Lincoln finds his worn journal tucked in with Octavia’s belongings. It takes time before he’s able to bring himself to touch her things, and the journal is the last item he expects to uncover. The shreds of memory locked inside overwhelm him, and all Clarke and the rest of them can do it sit back and watch the warrior unravel. No words existed in either of their languages that would serve to ease his pain or diminish his suffering. He had lost his heart, and the anguish that accompanied that loss was too heavy a weight. She’d moved to stop him as he tossed the leather-bound book onto a small fire he’d tended, but she stopped short, it was his to do with as he needed. He comes back together slowly, the passing of time doing what it can for his wounds. There’s a moment when he feels too gone, like he may just step out into the forest and disappear. Days pass, the separation lessens as the seasons fade together, and somehow when she’s standing with the others discussing some matter of business, she can feel him to her side. A small nod from Bellamy the only acknowledgment that progress has been made. That there’s hope that the scars might fade. Bellamy’s a few too many drinks into a starless night when he finally confesses that it’s Octavia’s birthday. Clarke’s chest aches, and she leans overs to pour herself what he’s having. She sees the tears on his cheeks before he leaves without another word, and she can finally take a breath, he wanted to be alone. He was alone a lot these days. She’s taking a sip of her drink when Lincoln comes to mind, and she knows without having to wonder, that he’s aware of the significance of the day. It takes time and patience for the rhythm of sketching to comeback to her, but muscle memory kicks in and steadies her hand. It’s rough, something from a glimpse of a memory, and her ownrecollection of the once beautiful and innocent girl. It wasn’t thesame one that had turned to ash that night in the fire, but is wassomething. A gift he wouldn’t give himself, one that she hoped he wouldn’t frown upon. Her gesture is held gently in her hand.The sun is rising at her back as she finds him at the perimeter fence, and there’s a knot in her stomach, nerves that want herto turn back. “Clarke,” his voice is curious, and she offers him a small smile. Biting her lip between her teeth she holds the small page out to him without comment. Nothing seems to fit right in her mouth so silence fills the space between them as his eyes travel over her drawing. It’s an eternity resting between the space of two heartbeats, and his eyes never leave the charcoal lines of Octavia’s face even as he voices his thanks. There’s a touch of warmth to his gaze, where nothing but a haunted chill used to live, and none of them are ever going to be truly whole again, but at least with a picture of her, there’d be one more piece of him. “Ain hod in,” his voice is heavy with loss as Clarke leaves him with his memories.
