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It was almost like some of the paintings that had survived from the old world.
That is what Lexa’s mind supplied, as she stood frozen in the doorway. There was one in particular that came to mind, its name plaque had been so worn away with time that there was no title for the piece to be brought to mind. But Lexa remembered it. Dark paint unevenly splashed across the canvas, no uniformity. Chaotic. Like the time she hadn’t been fast enough in training and Anya had broken her nose with a staff, her own black blood spraying across the dirt. What stood in front of her could’ve been that artist’s masterpiece. They could’ve called it Murder Scene. That is what the painting name would forever be in Lexa’s mind, not that she would ever be able to look at it again. Not when it would now only remind her of this moment.
Black liquid coated the walls and floors of the meditation room, dripping down in grotesque imitations of the raindrops she used to watch race each other across windowpanes as a bored Natblida in this very same room. They had been caught in a peaceful moment. In their time to reflect and find calm. Death had found them at their most defenseless moment and it had taken all of them.
Sol and Wash’s empty eyes stared up at her from their close position to the door, both with throats slashed and gaping like secondary mouths across their necks. Two of the oldest Nightbloods, she had watched them flirt with each other, cautious and full of wonder. She hadn’t found the will to tell them to guard themselves against such feelings. With any luck neither would have been chosen for the spirit and they could have given themselves to each other, without the weight of ‘Heda’ shattering their happiness. Lexa would have to close their eyes when her feet were not anchored to the floor. She would have to close all their eyes.
Atola, she had been an expert with a bow from the minute she picked it up. Now her fingers were shattered and bloodless, ink like blood running from the corner of her lips.
Justas, she knew he truly had no will to be commander, despite having the Sheidjus running through his veins. His young hands much preferred to hold a book, instead of a sword like the one that had obviously been run through his chest.
Benz had not even seen seven cycles of the seasons pass. His bright hair was unrecognizably muddy, caked in the blood running up from gash on his temple and awkward angle of his broken neck.
Tosh had been as good at chopping up cooking ingredients with his knives as he had been at throwing them. Yancy never failed to get the younger nightbloods to sleep, even at their most adamant refusal. Cole was about to celebrate his tenth birthday.
Mac, Argo, Bellona, Cedon, Olive, Pim.
All of them lay before her, killed in several and varied methods. Lined up like Death’s sentinels, leading to what had frozen her feet to the floor like they had melted into the stone and become one.
A box rested on the floor at the other side of the room, five feet from the last two bodies. The carvings were intricate, wood dark. It was made from a specific type of pine that did not grow outside of one region far to the north, at the heart of the Ice Nation. Lexa had learned that from the messenger who’d delivered it, as she slowly pulled off his fingernails in search of everything he knew. It was not the same box, – that one had burned alongside her beloved – but Lexa didn’t have to examine it beyond a glance to know it was a twin. Nia was meticulous like that and even in death she would find a way to haunt her.
Time passed without notice, as Lexa stared at the box, the room now only lit by the still burning torches along the walls. They would have been placed there when Aden led all of them into the room, so if the meditation lasted for some, they would not open their eyes to pitch darkness.
Finally, when her muscles nearly gave out, nearly forced her to her knees, Lexa moved fully into the room. Each step was sticky with the congealed blood pooled beneath her boots. Small, unwilling movements forward replaced the long, powerful strides that spoke of Heda. Her heart screamed at her to turn around and run as far in the other direction as possible. Yet something pulled her slowly forward, until she stood directly in front of the ornate piece of wood and then it brought her to her knees. She dropped indelicately, though there was hardly a sound against the stone floor, taking no notice of the uncomfortable sensation of wet blood soaking into her pants.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the simple clasp, fingers twitching and slipping against the smooth leather and metal it was composed of. Finally she was able to grasp it, squeezing until her knuckles turned white, before ripping the piece upwards and throwing open the lid of the box.
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Clarke had gone straight to the art house as soon as her and Lexa’s horses had made it through the threshold of Polis’ gates. She’d taken off at a gallop, knowing Lexa would let her get away with the breach in protocol, knowing the Commander knew that she needed to air out her feelings in her own way.
The Arkers who had not blindly followed Pike down the path of mass murder could be shown places to sleep by grounder guards, and those who had taken part in it were safely locked inside of their own prison cells. Safely for them, because the grounders that now guarded them had no way to enter said cells to exact revenge for their fallen comrades. They awaited further judgment and proper punishment for their crimes – Clarke did her best to block Bellamy’s face from her mind, staring at her as she’d locked the door to the prison section herself – which would have to be dealt with at a later date. An urgent message had arrived from Titus, forcing Lexa back to Polis before a suitable punishment could be come up with and agreed upon.
So, with three hundred more deaths resting on her shoulders and the new threat to her people’s stance in the coalition, she had come here. To the place that smelled of fresh parchment and wet paint, instantly forcing a small amount of the tension from her shoulders, just from one breath in. She’d wandered the space aimlessly for a while, looking at projects being worked on and pieces soon to be taken to market, nodding at the artists at work. When that stopped helping her relax, leaving a still heavy series of knots in her shoulders and in her gut, Clarke moved to her corner, the one Lexa had set-aside specifically for her. Setting a large canvas upright on the easel, the blonde ambassador settled herself onto a low stool and immediately began painting the first thing that came to mind. It was an image that still baffled her to no end, something she had never expected to witness.
So focused on her work, Clarke gave no notice to the time passing outside, the near windowless building torch lit and giving no signal of change to mark the hours going by. It wasn’t until she placed the last detail down that she even leaned away to study her work, back popping several times now that it was finally straightened out. Her eyes wandered over the recreated snapshot from her memory. Fifteen children, whose ages must have ranged from six to sixteen, all seated at the foot of the Commander’s throne. Lexa herself seated, not as she normally would be, elegantly and powerful, but rather on the edge of the throne, engaged and enthralled by the eager pupils before her.
“I thought I might find you here.”
Clarke nearly fell off her stool as she jumped at the sudden voice behind her, whipping around to find out who had spoken to her. Titus’ weary gaze met her own, new lines etched in at the corners of his mouth. The poor man, Clarke could empathize with him, knowing Lexa’s near reckless behavior was the cause for the start of some worry lines of her own too.
“I just needed some time to process.”
He simply nodded, looking past Clarke at the painting drying behind her. Confusion filled her as she saw the lines on his face deepen with an undecipherable emotion as he took in the art piece. If she had to label it, she’d almost think the man must be feeling a kind of agony.
“Titus, are you alright?”
“You are remarkably talented. It’s like a window to the past itself.”
She would’ve blushed at the compliment, if Titus’ voice had not sounded so hoarse and sad as he said it.
“Titus, what’s going on?”
He turned to look at her then, weariness and wariness having a war across his features, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing was actually a good idea, but had no other options.
“You are needed at the tower.”
That brought her to her feet immediately. Fear, of what she wasn’t quite sure, bearing down on her and squeezing.
“By my people? Are they alright?”
Titus shook his head slowly.
“No, not by them. Your people have been given accommodations and set up with guards to make sure they stay safe.”
“Then why am I- was a meeting called?”
“No.”
“Okay so who-“
“Lexa needs you.”
In all of her time in Polis, Clarke had never once heard Titus refer to Lexa by anything other than her title and despite how short of a time her stay has been so far, she had a feeling he rarely, if ever, used her actual name. Icy worry trickled down her spine, freezing the usual walls she put in place between herself and the terrifying flare of something she still felt whenever she thought of the Commander.
“You can tell me what happened on the way there.”
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“Heda?”
The call of her title didn’t draw a single sign of recognition from the still kneeling commander. If it weren’t for the very shallow and quick rise and fall of her chest with each sharp breath, one probably could have mistaken her for a statue. She felt like a statue, mind coming to a screeching halt as soon as she’d seen the contents of the box. Perhaps that was a blessing in a way. This small eternity was simple white noise, no recognition, no recollection. Just nothing.
The sensation evaporated as a soft hand touched between her shoulder blades.
“Lexa.”
Finally fully taking in what she was looking at, Lexa felt a roiling, burning within her stomach, swiftly rising upwards. It sent her scrambling to her feet and bolting for an empty corner of the room, emptying the entire contents of her stomach onto the floor and continuing to heave until nothing more would come up. Only then did she notice the hands holding her hair away from her face.
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The nausea and horror built inside of Clarke quickly as she listened to Titus explain exactly why Lexa had been called to return to Polis so urgently. The Nightbloods, Lexa’s protégés that she had so obviously cared for fiercely… All of them dead. Murdered. Despite all that the ground had shown her of death and destruction, Clarke still could not wrap her mind around this new tragedy. Not until she saw it for her own eyes, that is. She came to a standstill in the door, eyes first darting to the walls, seeing the black gore covering them. The blonde was slightly disgusted with herself when the first thing to come into her mind was that it looked like a Jackson Pollock painting like she’d seen in one of her Earth Studies lectures.
Tearing her gaze away from the macabre art imitation, her eye then moved to the first body and each one after it. Clarke had to doubt that her horror would stop expanding at this point, as she realized each nightblood beyond the first two had been killed in a different way, none quickly. They were lined up to create an aisle, seven to a side, eyes left wide open and empty as if to purposefully be used to stare accusatorily at all who looked upon them. None more so meant to feel their dead glare than the woman knelt just beyond them, gripping tightly to the edges of an open, ornate wooden box, nails visibly digging into the soft wood. Only the rapid rise and fall of her back let Clarke know that Lexa was even breathing.
Sympathy curled around her lungs, forcing a sharp sigh from them as she took in the Commander, not that Lexa appeared to hear it. Even when Titus called to her, no reaction came. Gesturing for him to back away, she took her first cautious step into the room, stomach rolling at the way the blood surrounding her clung to her shoes and made a sticky sound each time she lifted her foot from the floor. Forcing down the nausea, she slowly moved her way down the aisle created by the bodies of the nightblood children and hesitantly rested a hand directly between Lexa’s shoulder blades.
“Lexa.”
The reaction was almost instantaneous. Muscle coiled sharply under her palm and then she was forced to jerk back as Lexa leapt to her feet and bolted for a corner of the room, expelling the contents of her stomach into the spot. One of her hands pressed into the wall, no doubt it would show completely black when she pulled it away. Clarke herself followed the taller girl quickly and reached to pull braided, sweat matted hair back away from her face. She stayed silent, knowing no words could make this situation okay.
Finally, when there was obviously nothing left in Lexa’s stomach and she was only left breathing harshly, staring down at a mix of water and bile on the floor, Clarke released her hold and took a step backward to allow her space. And that’s when she remembered the box. The one Lexa had been bent over before. Turning away to allow Lexa a chance to recover herself, she quickly made her way back to the out of place wooden object and peered inside. The sight of copper colored hair and unnaturally pale skin staring back at her nearly sent Clarke scrambling for a corner to vomit in as well. She swallowed several times and blinked, as if it would change the fact that Aden’s head was staring up at her, glassy eyed, from the inside of the box.
“It is a replica. The box.”
The hoarse, hollow words caused Clarke to blink, looking up and over at Lexa in confusion. She met a world of devastation in green eyes, heart cracking at the sight. In that instant, all the blonde wanted to do was take Lexa somewhere away from everything. Away from her duties and expectations and title, her facades and losses and heartbreak. Somewhere that the centuries old twenty-one year old could truly heal. But she knew that was an impossible fantasy, a luxury dream that Lexa probably would not even accept if offered to her.
“What do you mean?”
“The box. I received one before.”
And then the realization hit her.
“Costia…”
She watched Lexa nod, the Commander still not pushing herself away from the wall, like she thought she might throw up again.
“But Nia’s dead.”
A bitter, humorless laugh left the body in front of her at that.
“Even in death she seeks to destroy me.”
“But that makes no sense, who would do this? Setting it up in that exact way? You can’t think Roan-“
“No. That has never been his kind of technique, all his mother’s. I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t know.”
The repetition was spoken through gritted teeth and Clarke watched Lexa’s still healing hand clench into a fist, before the knuckles were brought to connect solidly with the wall. Pulling herself together, she crossed back to Lexa’s side and caught the fist in both her hands, stopping the woman from doing further damage to herself.
“Lexa, we’ll figure this out. I promise.”
Another fissure makes its way through her heart as Lexa turns to look at her again, eyes now wet with the shine of unshed tears. They are immediately blinked away and replaced with an emptiness that worried Clarke more than the sorrow had.
“Lexa, it’s okay to-“
“I must prepare them for the pyre, Clarke.”
“You can take a few moments to gre-“
A hand held up stops her mid word, though Lexa’s tightly closed eyes and pained whisper of, “beja, Klark. No mo nau,” are what make her keep silent, waiting until Lexa’s eyes open to nod in acquiescence.
“Sha, Heda.”
Receiving a small nod in return, she can then only bring herself to watch in silence as Lexa moves to slowly close the eyes of each child in turn and whisper, “yu gonplei ste odon,” to them. Aden is the last and Clarke makes no comment as she watches a tear drip into the box along with the words.
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The flames licked quickly along the wood of the pyre, rising and sending a message of smoke to everyone in the city.
Lexa set the torch down on top of the burning pile, not flinching as a white heat licked at her palm and fingertips before she pulled it away. It was child’s play to the fifteen branding marks that now rested in three neat rows over her left collarbone. The only brands she had taken since becoming Heda. Her body may not be large enough to fit the brand of every life she ended, but these ones she would never allow herself to forget.