By the time they got to wherever they were going, all of those candles had melted and then congealed into one giant mass of wax.
“I regret nothing,” Lexa says, years later, as she lights thirty of its exposed wicks on the eve of Clarke’s birthday.
“I sometimes miss my mother,” Clarke sighs. “I wonder if she’s still alive. If she’s happy.”
“She is both very happy and very alive,” Lexa assures her, with the confidence of a scorned, heterosexual male, mad for his lack of romantic involvement with an uninterested protagonist.
He’ll keep trying anyway.
“How do you know?” Clarke asks, turning slowly to meet her wife’s gaze. They had been isolated for years, their only contact with the outside world was their homing pigeon, Flika, and a looking glass. All they had ever seen was smoke.
“Just today, while you were out, Flika returned with a message from her,” Lexa sets a calming tender kiss against Clarke’s cheek, “you can rest assured.”
“Well what did the message say?”
“It said, ‘Please tell Clarke,’” Lexa leans in close, to press her lips against Clarke’s ear, and whispers, “'that I’m doing her mom.’”
“And that,” Lexa will tell their future children, conceived solely by the magic of creative fan fiction, “is why we no longer light up the night. Your mother threw all of our candle into the river.”
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
areudirty
gracieabrams
vaporwave
dailybridgerton
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
