Breaking the Mask

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/27393232.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/F
Fandom: The 100 (TV)
Relationship: Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Clarke Griffin & Lexa
Character: Clarke Griffin, Lexa (The 100), Bellamy Blake, Abby Griffin, Marcus
Kane, Titus (The 100), Indra (The 100)
Additional Tags: Violence, Drinking, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD,
Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Nightmares, Fanfiction
Stats: Published: 2020-11-05 Updated: 2021-01-25 Chapters: 4/? Words:
11115

Breaking the Mask

by Beckwritesalot

Summary

Season three had potential. This is my version if Lexa could have been around for the entire
season. Taken against her will Clarke Griffin finds herself once more dragged into political
intrigue and personal turmoil as the Commander struggles to keep her hold on the coalition.
A familiar story that accepts everything as canon before the start of season three. There are
many nods to canon season three as I did enjoy many of the story aspects. This is my first
ever story so I will update depending on if anyone is interested in reading more.

Notes

Hang on tight, my story takes off at lightning speed.

See the end of the work for more notes

 Chapter 1

They have been walking for three days. Clarke has no idea where she is having gotten lost a mere
six hours into day one and the grumbling in her stomach doesn’t help her concentration. Twisting
her wrists Clarke’s brow creases as she painfully adjusts her tight restraints connected to the rope in
Roan’s hand. Her back and feet ache and groan as she trails behind her towering capture.

Feeling a particularly harsh twinge in her shoulder, Clarke hunches over. Stumbling to keep in
pace, she breathes through the pain and clenched teeth. She can still hear the horrific pop her
shoulder gave when he tackled her to the ground. Clarke has not tried running again.

In her struggle, she accidentally pulls on her restraints catching Roan’s attention. Huffing in her
direction he gives the rope a tug, “Quit lagging.”

It takes all of Clarke’s strength to not cry out in pain. Her complete inability to handle even the
smallest movement confirms her diagnosis of a dislocated shoulder. Changing her breathing to
short quick breaths Clarke picks up her pace.

The pair walk for the rest of the day until night falls and Roan finally calls it. Clarke nearly cries
with joy as she comes to a feeble stop. As he has done the past two nights, Roan pulls her to a
nearby tree and ties her around the waist to it. He makes camp just far enough away that Clarke is
unable to feel any of the warmth from his fire and the cold night chill presses in on her beaten
body.

She watches her capture with diligent eyes as he pulls off his boots and warms his feet by the fire.
Roan leans back on the leaf-covered forest floor and takes a long sip from his canteen. Clarke’s
throat screams as she watches him savor the refreshing taste feeling sick to her stomach. She stares
so intently Roan notices her gaze and for a moment she thinks he will torture her by taking another
sip, but he instead rises to his feet.

Kneeling before her Roan puts the lip of the canteen to her mouth and tilts it. Clarke gulps
desperate for every drop she can get. Water spills over her cheeks as she chugs down a couple of
mouthfulls before he eventually rips it away.

“Don’t be greedy.”

Gasping in relief Clarke lays her head back against the tree as he moves back to his fire. Gazing
upward, she can just make out the beautiful starry sky hidden behind the canopy of dying leaves
above. Knowing her capture likes to get an early start, Clarke closes her eyes and does her best to
remember what it felt like to live within those very stars.

When Clarke opens her eyes, she already knows she has slept for a long time. Snapping her head up
she flinches at a fresh wave of pain from her shoulder. Ignoring it she finds the sun directly
overhead, but Roan remains asleep beside his now extinguished fire. Confused, she waits for him
to wake for hours and it is late afternoon when he finally rises.

“You slept the whole day away.” Clarke accuses him to no response, “Daylight is better for
traveling long distances.” She states thinking back to Earth Science.

“It is,” He says as he ties his boots, “But we do not have far to go.”
“What?” Clarke blurts aloud, her heart rate spiking. She doesn’t know how far she thought they
would go but she wasn’t prepared to hear that by tomorrow morning, depending on who Roan is
taking her to, Clarke quite possibly could be dead. Question after question races through her mind
as he unties her from the tree and binds her hands together in a now familiar fashion.

There was a time that the thought of her death being near would have delighted Clarke but this is
three months too late. Panic floods her mind as she follows Roan through the dense trees, a
prisoner on her way to execution. She still has no clue where she is but her chances are better
roaming the woods alone than with whoever Roan will deliver her to.

Making sure to keep exactly in pace with him she hopes he will relax enough for some sort of
element of surprise. Scanning her surroundings for options Clarke notes the knife in his belt. The
setting sun allows darkness to encroach on them making their thin shadows less prominent on the
dry forest floor. Roan is more skilled at tracking and Clarke has firsthand experience from the
night he took her with his ability to move through the forest silently in complete darkness

Roan stops and picks up a large stick from the leaf-covered ground. He pulls a rag from his bag
and wraps it carefully around the tip. He then dumps a clear liquid from a jar over it and the harsh
smell of alcohol assaults Clarke’s nose.

He ignites the torch and the light blinds her unadjusted eyes. Clarke averts her eyes as they regain
their pace through the forest and her palms begin to sweat when she realizes that Roan isn’t
worried about being seen. They come upon a downward slope and she takes her chances.

Knowing she will only get one; she sprints full force at Roan’s back and before he can turn, she
collides into him. Roan’s head snaps back into Clarke’s and they crash blindly down the hill.
Clarke’s thigh slices open on a rock and blood falls into her eye as she comes to a gut-wrenching
stop on her dislocated shoulder.

Screaming, she drags herself to her feet, adrenaline pushing her through the blinding pain. Finding
the torch a few yards behind her she sees Roan laying on his side next to it. Running to him she
rips the knife from his belt just as he tries to sweep her legs from under her.

Hopping over him, Clarke cuts her restraints as Roan chuckles. The tall man finds his feet with a
soft stumble and Clarke is thrilled to see a gash on his temple dripping blood down his chin. He
dabs his fingers on the back of his head and finds them too decorated scarlet red.

“Not bad,” He states as he bends over and pulls a second knife from his boot, “Let's see how the
great and powerful Wanheda does on one good arm and no food.” Roan raises his knife and lowers
into a fighting stance, and Clarke’s stomach drops as she raises her own in her non-dominant hand.

He runs at her and she ducks under his first attack spinning around just in time to jump back out of
the reach of the second. He kicks and she drops under as his knife comes around but Clarke just
barely blocks it, thankful it was on her good side.

She pulls her knee up directly into Roan’s crotch, causing him to double over. He shouts and
shoves her with his free hand the pair stumbles back and catches their breath. Despite the past three
months of training Roan is more skilled than she is. Her only hope is that he will make a mistake.

He runs at her again and the two dodge and weave with Clarke firmly on the defensive. She barely
scrapes by most attacks taking so much damage she can no longer call her “good” side good.
Seeing her first opening Clarke ducks under Roan's arm and slices her knife through his skin over
the expanse of his ribs. He cries out in pain, but Clarke is too slow to recover and leaves herself
open. Roan whips around, kicking Clarke in her bad arm and her scream rivals his. Both fall to the
ground.

Roan recovers first and jumps onto Clarke pinning her arm under his knee and prying the knife
from her hand. Shouting in frustration Clarke tries to buck him off until he forces the blade of his
knife against her throat.

“Stop fighting.” He orders, pressing with enough force to draw a thin line of blood.

Clarke thrashes harder and more wildly causing it to cut even deeper, “Get the fuck off me!”

“Nau!” A woman shouts. (No!)

His weight is lifted off Clarke’s stomach and she scurries away, gripping her throbbing shoulder.
Watching with shock in her bones and tears in her eyes, she watches as Roan is thrown to the
ground by a woman. A woman with long brown braids.

“I ordered you to bring her to me unharmed!” Lexa screams down at him. All of the breath rushes
from Clarke’s lungs in an instant as she takes in the Commander towering over the mountain of a
man. Her face is clean, her shoulder guard and forehead pendant are also missing which does little
to dampen her commanding presence.

“It’s not as if she made that possible!” He shouts back raising his shirt to show her the fresh bloody
wound hidden beneath. Turning her back on him Lexa walks to the torch. Stomping out the small
fire it spread across the dry forest floor, she thrusts the lit branch into Roan's hands before making
her way to Clarke.

“Are you okay?” She asks kneeling beside her. Clarke’s head spins as she watches her with cold
eyes and fire in her stomach. Three months. For three months she has reveled in her hatred for this
woman. Lexa takes a tentative step closer, “Clarke?”

Gathering all the blood and saliva in her mouth, Clarke spits into her face. The Commander bolts
upright, her concern disappearing behind inscrutable features. Roan laughs as he stumbles to his
feet. Lexa wipes her face with her sleeve as he saunters over tucking away his weapons.

“Bilaik ai tel?” (Like I said?)

“Shof op.” Lexa orders turning to face him. “This will not stand shada hainofa.” Clarke’s head
snaps up as she catches Roan’s title. (Silence. Broken prince)

“We had a deal that I deliver her to you and I held up my end.” Roan challenges the young
Commander, “Now hold up yours.”

“She doesn’t exactly have a great track record of doing that.” Clarke barely manages through a
grunt doing her best to hide the tunneling pain tearing down her arm.

Ignoring the jab, Lexa pulls a small scroll from her pocket and presents it to Roan. The towering
man rips it open without care, his eyes searching the small parchment lit by the flickering
torchlight. Clarke tries to squint through the darkness for any clue as to what it is when her head
grows heavy and she notices a subtle dripping sound.

Looking down she finds her pant leg drenched in deep red blood which falls drumming softly upon
the leaves below. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Clarke misses the rest of Roan and Lexa’s
exchange and when she pulls her eyes from the bloody sight, she finds his silhouette and torch
fading into the trees.
Darkness encases them as Lexa stands motionless facing away from her. Clarke wants with
everything in her to be able to scream and fight. To finally let out all the rage she has bottled inside
her and put to words all the things she never could have explained to Nova. The truths that are
reserved for Lexa alone.

The last thing she wants right now is to need her help, but Clarke doesn’t want to die anymore and
she is starting to feel lightheaded. She is about to break the silence when the Commander beats her
to it.

“I have a camp a short walk from here,” Lexa informs her through the dark.

“Good”, Clarke winces as she applies pressure to her leg smearing her hands in deep red blood,
“because I’m not going to make it very far.”

Lexa stiffens before finally turning to face Clarke and her eyes squint through the blanket of
blinding darkness. More tentative this time, Lexa once again kneels before her and runs her hands
over the slick surface of Clarke’s pants.

“Jok.” Lexa whispers under her breath, reaching for Clarke’s left arm but she recoils scurrying back
through the leaves. (Fuck)

“No please,” Clarke begs, hating her shaky pained voice, “It’s dislocated.” Lexa nods and grabs the
other arm and together they struggle to get her to her feet.

“Lead the way Commander.” Clarke practically spits a second time and they begin shuffling
through the trees. Clarke prays the camp will come into sight quickly as each passing second
brings her closer and closer to passing out.

Lexa carries most of her weight and with each step Clarke finds herself tightening her hold on the
Commander's shoulders. She tries her best not to focus on Lexa’s strong warm body supporting her
broken one as a fresh drop of blood falls into her eye. Whimpering softly, Clarke continues with it
tightly shut.

After what feels like an eternity, they reach a clearing with a small tent which pales in comparison
to the tents Clarke knows the Commander stayed in during the planning for the attack on Mount
Weather. Relief washes over her at the thought of sitting as they approach. Lexa leads Clarke to a
nearby stump and carefully lowers her atop it. Clarke’s shoulders sag and sleep pulls at her mind,
but she fights to stay awake knowing what could await her if she fails.

“I have supplies,” Lexa calls over her shoulder as she runs to rummage through her tent.

Clarke hides a gag as a wave of nausea rolls through her and Lexa makes her way back with
various healing supplies in one arm and a lantern in the other. She deposits everything onto the
leaves and grabs a piece of cloth and presses it to Clarke’s forehead.

“Pressure.” She orders as she turns away to ignite the lantern. Clarke wipes her eye clean as light
fills the air around them and she notices the blur in her vision. Fear grips Clarke's chest and
exhaustion races down her spine as Clarke does her best to calm her breathing.

Lexa pulls forward her leg and both of their eyes widen as they take in the trail of blood now
leading from the top of her thigh down her leg and over her boot. Without warning the Commander
grabs another cloth and presses down over the wound.

“Fuck!” Crying out, she can’t help the tears that explode in her eyes, “Alcohol.” Clarke orders
through clenched teeth. Lexa plucks the largest bottle she has from the grass. Popping the cork out,
she moves to pour it over the fresh wound but Clarke snatches it away before she can. Throwing
her head back Clarke gulps down as much as she can before Lexa rips it away.

“Clarke,” She chastises as a pool of warmth fills Clarke’s stomach. The Commander motions to
pour it once more but she jumps back.

“Wait,” Clarke breathes, removing the bloody cloth from her forehead and shoving it into her
mouth, “Now go.” she murmurs around her gag.

Fierce burning rips Clarke to the bone as Lexa carefully pours down the expanse of her thigh. By
the time she stops Clarke is sure she bit through the cloth. Pulling it free she takes a deep shaky
breath. Clarke examines her leg and watches a fresh wave of blood flow elegantly over her alcohol-
soaked pants.

“Do you have anything for stitches?” She asks the Commander.

“Yes,” She answers, watching Clarke carefully with unsure eyes.

“Good. I need you to do it.” She immediately launches into an argument against the idea but Clarke
shuts her down. “I can’t I will pass out. Now help me get my pants off.” Clarke attempts to bend
over and untie her boots herself, but Lexa forces her to sit back. The Commander removes her
shoes and sits back looking rather uncomfortable.

Clarke ignores the fact that Lexa hesitates before pulling her knife from her belt. She watches the
Commander adjust her grip on the smooth wooden handle and does her best not to think about the
first time she saw her use it.

“You attack her and you attack me.”

An ember of hatred reignites in her heart at the irony and it almost makes Clarke push away Lexa’s
hand, but she keeps herself in check. Watching with blurry eyes Clarke studies the Commander's
face as she places the tip of her blade under her pant leg.

Trying not to grimace, Clarke helps Lexa rip the material free and together they peel the rest of the
mangled garment off her good leg. Lexa tosses the pants aside and Clarke feels bare before the
Commander of the twelve clans in nothing but her boy shorts.

“Drench the needle and string in the alcohol too,” Lexa does as she is told and Clarke begins
lowering herself onto the ground. Lexa places the lantern on the stump and pauses, needle in hand
staring down at Clarke’s open wound. Her hands are trembling and it takes all of Clarke’s strength
not to empathize with her.

“No matter what keep going.” Putting the rag back in her mouth Clarke lays back in the leaves and
prepares for hell.
 Meadow
Chapter Notes

I was happily surprised to see that people are interested in reading more. This is a
learning experience for me and I thank you all for the support. Enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The next time Clarke opens her eyes she is met with the piercing light of day seeping in through the
walls of Lexa’s tent. She passed out late last night and she knows from the accompanying ache in
her bones that she has been asleep for a while. Sitting up she finds that, thankfully, Lexa is not with
her inside.

Pushing aside thoughts of the Commander carrying her limp body, Clarke sits up and finds her
once useless arm wrapped into a sling made of bandages. Shrugging carefully, she tests how tight it
is and finds the pain is a fraction of what it was yesterday.

Lexa must have set it while she was unconscious. If she is being honest, Clarke is pretty thrilled
she didn’t have to experience that on top of everything else. She carefully removes the fur blankets
covering her and finds her thigh encased in tight clean cloth. She meticulously removes the
wrappings and her brow scrunches as she takes in the Frankenstein stitches glaring back at her. Her
red swollen skin burns hot to the touch and she knows the scar it leaves behind will be gnarly.

Filing away the part of her that hates this new mark, Clarke rewraps her leg and sighs heavily.
Dragging herself to the entrance she pushes aside the tent’s cover and looks out at the meadow in
daylight. Tall wild grass covers its expanse, matched in number only by the fall leaves trying to
smother them. To the right Clarke finds the stump she sat on covered in dried blood.

Lexa is nowhere to be found. Clarke closes her eyes and feels a deep ache in her jaw, sore after
biting down on the rag for so long. Feeling her forehead, she traces the fresh scab stretching into
her hairline and thinks back to the sight of Lexa in the dark. Lit up by Roan’s torchlight, her sharp
features and piercing eyes dug deeper into Clarke’s chest than she cares to admit.

For months she dreamed about what it would be like when she saw Lexa again. She has to admit
she imagined more death threats and less rescuing. Pulling herself half out of the tent, Clarke lies
back into the tall grass and breathes in the fresh forest air.

Cold dew covering the blades of grass soak into Clarke’s shirt sending a chill sprinting down her
spine. She tries to focus on the feeling and the sounds of the forest, allowing them to chase away
her troubles. Clarke isn’t sure how long she lays there before she hears the softest crunch of leaves
approaching. Just like that, her peace scatters like frightened birds.

The steps halt a few feet away and Clarke peels open her eyes to find her gaze locked with Lexa’s.
The Commander’s deep green eyes pierce her more harshly now in the light of day. In her hands,
she holds a pile of folded clothes with a roll of bread balanced atop.

“How do you feel?” She asks, tiptoeing around the things they have yet to say. Lexa stands
awkwardly with her chin high as Clarke considers a smartass retort.
“Better than I did,” Clarke responds flatly, deciding against arguing. For now. “Where did you
go?”

“We are not far from a small Trikru village.” The Commander answers before handing the pile to
Clarke. “You should change. You need to stay warm.”

Not waiting for a response Lexa turns and walks back to the stump. Squatting beside it, she begins
gathering wood and twigs together into a small pit. Clarke is surprised at how little she paid
attention to the direction she traveled with Roan considering she didn’t realize they were back in
Trikru territory.

A horse whines on the edge of the meadow catching her attention. Clarke finds two horses, one
brown and one white, tied to different low hanging branches across the way. The brown one prods
the ground with her hoof and huffs out a heavy breath as she adjusts her footing. Clarke has always
loved horses.

Retreating into the tent, she examines the pile of clothes. Thankfully the pants are loose and baggy
like sweatpants, so as not to irritate her thigh. Underneath she also finds a fresh shirt, jacket, and
bandages. Working slowly, she rewraps her wound with care then pulls the pants on and flinches
as even the softest amount of pressure aggravates the butchered skin beneath.

Reaching as far over her shoulder as she can, Clarke tries and fails multiple times to grasp the tie
on her sling. Yielding, she gathers her voice and leans as close to the exit as possible. Dreading
once more requiring her help, Clarke hesitates when she hears the clicking of flint and steel as
Lexa attempts to ignite a fire.

“I need your help,” Clarke calls.

The sound stops immediately, and Clarke waits so long for a response she almost considers the
Commander didn’t hear her.

“I can’t untie the sling.” She clarifies, hoping nothing more needs to be said.

After another moment of silence, Lexa’s footsteps approach the tent but come to a halt just outside
the entrance. Clarke’s brow furrows as she waits, but Lexa remains unmoving until Clarke herself
pulls aside the makeshift cloth entrance.

Unable to maneuver well, she waits awkwardly while Lexa squeezes in behind her. Clarke grows
painfully aware of just how small this tent is. Once settled the Commander's precise fingers begin
to untie the knot with ease. Clarke winces when she takes on the full weight of her arm. Reaching
over Clarke’s wounded shoulder, Lexa’s hair brushes her cheek as she pulls the cloth free.

With one final tickle across her neck, Lexa and her hair retreat to the corner of the tent. Clarke is
halfway through pulling her shirt off when she realizes she isn’t wearing a bra and freezes in place.
Due to Roan’s decision to attack at night Clarke has been without a bra for days, a fact that hadn’t
seriously crossed her mind until this very moment.

Conceding that there is nothing she can do about it now; Clarke pulls her damp shirt over her
delicate shoulder and Lexa thankfully moves even further away. With the cold winter air dancing
over her bare skin, Clarke fumbles with the new shirt. With every pained second her wounds slow
her progress Clarke’s cheeks deepen their scarlet tint.

Finally, she succeeds in pulling her sore arm through and waits for Lexa to retie her, but the
Commander doesn’t move. After several silent moments, Clarke turns to find Lexa stiff, her face
averted and eyes pinned to the opposite wall like her life depends on it.

Memories of just before the attack of Mount Weather force their way into Clarke's mind. As Lexa
occupies her gaze, she can't help but see the same hidden caring nature in her she did all those
months ago. The Commander glances in her direction and Clarke nearly chokes as their eyes meet.
She spins back around.

“You can put it back on.” She sputters, frustrated with the squeaky sound of her voice as she
gathers herself.

Lexa takes care while rewrapping her arm and Clarke soon feels the stress taken off her shoulder
once again. The Commander reties the final tie, then leaves without a word. Pulling the jacket on
her good arm and over her pained shoulder, Clarke lets the empty sleeve dangle. She then finds her
boots, washed clean of the blood that decorated them last night, and pulls them on with a degree of
difficulty.

Grabbing the bread, she drags herself to the entrance and pokes her head out once more. Searching
the area around the tent, Clarke finds a large stick nearby and digs its end into the ground as she
pulls herself upright. Lexa sits by the stump nursing the smoking embers before her into a small
fire.

Leaning heavily on the branch, she limps to the stump and lowers herself with care. The fire grows
as Lexa feeds it more wood, and Clarke begins to feel the warmth envelope her feet. She digs into
the bread and is surprised to find that with each bite her appetite grows.

This single loaf is the first thing she has had to eat in over three days. Lexa finishes with the fire
and sits atop the grass crisscross as Clarke eats. She can hardly believe this is the same woman
who stood before her covered in war paint and blood three months ago.

Clarke saw nothing but red as she watched the Commander turn her back on her. Now, in the dim
light that breaks through the tired trees, she looks younger. Unlike Clarke’s own disheveled beaten
body Lexa is clean. Her hair while marginally unkempt, likely from sleeping on the hard forest
floor, is shining and free of dirt and blood.

The bread turns sour in Clarke’s mouth as she sees just how well things have been going for the
great Commander of the twelve clans.

“Why am I here?” Clarke asks.

Lexa holds her hands up to the fire, rubbing them together before its warmth, “You are a wanted
woman Clarke. I had to ensure you didn’t fall into the ice queen’s hands.”

“So, you hired Roan to take me against my will?” She retorts, causing Lexa to sigh before leaning
back in the grass. Her eyes are genuine when she finally speaks.

“He wasn’t supposed to hurt you.”

“Yeah, well I'm kind of used to it by now.” She bites back waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come.
Lexa maintains her seamless cool composure. It infuriates Clarke. “So now - after everything you
did - now you deem me worthy of being saved? Or, more likely, was it that if Nia did manage to
capture me, she would take my power and use it to challenge your rule over the coalition?”

“Worth has nothing to do with it.” Lexa counters ignoring the second half. Sitting up more fully,
she pins Clarke with a level gaze, “I made the best decision I could for my people. As a leader, you
should understand.”
“I am not a leader,” Clarke spits the title like an insult, “I walked away from that. And even if I
hadn’t, I never would have made the decision you did.”

“You can't walk away from who you are Clarke.”

“Actually, I can.” Her eyes fixate on Lexa’s strong hands as she reaches for another log, “You
can’t.”

Lexa stiffens and silence fills the air between them. Clarke has so much she needs to say, words
that have been clawing at her insides for months wanting so desperately to be freed, but now that
she has her chance to finally say them, she can’t find a way through the anger.

She can’t find a way because just minutes ago in the tent her stomach was swirling with butterflies
because of Lexa and that infuriates her more than anything else. Frustrated with herself, Clarke
violently rips a large bite from the bread and chews aggressively. Lexa remains silent before the
fire. Accepting that the Commander will not be responding, Clarke drops the topic.

“Why did you have him bring me here?” She asks taking in the clearing once more. Clarke notes
the scattered wildflowers surrounding them and silently acknowledges that when she first got to the
ground, she might have thought this place was beautiful. So much has changed.

“The ice queen has a long reach,” Lexa answers, “I couldn’t risk Roan being intercepted entering
Polis.”

Her response is calm and direct. The Commander distances herself from her emotions and Clarke
hates the effect it has on her, the effect she has on her. Watching Lexa sit before her completely
undisturbed pulls at a darkness Clarke keeps buried deep and locked away inside her.

“How much longer can we stay here?” She asks through clenched teeth, trying the quell the chaos
of emotions inside her chest.

“My hope was to have already left,” Lexa informs her, and she doesn’t miss her deep green eyes
falling to Clarke's leg and the wound that delayed them, “How do you feel?”

Prickling at the inquiry, Clarke tenses her thigh to test how sensitive it is. She bites off a gasp as
her skin tightens, pulling the stitches painfully. “Not great.”

“Polis is half a day’s ride from here, but we should leave early tomorrow to make up for that leg.”
The Commander informs her as Clarke watches her continue to fiddle with the fire. If she didn’t
know any better, she might think the Commander was trying to keep her hands busy. Good thing
Clarke knows better.

“Why are you taking me to Polis?” She questions as she considers what this means for her. Three
months ago, Clarke walked away from her duties and the people that relied on her. Her arrival at
Polis would not go unnoticed and would undoubtedly pull her back into the political fold.

A pit forms in her stomach as she suddenly loses her appetite at the thought of seeing her mom,
Kane, Bellamy, Octavia, and the dozens of others she stranded when she walked into the woods all
those months ago. An icy fist wraps around Clarke’s throat. It takes all of her concentration to hide
her labored breathing as she struggles to get air into her lungs.

Taking one more shallow, slow breath, Clarke raises her eyes to the Commander making sure she
will have time to train her face if Lexa looks her way. Her heart pounds and before she can help it,
she lets out a short huff of air just loud enough to catch Lexa's attention.
 Lexa turns and Clarke presses her thumb into her stitches willing the pain to chase away all other
feeling from her mind. Better the Commander thinks she is hurting than on the verge of a panic
attack. Clarke’s face contorts of its own accord, covering up any signs of her struggle to maintain
control. Grunting through gritted teeth, Clarke blinks tears from her eyes. When she looks back to
Lexa, she is relieved to find nothing in her gaze to indicate she caught on.

“In Polis my word is law,” Lexa says, returning her gaze to the fire. “If I am to keep you safe my
best chance will be within its borders.”

“Your ‘best chance’?” Clarke quotes, the choice of words piquing her interest and momentarily
distracting her from her fears, “Nia really is a threat to you.”

Lexa’s jaw locks and Clarke instantly knows she hit a nerve. Satisfied, she presses further.

“And no doubt if she doesn’t follow your commands neither does the entirety of Azgeda.” A thrill
goes through her as more of the Commander’s mask cracks. Punishing herself for forgetting about
her hatred of Lexa, she presses harder, ignoring the ache that forms in her stomach as she does so.
“Is it only them or are there other clans who don’t believe in you anymore?”

“Enough.” Lexa orders, her eyes flaring with hot fire. Sitting back, Clarke takes in the change in
Lexa’s body language. Just moments ago, she appeared at peace, but now her relaxed composure
has been entirely chased away by daring raging eyes and rolled proud shoulders. The posture of a
leader who demands respect.

“Why?” Clarke continues as Lexa stares her down, “You are scrambling to make up for the power
I took from you at Mount Weather and it shows. You’re desperate.”

Not answering, the Commander’s jaw juts to the side ever so slightly; it’s a tell Clarke picked up
on during the siege of Mount Weather. Despite her set expression, Clarke knows Lexa is struggling
to keep it. She knows because she has seen what Lexa looks like when she lets go of her defenses.

“Not everyone. Not you.”

Unlike then Lexa doesn’t release her hold on herself. With each second Clarke can see the
Commander regaining her grip on the beautifully wild emotions that she denies exist. Suddenly the
blonde’s heartaches as she watches Lexa disappear behind the Commander of the twelve clans.
Exasperated, Clarke pulls herself up by her branch and begins limping to the tent pointedly not
looking back.

She struggles but she eventually pulls her wounded leg through the entrance and lays back into the
furs cushioning the rigid dirt beneath. Once settled Clarke feels the frustration and exhaustion of
the past twenty-four hours press her back harder into the earth. Her eyelids grow heavy and sleep
threatens to take her as her mind races with thoughts of Leksa Kom Trikru.

Chapter End Notes

My goal is to update every 7-10 days, but we will see how this goes.
 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

I want to start with thank you for your patience. I recently had a loss in the family
which obviously takes priority. The chapter I originally planned to upload was twice
this length hence the abrupt ending. I figured half a chapter was better than no chapter.
I will continue to update as soon as possible.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Clarke hurtles through the dense brush, crying out as she collides with a thick tangle of branches.
Thorns pierce her arms and chest but her momentum forces her through, her skin ripping apart as
she stumbles forward face-first into a tree root.

Her teeth tear open her lip on impact. Clarke writhes as fresh blood and dirt flood her mouth and
pours over her bottom lip. The thorns twist, tightening until she cannot move without shredding her
skin. Completely restrained, blood stains her clothes as each fresh cut blinds her with unending
torment.

Unable to do anything else, Clarke takes as deep a breath as she can manage and her voice tears
from her body in an ear shattering scream that wakes the trees around her. Struggling against the
thorns does more harm than good, but she can’t help herself.

“Clarke!”

A thick branch wraps around her throat and tightens. Choking, she weeps as the thorns imbed
themselves in her. Blood pours from her jugular like water from a broken pipe. Footsteps approach
and Clarke flicks her eyes to the side to find the daunting face of Finn Collins.

She is almost relieved but he remains unmoving as he stares down at her. His towering figure
looms over her as she begs him to help her, but he remains frozen. An eerie smile spreads across
his face as he watches with dead eyes. Terrified she struggles harder.

“Wake up!”

Strong hands grip Clarke’s arms as she is shaken into consciousness. Pitch black envelopes her and
she can’t hear anything over the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. Disoriented and
blind, the commander of death does the only thing she can think to do.

Grabbing the hand on her arm, Clarke rips it free. Pulling her assailant forward and off balance,
Clarke twists their hand out and around. The assailant’s shoulder is forced down as their muscles
tighten with resistance. Clarke is a second away from snapping their wrist.

“Clarke, stop!” Freezing, her blood runs cold as she recognizes the voice. Clarke squints through
the darkness to see the entrance of her tent open. The minuscule light from the fire outside
illuminates the outline of a woman and it all comes crashing back. She drops the Commander’s
hand as if it had burned her, scurrying across the tent to the far corner.

“Get out.” She wheezes through trembling lips but Lexa doesn’t move. Tears streak down Clarke’s
cheeks, and she covers her ears. She runs her tongue over the inside of her bottom lip, double
checking that the dream was in fact only a dream. Finn’s eyes are burned into Clarke’s mind and
for a split second, she almost convinces herself she sees them watching her in the darkness. When
Lexa remains unmoving, she lashes out, “Leave!”

Clarke can’t see her face in the dark, but she knows from her hesitation that Lexa heard her scream,
heard her cry. Her stomach writhes as she hopes screaming is all that she did. Nova helped calm
her down after her nightmares. It is because of her Clarke knows she nearly always talks during
them.

Clarke fondly remembers the late nights Nova stayed up with her when she was too afraid to go
back to sleep. Sorrow peels away her layers as Clarke momentarily surrenders her resolve and
buries her face into a pile of furs. Releasing the tension in her chest she sobs as quietly as she can.
Just when she thought she might actually be able to find peace the world took it away. Like always.

Clarke cries until she can’t anymore and rolls onto her side. The fur, damp with her tears, presses
wet against her cheek as she lays wallowing in her grief. Staring into the darkness of her tent,
Clarke eventually feels sleep pulling at her brain again but she fights it.

Not daring to risk another nightmare, she keeps herself awake for the rest of the night. Her mind
slows as her breathing calms and she runs out of tears to shed. After hours of silence, the soft
chirping of birds greeting the rising sun seeps into the tent. She rolls her eyes, despises their
cheerful delight of a new day which seems to only serve as a reminder that she is neither of those
things.

Pulling herself upright, Clarke rubs her dry swollen eyes. She knows there is nothing she can do to
hide them from Lexa, so she doesn’t bother trying before dragging herself out of the tent. She tests
her leg. Though it is still weeks from being fully healed, Clarke is grateful that the swelling has
gone down.

Lexa is already up and packing supplies into the white horse's saddle as Clarke approaches the
smoldering remains of last night's fire. Once again resting atop the stump, Clarke watches Lexa
work. It doesn’t take long for her to notice Lexa is avoiding her gaze. Unbothered, or so she'd like
to think, Clarke waits patiently for her to pack the tent.

Once finished, the Commander frees the reins of the brown horse and walks it to her. Pulling
herself upright, Clarke hops on one leg as she takes in the enormous beast. Lexa makes her way
around the majestic animal, stopping briefly to whisper to it in Trigedasleng.

“This is Spirit.” Lexa introduces whilst running her hand along its snout. Turning she then points
to the white companion still linked to the tree. “And that is Mara.” Clarke can’t help the smile that
curls her lips but it’s chased away when she notes the daunting height of the stirrup.

“I don’t think this is going to work.” Clarke is certain she can’t raise her wounded leg that high, nor
will it be able to handle her full weight long enough to lift the good one.

“Stand on the stump.” Lexa orders as she pulls herself onto Spirit with ease. Maneuvering her,
Lexa gets the majestic horse as close to Clarke as possible before offering her hand. With an extra
foot of height, Clarke takes it, focusing a moment too long on the feel of Lexa's calloused hands.

The hands of a warrior.

With Lexa helping take her weight, Clarke raises her good leg. Instantly pain shoots down the
appendage. Clarke pulls on Lexa’s hand with everything in her desperate to get herself up. She gets
her foot in the stirrup and tears prickle in her eyes as she realizes she can’t make it all the way over
in one go. Grunting in pain, her foot twists awkwardly out as she falls back into Lexa.

Clarke’s shoulder smashes into her chest and they both nearly topple over. It is entirely Lexa who
saves them. Securing Clarke with her free hand the Commander pulls the reins to settle an
understandably exasperated Spirit. Letting out a frustrated groan, Clarke reaches for her wound and
is able to feel each of her heartbeats pumping through the tangle of healing tissue.

Eyes shut tight, she takes deep breaths waiting for the tears to pass. As she exhales in slow steady
rhythm, she gradually becomes aware of the feeling of Lexa’s strong arms wrapped around her.
Clarke’s body is flush against the front of Lexa’s. Resting the side of her head on Lexa’s shoulder,
she doesn’t overthink their closeness as she prepares herself.

Pulling her knee to her chest, she turns to face forward. Lexa moves to make room for Clarke on
the front of the saddle. Once over, her leg drops and Clarke’s head slumps forward. The
Commander waits patiently with her arms over Clarke’s hunched shoulders. With the reins in hand,
Lexa acts as safety rails as Clarke gathers herself.

As the final wave of pain passes Clarke sits taller. Breathing in deep, she wipes a stray tear from
her eye. “Sorry.”

A curt short nod is all the Commander offers in recognition of the apology. In a split second, Lexa
glides off the back of Spirit with an ease that irks Clarke. Adjusting her grip on the reins, she
pretends not to watch as Lexa pulls herself into her own saddle. Lexa maneuvers Mara with
expertise, leading her across the clearing and Clarke recites all of the rules of riding Nova drilled
into her before nudging Spirit with her foot.

Following Lexa’s lead, the pair begins their slow trek. As they travel it becomes very clear to
Clarke that Lexa is an equine savant. The Commander rides with experience, encouraging Mara in
Trigedasleng through brush and over logs with ease. Clarke on the other hand struggles.

Each jolting step of Spirit sends a shock wave of pain through Clarke’s leg and as the hours tack
on, the color drains from her face. Sweat settles on her brow, and the sun breaking through the
trees is nearly blinding. Eventually, she can’t focus on anything spare the aching in her leg so she
tries to distract herself.

“How old were you the first time you rode a horse?” Clarke asks. After hours of silence, Lexa
looks thrown by the sudden attempt at light conversation.

The Commander eyes her curiously before calling back. “Two.”

Clarke’s eyebrows arch toward her hairline. “Wow.”

“Did you know of horses before you landed?” Lexa asks in return. Pulling her reins, she slows
Mara so that she is in step with Spirit.

“Yes, we had old books from before the bombs with photos.” Clarke thinks back to Earth Science
on the Ark. She would stare at the pictures for hours drawing inspiration from a world she never
thought she’d see. Clarke grows morose, the memory bitter in her mouth. She takes her
surroundings, the leaves covering the ground, the wind blowing through the trees. It should all be
more, mean more. It doesn’t.

“Are our horses the same as they were before?”

Clarke’s brow furrows as she remembers the two-headed horse she and Lincoln traveled on many
months before. “Not exactly.”

Lexa cocks her head to the side at Clarke’s change in demeanor, but doesn’t press any further.
Refocusing on their travels Clarke keeps her eyes down, dead set on ignoring the beauty around
her. The soft crunch of leaves under hoof are disrupted as Spirit steps heavily down a hill. Clarke
gasps in pain and shifts her weight. Doing her best to muddle through the stabbing pain, she wipes
the sweat from her eyes.

“Clarke,” Lexa calls, her worried tone grabbing Clarke’s attention, “Look.”

Following Lexa’s gaze to Clarke’s own leg, she finds a fresh circle of blood staining her new pants
above her stitches. “Shit,” she mumbles leaning heavily on her good leg. “I’m fine,” Clarke says
unconvincingly.

“No, we will stop,” Lexa orders already scanning their surroundings for a place to camp. Clarke
rolls her eyes as the Commander leads her off the beaten path. With Lexa atop Mara beside her, the
pair struggle to get Clarke comfortably back on solid ground.

Within what feels like minutes, Lexa has her seated against a nearby tree with water and a warm
fire. While she rests by the flames, Lexa arms herself with a bow and arrow. She tells Clarke to
stay put, disappearing into the foliage. She returns fifteen minutes later with a rabbit hung over her
shoulder.

“We have made good time,” Lexa assures her as she turns the fresh kill over the fire. “We should
make it into the city limits before nightfall.”

Nodding, Clarke half listens as she examines her wound. Two pulled stitches. Reaching into the
medical pouch Lexa provided her with, Clarke presses fresh gauze over her thigh and starts
wrapping it tightly with clean bandages. As she works, she begins to smell the cooking rabbit and
her stomach growls loudly.

Lexa smirks and Clarke pretends not to notice. Discreetly grabbing the alcohol from the medical
supplies, she pulls the cork free. Raising it to her nose, Clarke recoils at the harsh familiar smell.
She brings it to her lips and takes a long, deep drink, savoring the burn as it trails down her throat
and settles in her gut. Putting away the other medical supplies, Clarke keeps the bottle on hand as
Lexa pulls the fresh meat from the fire.

The Commander cuts each of them a leg and they both immediately dig in. Throughout the meal,
Clarke keeps returning to the bottle and before too long her insides are swimming. Sucking the last
bone clean, Clarke tosses it aside and licks her fingers sloppily. Kicking her good leg out, she leans
back against a tree trunk and takes another drink.

“Alcohol dulls the senses, Clarke.” Lexa informs her with a calm clear voice.

“I have many senses that need dulling, Lexa.” Clarke quips before offering the bottle. The
Commander declines with the shake of her head and rises to her feet.

“We must continue.” Kicking dirt over the fire, Lexa extinguishes it before picking up the medical
bag and securing it to Spirits saddle. Offering her hand, Lexa waits for Clarke to finish a final
rushed swig before taking it. Once upright she hops on her good leg and adjusts her arm over
Lexa’s shoulders. With another ten minutes of work, they succeed once more in pulling Clarke
onto Spirit, though the exertion of the task does little to help her state.

Sticking the bottle into her sling, Clarke rides with one hand behind the Commander in continued
 silence. The sloshing in Clarke’s stomach does volumes in dulling what would have been sharp
pain in her leg otherwise.

Hours pass slowly and they eventually come across a dirt road, the first one Clarke has seen in
weeks. Following it Clarke notices the sun hanging low in the sky and curiosity flutters in her
warm stomach. She keeps her eyes ahead, looking for any signs of what could be Polis.

Chapter End Notes

Be kind. You never know what someone is going through.

 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes

Sorry for the wait. I hope to update more frequently. Until then, enjoy

Ducking under a low hanging branch, Clarke shivers when drops of water fall over her head.
Brushing them from her face, she notices Lexa pulling on the large red sash hanging from her
shoulder guard. With practiced hands, the Commander folds it and uses it to cover her hair like a
makeshift hood.

Clarke watches curiously as Lexa turns her attention back to the road. In the soft light of the setting
sun, Clarke openly studies the Commander. The last time she saw Lexa on Mount Weather she was
war torn and covered in the blood of her enemies. A sight that would have been breathtaking even
if Clarke hadn’t shared a kiss with her only hours before.

She wears the same armor she wore back then except for the lighter gray undershirt that is only just
visible through the numerous straps and buckles encasing the Commander’s torso. Following the
edge of one of said buckles, Clarke’s eyes trail the expanse of Lexa’s muscular back.

Noting the various signs of wear and tear throughout the garment, Clarke wonders if the cloak
belongs to Lexa, or if the wardrobe was passed down to her upon her ascension. Trying to
remember the scattered times Nova mentioned the sacred grounder tradition, Clarke finds her mind
swarmed with thoughts of Lexa as a child.

It is hard to imagine.

And now that she thinks about it, Clarke doesn’t actually know how old Lexa is. The realization
throws her as she stares at the back of the Commander, racking her brain for information that isn’t
there. Nova said Lexa was sixteen when she became Commander, but Clarke doesn’t know how
long she has been leading her people.

Lexa’s youth and beauty are undeniable, and if she was only taking those things into consideration
Clarke would guess Lexa is no older than twenty. However, Clarke has seen Lexa at her worst. On
Mount Weather, the vulnerable girl she kissed in the tent was consumed, hidden away behind a
powerful ruthless leader. That night Lexa looked older, much older.

Pushing aside her curiosity, Clarke focuses on the road ahead. The soft flickering of firelight
appears over the hill before them and Clarke’s stomach flutters with anticipation. Rising in her
saddle, Clarke’s eyes devour the darkness before her, hungry for more. As they approach, a
checkpoint of sorts comes into view. Five armed guards stand at attention around a roaring fire,
their eyes trained on Lexa and Clarke as they approach. Everything comes into focus as they draw
near and Clarke is disappointed when she sees no other signs of people or buildings.

Lit by the firelight in the drizzling evening, the man closest to them steps forward, “Hod op!” He
calls as they approach. Lexa doesn’t slow, and the man squints through the darkness. His face falls
as they enter the light. “Heda.” He drops his head into a deep bow, and his fellow guards follow
suit with wide eyes. (Stop! Commander.)
Lexa doesn’t even glance their way as she passes, Clarke following close behind. The guards stare
at her with strange looks but don’t speak as she proceeds down the road after Lexa. Keeping her
eyes forward she does her best to keep her head low until they are out of their line of sight.

They continue through the sprinkling evening and just when Clarke is sure they will never reach
the city, the first of many buildings appears. As they approach Clarke finds that they are spread
out and sparsely populated at this hour, but that changes the deeper into the city they get.
Grounders nudge each other, pointing to their Commander as she passes. Eventually, the streets are
lined with buildings separated only by thin alleys. From those alleys, even more grounders emerge,
curious to see what all the whispering is about.

Wishing she too had a hood, Clarke trots silently beside the Commander as the small crowd lining
the street grows. However, she quickly learns Lexa is all the distraction she needs. The residents of
Polis watch mesmerized, as if in a trance as Lexa rides with her eyes dead ahead. Holding her head
tall, she draws in their attention effortlessly like moths to a flame. Clarke must admit that she finds
her eyes drifting toward the Commander of the twelve clans as well.

Feeling a surprising spark of anger in her chest, Clarke comes to realize a part of her wonders what
kind of respect they would show her if they knew that she was Wanheda. Suddenly Clarke’s brow
creases and she completely stops paying attention to those around her as shame eats at her insides.

What kind of person longs for respect for genocide?

Clarke rides in a blur, losing track of how many buildings they pass or turns they take. She is
consumed as she sees the faces of the children she murdered. Twenty-six. That is the number of
dead children Clarke is responsible for. Once more the title of Wanheda wraps around her throat
with an iron grip. They were innocent. She could have found another way. Should have found
another way.

Clarke wonders what their names were. Three hundred and eighty-one people died that day. Clarke
clenches her hand into a fist around the reins, waiting for this agonizing pain to pass. For the
memories of their bodies to pass. She waits so long she doesn’t notice that they have stopped.

“Clarke?” Jumping, her face contorts as she pulls on her stitches once more. Hissing, Clarke whips
around and finds Lexa dismounted beside her. Curious green eyes stare up at her, a small smile
working its way across her full lips. “You have not said anything.”

She prods, nodding over her shoulder. Following her direction, Clarke’s mouth falls open as she
gapes at the enormous building behind the Commander. With a circular base, the worn stone
building towers into the clouds. Craning her head back so far that the fresh cut over her neck
threatens to split, Clarke searches in vain for the top.

“Holy shit.” She mumbles to herself, running through the millions of reasons such a structure
should not have survived the bombs, and yet here it stands defiantly. Hearing the Commander huff
out a short laugh Clarke finds Lexa's gaze on her, watching as she takes in what Clarke would
consider the eighth world wonder.

“I thought you would enjoy the sight.” She states simply before motioning for Clarke to dismount.
Pulling her good leg over, Clarke faces Lexa head on. The Commander places her hands on both of
Clarke’s hips and practically lifts all of her weight off the saddle. Lexa quickly drops her to the
ground, forcing Clarke to brace against the Commander’s shoulders to avoid coming even closer.

After placing her feet securely on the ground Lexa straightens, her face mere inches from Clarke’s.
Her breath catches and Clarke’s defenses rise to the challenge as she waits for Lexa to move with
cold eyes. Lexa retreats respectfully giving her room once more and Clarke exhales a sigh of relief.
She ignores the remaining flush in her own cheeks, blaming it on the cold.

Falling in line silently behind the Commander, Clarke takes in the large wooden arched double
doors and the three armed guards at attention on either side of it. The two closest men grab ahold
of the metal door rings and pull open the dark wood, which lets out a low groan. Sweeping into the
candle lit foyer, Lexa leads Clarke past the continuous onslaught of locked gazes following them.

As they approach the far wall of the grand entrance, Clarke notices a square sliding door. As if
aware of the Commander approaching, the doors open the second Lexa plants herself before them.
Following her into the small room revealed, Clarke swallows a lump in her throat. She examines
the run down space and her mouth goes dry.

This is the only elevator Clarke has seen on the ground and after up close experience of what
grounders think “technology” is, she doesn’t have a great feeling in her stomach. The tan doors
close and the ground lurches beneath Clarke’s feet. Fleeing to the nearest corner she presses her
back into the shuddering wall.

“You need not worry.” Lexa reassures her with a small grin as Clarke wipes her clammy palms on
her pants, careful to avoid her injury.

“How many floors?” She manages, trying to repress thoughts of the cable snapping.

“All of them.”

Dropping her shoulders, Clarke shakes her head bitterly, “Of course. Only the penthouse for her
highness.” Clarke is unsure if the reference goes over her head, but from the harsh silence that
settles over the elevator, she is fairly certain Lexa got the message.

After what feels like an hour the thudding and groaning of their tiny deathtrap slows and beside her
Lexa lowers her shoulders. In the corner of her eye, Clarke watches her clench and unclench her
jaw and wonders what they are about to walk into. The doors open, and the Commander exits the
elevator with speed and precision. Close on her heels and eager to escape the claustrophobic room
Clarke finds herself in a long hall with closed doors at the far end.

Guards on either side pull them open for Lexa as Clarke chases after. Her curiosity nags at her to
take in every extravagant torch and candle fixture along the way, but she keeps her focus. She
follows Lexa through the entrance and her steps falter. Clarke comes to a halt at the base of an
enormous throne built of dozens of stag horns.

A small set of steps elevate the demanding chair above the rest of the room. To her left Clarke sees
an older bald man and Indra kom trikru huddled over a round wooden table. Both of them stare
dumbfounded as Lexa climbs the steps to her throne.

“Heda.” The man whispers as he rushes to Clarke’s side, skidding to a stop in front of Lexa,
“Where have you been?”

“Eliminating a threat,” Lexa responds, her voice which was soft in the elevator is now apathetic
and rough.

“Clarke Griffin?” Indra questions and Clarke turns to face her. She nods awkwardly at the Trikru
warrior who examines her with an air of caution.

“Wanheda?” The bald man looks as if the name tastes bitter in his mouth, and under his
scrutinizing gaze, Clarke is suddenly aware of her pathetic appearance, “Du-de laik daun? Em-de
laik baga!” (She is the one? She is the enemy!)

“Titus, Clarke is a guest here in Polis.” Lexa corrects, a demanding edge in her voice, “A welcome
one.”

“Dison laik yu strat?” He asks aggressively stepping closer, “Gouva yu klin.” (This is your plan?
Explain yourself.)

Clarke’s interest peaks, but she does her best to train her face. From the way Titus is speaking she
is sure he assumes she doesn’t understand Trigedasleng, and she wants to keep it that way. In the
three months she had, Nova taught Clarke a surprising amount by practically beating the language
into her. Every time she made a mistake the stocky woman punished her for it that night during
training.

“This is important Griffin. Your hair is enough of a giveaway. One mistake and they will know you
aren’t one of them.”

Pushing the thought aside, Clarke tries to focus. Lexa and Titus argue back and forth and despite
her clear attempts to use English he continues to exclude Clarke with Trigedasleng. Eventually,
Lexa too slips into the rough language and after a particularly insulting remark that Clarke must let
slide, the Commander has had enough.

“Shof yu op.” Lexa commands and despite his clearly strong feelings on the subject, Titus does as
told. Lexa turns her attention away from the disgruntled man and looks to Indra. “Take Clarke to
the guest wing. It has been a long day.” (Silence.)

Indra straightens and gives her Commander a short formal bow before gesturing for Clarke to lead
the way back into the hall. Irritated with her dismissal, Clarke would object if the thought of
sleeping wasn’t so appealing. Allowing herself to be corralled, she doesn’t miss the heated glances
Titus continues sending her direction.

She is certain the moment the doors close behind them he will erupt once more. They make their
way down the hall and Clarke tries to listen in, but she can’t make out anything clear. Eventually,
the elevator arrives and Indra follows Clarke into the death box. The room begins to shudder and
awkward silence fills the air around them. Clarke finds herself itching to break it.

“Thank you,” Clarke says and the warrior cocks her head to the side, a cautious curiosity about her.

“For what?”

“Before I left Lincoln told me what you did for him.” Indra straightens, her eyes fixating on the
doors ahead of her. Clarke waits for any form of response for so long she stops expecting one. It
makes sense. What Indra did was a direct violation of Lexa’s agreement that all of her people
would retreat. Clarke would be more surprised if she openly admitted her treason.

“Are they well?” The question catches Clarke so off guard she hesitates before answering.

“They were the last time I saw them.” She answers truthfully not needing to ask which ‘they’ she is
referring to. The elevator lurches to a stop and Indra nods subtly before leaving the room first.

The hall Clarke steps into is small and lined with lit torches. Scanning the area, Clarke counts two
doors to her left and two to her right. The warrior of a woman turns on her heel stopping beside the
last door on the right.

“These will be your quarters for the duration of your stay in Polis.” The short woman eyes Clarke
down, then back up, “I will send someone to ready a bath for you.”

Rolling her eyes, Clarke pushes open the double doors to her new room. The first thing she finds
her eyes drawn to is the wall-to-wall open window to her left and before she can glance at the rest
of the room her feet are on the move. Hobbling to the edge, Clarke’s eyes devour the sight before
her.

Miles of forest stretch out so far into the distance she can almost see the curvature of the earth. In
the distance through the trees, she sees the border of Polis lined with evenly spread out campfires.
If she focuses, she can almost see their trails of smoke flitting away in the wind.

Taking in the clear night sky, Clarke can’t believe how different everything looks from this high
up. Leaning carefully over the stone waist high wall, she looks at the unending fall and her
stomach drops. Suddenly her palms are sweaty again. Stepping back Clarke moves to the center of
the room and tries to convince herself that the subtle feeling of the floor swaying is only in her
head.

Distracting herself with examining the rest of her room she is surprised at the enormous size of the
bed. On the Ark the beds were three inches of plastic mattress over a metal frame. However, the
sight before her is almost grotesque by comparison. Upon closer inspection Clarke finds the
mattress full, soft, and lump free. Its expanse is covered in various furs and pillows. If this is
Clarke’s bed, she can only imagine what the Commander of the twelve clans’ bed looks like.

There is a soft knock on the door and Clarke makes her way back to the entrance. Pulling open the
heavy doors once more she is met by an older woman with long black hair pulled into various
braids. Clarke recognizes the familiar Trikru style that, thanks to Nova, she has developed a keen
eye for. Behind her is a cart stocked with buckets full of water and various vials.

“Ai ste?” She asks, and Clarke happily moves out of her way. The woman busies herself in the
bathroom opposite her bed. Continuing to explore, Clarke finds the entrance to an enormous closet
near the window. Clarke is taking in the assortment of clothes when she catches her reflection
staring back at her. (May I?)

Even in the worn mirror, Clarke is surprised by her appearance. Her once clean bright blonde hair
is nearly unrecognizable. Dirt and dried blood cover the golden locks beneath, bags hang under her
eyes, and her new clothes contradict her near animalistic appearance. The thin half assed sling does
little to help her case.

Pulling herself closer, Clarke traces her fingers over the cut on her forehead, surprised by how
prominent it is. She spends another moment also examining the cut on her throat, but after that
Clarke can hardly stand a second more of her appalling reflection. Instead, she picks out clothes for
tonight and waits for the woman to finish her work in a chair by the window. Once the woman is
finished, she leaves without a word and Clarke finds her way to the bathroom.

The instant she enters the room her nose fills with the soft aroma of lavender. A deep tub is
centered in the small room and Clarke’s stomach flips with excitement when she sees steam rising
from the water. Placing the pile of clothes on the counter, Clarke strips. Struggling with the sling in
particular without aid, Clarke tosses her clothes without a care for where they land. With bloody
bandages still wrapped around her thigh, she lowers herself into the water.

Each inch she sinks into the water relaxes her more and more. Taking care to allow her thigh extra
time to adjust to the hot temperature, Clarke fully submerges herself, soaking her hair. Breaking the
surface, she allows the warm water to wash over her face and tries to convince herself that she will
feel clean again soon.
 She focuses on the soaked wrappings around her thigh. She’s certain the water has lavender oil and
she is willing to bet that isn’t the only healing ingredient within it. Careful to go slow, she peels the
soaked bandages free and tosses them from the tub with a wet plop.

Fully bare, Clarke leans back against the metal wall and closes her eyes. She sits there in silence
for so long she nearly falls asleep, but eventually pulls herself together. After scraping her body
and scalp raw she remains in the tub. Soaking up the warmth she finds momentary peace in the
silence. Eventually, the water grows cold and she pulls herself from the tub and dries off.

Once dressed in the biggest shirt she could find and a fresh pair of underwear, she stumbles
sleepily back into the main room. Walking from candle to candle she blows each one out, filling
the room with darkness. Clarke makes her way to her bed and collapses onto it in a heap. Rolling
onto her side, she pulls the furs tight around her shivering body. Clarke stares out the window at
the stars and tries to remember any of the constellations.

End Notes

(You aren't supposed to know who Nova is yet.)

If even one person wants to read more, let me know. I have plenty already mapped out for
this story.

Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!