear slides down her cheek. “I love you.”
You glance at Lexa to see if this is all part of some big joke, but she looks just as choked-up as Clarke.
“Me too, El,” she says, curling her fingers around the side of your neck. “I love you, too.”
You breathe out a sighing sort of cry as you let them pull you into a tight hug. Part of you wonders if you nodded off and this is all a dream, or maybe you’ve tapped into someone else’s consciousness, and this is happening to someone much more deserving than you.
But another part of you -- the sliver that thinks you’re worthy of their love -- starts to laugh.
There are tears spilling out of your eyes and laughter tumbling from your mouth, and it must be contagious, because soon Clarke and Lexa and laugh-crying too.
(They love you.)
(They love you.)
***
Later that night, you all get ready for bed together and it goes without saying that you’re sleeping in Clarke and Lexa’s room.
Lexa lets you wear her Grounders t-shirt, and Clarke rolls her eyes and mutters, “like mother like daughter.”
Clarke tells you and Lexa a bedtime story -- one that her dad used to tell her, about him growing up poor and happy -- and then she turns out the lights.
You can’t sleep for a million reasons. First, they love you. Second, you don’t have to leave home. And third, you need to tell them.
You wait for Clarke’s arm to go slack around your waist and for Lexa’s breathing to even out. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be braver, but for now this is the best you can do.
“I love you,” you whisper as quietly as you can. “Both of you.”
“We know,” Clarke whispers back, hugging you closer.
Lexa presses a kiss to your cheek. “We love you too, El.”
Clarke shifts and inches closer to you, and by now you know it’s so she can hug Lexa, too.
“God, Waffles, can you purr any louder?” she whines.
You giggle as Lexa reaches up to pet him where he’s stretched out on her pillow.
“I kinda like it,” she says. “He’s like a living, breathing white-noise machine.”
Clarke sighs. “The things I put up with for the ladies I love.
You nuzzle your nose against Lexa’s and then turn to kiss Clarke’s shoulder. Then you close your eyes and focus on this feeling so that you can hold onto it forever.
Clarke and Lexa soon drift off -- for real this time -- but you fight off sleep for as long as you can. Because you don’t want to miss a minute of it -- knowing what it feels like to be loved.
