Chapter Text
When she was young, Lexa kom Trikru would run about the village. A scraggly, toothy, back-chatting troublemaker, her name was known. Her father was a well-known stall seller, for his generous cuts of meat; her mother, usually bed-bound, would read to her at night. Just before her father came home. She would not read from books. She would make tales of the stars, of how men could navigate using the clear night sky; she would tell Lexa of dreams cast above the clouds, and sometimes, if you spoke to what twinkled back down at you, dreams could come true.
It was captivating. Her mother always had a knack for making the ordinary sound extraordinary. Lexa supposed that was why her father was so enamoured by her. And yes, her father and her mother were vastly different people. Her father was a hulk of a man—a generous cut of meat himself. He was pure muscle, his forearms rippled with a day's work. Her mother was pale and weak, and though she did not have physical strength, her mind blossomed with thoughts others could not even conjure.
Lexa did not believe a word she said.
But she found herself, one day, wandering towards the plains at night. It was crisp, the chilly bite of the air making the back of her spine shudder. It crawled up her neck and scraped her scalp, but she looked up at the skies nonetheless.
"I want what my mother and father have," she said, to nobody. "That's a good life.
"I want the strength of my father. He's a butcher. Everyone goes to him for meat because he's the best. But nobody visits my mother anymore except me and him. I bet you a thousand cuts of meat; I bet you the sky—that nobody will ever be as strong as her words."
She stayed there for a while, unafraid of frostbite. For a stupid moment, she pondered if that was because of the stars, and her mother had been right all along. "Words are more powerful than a cleaver, Lexa," her mother once said, and she'd grinned, "just don't tell your father that!"
It was only until her father found her staring blankly up at the silent skies, tugging her inside to warmth, did she realise her lack of feeling was numbness. He scolded her; told her not to do it again. For the sake of her frozen fingers and toes, she promised she wouldn't. But she never really forgot. And the numbness was better than the notion of pain.
Domm was a big boy. The definition of big, to Lexa, meant fat. Him and his chubby cheeks were no match for his protruding belly, and if Lexa had to ask questions, it would be if he usually feasted like an obese King, or if that was just how his poor mother had birthed him.
Unfortunately, she had no time for small talk as he swung his wooden sword for her head, lashing across. Ducking down, she quickly evaded a blind knock-out. She hadn't escaped a smash in the face earlier, and she was quite sure her eye had swollen near-shut, but she'd be damned if she were to be defeated by a fat boy. First of all, her father would laugh for decades. Domm maybe had about three to four years on her, but Lexa was small, and Lexa wasn't an idiot.
It was easy, like coddling a waddling fat boy to breathlessness. The instant Domm's heavy panting started to sound like snorts, Lexa smacked his shins with her chunk of wood and grinned bloodily down at him.
"A six year old," Lexa said triumphantly, poking the end of her stick at his neck until he tapped frantically on the muddy ground. "How old does that make you, Domm?"
"Nine and a half," he grunted.
"Ten," Lexa decided to round up, gleefully. She helped him off the floor. "Tomorrow. Again?"
"You're mad," Domm said, still breathless. "And—you're bleeding."
"First time you got me," Lexa snorted. "Tomorrow you won't be so lucky."
"No...no, Lexa...you're...bleeding."
Lexa frowned at him, trying to gauge the terror in his eyes. It was as if Domm had seen an entire army of the Ice Nation right behind her, accompanied by giants and whatever people told in stories now. But he was staring right at her. Subconsciously, she wiped her still-bloody nose, and froze.
"It's black," Domm whispered. "You know what they say about kids with black blood?"
"My—" Lexa halted as Domm tugged her deeper into the woods. Nobody frequented the plains anyway, except for those who wished to wash their clothes by the river. But it was too cold today. She shook off his sweaty, chubby hand and frowned at him. "We get chased by Capital Guards. So children with black blood, they—" she struggled to get her words out, "we run."
"Have you ever read a damn book?" Domm snapped at her.
"Is that why you're so big? You read and you don't fight?"
"Lexa!" Domm gritted out. "It's not black blood. It's Nightblood."
"Same thing," she said dully, "the night is black, and so it's black blood."
"Don't get weird with me. Listen, you gotta clean yourself up. Take my coat and cover your tunic. Go back to your parents and tell 'em what happened today. Tell 'em you got Nightblood. They'll know."
"What about you? If I go and never come back, who's going to fight with you?"
"I bleed red an' true," Domm said wistfully, "There isn't no black blood in me."
"Is that supposed to be sad?"
"Jealousy. You really need to learn to read people better."
She didn't go home straight away. It was near nightfall, and ensured that Domm had run away—with a threat to slit his throat if he told anyone—and that nobody was mad enough to come and wash their clothes in the middle of the night, Lexa crept out from the woods. She'd been nestling there for the latter half of the afternoon, her stomach growling angrily at her. It's not my fault, she almost wanted to say to her belly.
Lexa had no food on her, so she rushed to the edge of the river and cupped a few handfuls of water to try and settle her stomach. And then she tried to get back home—but her feet wouldn't budge.
Just you and me again, Plains. I wonder what the skies have for a kid who's got black blood.
"Everyone's always fighting," she said stupidly into thin air, but things like these, she could never confide in her strongly politically-motivated father, nor her dreamy-eyed mother. Her father was convinced the North would come bearing down on them, in all their icy glory. Everyone else in the village was quite adamant they'd stay as they were. Hidden in the greenery; protected by nature.
"People should stop," Lexa carried on, shuffling Domm's jacket back a little to see the dried black blood smeared across her tunic. "I don't understand why you can't stop it, if the skies and stars are supposed to be magic. I don't understand why you can't just give us one of your stars and let all of this stop.
"My father has been working as a butcher for as long as I can remember. It's my mother who taught me words, but not real ones. We read poems and stories but we read nothing of knowledge. Now Domm says I have black blood and I don't even know what that means. My father's a good butcher but I know he's a warrior. He always talks about it. He always talks about being the best archer in the Trikru. But he doesn't teach me anything about fighting. It's just me and Domm. My mother doesn't teach me anything about my father's politics. It's just the stars. So if I've got black blood and nobody tells me anything, does that mean I'm an invalid?"
The stars twinkled, and said nothing.
"You have no answer," Lexa said impatiently. "I guess my mother lied."
Clarke waited blankly by the bed. Lexa had been asleep for a full day, and Clarke hadn't rested once. Titus was pottering about somewhere downstairs, and Murphy had the respect to keep his distance. It wasn't his battle anyway.
A gun-shot to a non-fatal organ was something they'd let go on for too long. They hadn't called for help until Murphy seemed to wake up and do something. Then it was a flurry of bleeding suppression, stitches, poultices, anything—anything to save their beloved Heda, and here she was, weak and floppy as a piece of string.
Lexa—unnecessarily—had already proven herself to be of unrivalled strength. Her politics reached into the hearts of people; her fighting ability brought down the King of the North. And somehow, somehow, after everything she'd been through...the turmoil, the political disagreements, back-stabbing...she'd been given one singular moment of happiness, and then it stopped.
Aden, in his first act of secondary Commander—and guided by a watchful Titus—had declared the barricade on Skaikru land still valid. He wouldn't back down from Lexa's decision, and nor would he listen to Clarke's plea for mercy on Lexa's terms. She'd said that if anyone strayed, they'd be killed. Aden simply shrugged and said that had been the Commander's wish. He did, however, enlist three guards to make sure Clarke would not leave Polis for Arkadia.
Little shit.
There was no choice, to be honest. Clarke's intentions beforehand were null now Lexa had been so gravely injured. Aden visited every day with food and medicines, and a sorrowful glance, but it offered Clarke little comfort. She supposed it wasn't intended for her.
The next day, Aden brought a sketchbook. "It was in the Commander's belongings," he told her earnestly, "I wasn't supposed to go through them but Titus told me to bring you this. I, um..." He scratched the back of his neck guiltily. "I looked through it. I'm sorry, Clarke. I saw your sketches though. They're very beautiful."
It took her a minute or two to realise he'd already opened the page in which she'd neatly folded up her unfinished sketch of Lexa. Aden's cheeks reddened. "I thought you might want to finish it off," he added hastily. "With the next meal brought up, I told the maids to bring some pastels and chalk."
"Right." Clarke stared pathetically down at her drawing, unsure of what to do next. She could recall that day so clearly. Lexa's nightmare. Her doubt—in herself. Blood must not have blood. It had all led to this, in some sick way, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to sketch a sleeping Lexa when all Lexa had done for days was sleep.
Aden cleared his throat. "Well. I've got to go. There's discourse. People think the Ice Nation are trying to sabotage the Commander's reign, but I trust Roan."
"Ontari?"
"That's what I hope to find out," Aden said, "Roan remains King, but I don't know the strings Ontari's pulling. Heda told me she was a Nightblood. She taught me that a position means nothing if someone is already playing puppet."
"Do you need some counsel?"
"Yes," Aden admitted, clearly more quickly than he'd have liked to. "But..." His eyes fell on Lexa, her lips dry and cracked from lack of water. Her skin was ashen, and reflected against the sunlight streaming through the window, she was no Commander. She was a weakened woman. Perhaps a dying one. "I think she needs you more, Ambassador."
Clarke swallowed the lump in her throat. Tried not to think about Lexa's sweet kisses. On her lips, down her neck... "She's out. She's been out for days."
"Her spirit isn't," Aden said lightly, "so long as she is inside, she'll feel you."
"You're just as infuriating as she is. You know that, right?"
Aden's face suddenly split into a grin, despite grim circumstances. "You know, she told me you would say something like that to me one day."
Some days, Clarke could feel Lexa stir—all the way from her armchair. Something heavy in her heart would tell her that Lexa was on the precipice, just about to wake up, and then it would fade away. It would startle her, and she'd rush to Lexa's side, only to find her still weak, and still unconscious.
Some days, Lexa would feel Clarke's pull. She knew her eyes were shut and though she tried, her spirit did not will her to move, and nor did it will her to open her eyes. Just once. It felt pathetic. If she were to die, it should've been on the battlefield—not by her own father-figure's hand, and not by some Skaikru weapon. She wondered how Aden was fielding; if Titus was looking after him. She longed for Clarke, though the barricade would be up in action. Yet she could still feel Clarke beside her.
Some days, she would curse her spirit and yell internally at herself to wake up. She was always rewarded by a sharp, blinding pain to the abdomen.
And then one day, it grew darker and darker until Lexa could not see a thing. She frowned, for she was conscious, but she was bleeding heavily from the Skaikru wound in her belly. Still, she did not feel weak. Instead, Anya stood before her. She said nothing. Next to Anya was a lake.
"How..." Lexa struggled to get her words out. It had been so long. "How did you die?"
"Skaikru," Anya said shortly, "but not how you think."
She hated herself for doubting Clarke. "Did—did you die well?"
"I died the best I could, Commander. I died trying to get a message to you."
Well, she did say that in the tent. "Why am I here?"
"I didn't have this," Anya said a little enviously, "When I died, I just straight-up died."
"What?"
"We're taking a trip," Anya informed her, and out of literally nowhere, a rickety rowing boat appeared on the empty, strange lake. "And on this trip you will decide whether you want to die or not. Or rather, it will be decided whether you should die or not."
"This wasn't part of my teachings," Lexa snapped back, yanking her arm away as Anya reached for her. Anya looked dull. Her eyes were sunken, and her skin an unpleasant grey. And she stunk. Lexa didn't realise she could smell whilst she was dying. "Nowhere does it say that when you're near death, your spirit encounters your mentor and you row a boat out to be judged."
"Nobody told me I'd get killed by some idiots who fell from the sky, either," Anya retorted, "but that's just life, isn't it?"
"If I come with you," Lexa said cautiously, "do I get to go back?"
"Ever the planner," Anya said proudly. "Of course you do. If you're supposed to go back, you go back."
"You weren't supposed to?"
"I already told you: I sort of died straight away."
"I'm sorry about that."
"Me too. But not as sorry as I am for you. Hell, I'd die a thousand times over before having to venture down this path."
Lexa stared stupidly at her. Was she supposed to thank Anya for that? She didn't make the trip sound particularly appeasing, but the darkness offered no back door, and the only route was via the old boat. So she reluctantly helped a stone-cold Anya onto the boat and rowed.
"This is very strange," Lexa noted, once her (dead?) arms started to ache and they seemed to be going nowhere.
"Mm-hmm. D'you know the last thing I ingested before I died was mud?" Anya mused, staring out into nothing. They'd been rowing for a while, but Anya offered no direction, and there was nothing on the horizon. There was no horizon. "Your Sky girl beat me in close-combat."
Lexa barked out a laugh. "You lie."
"I was drugged."
"You still lie!"
Anya put her hands up in defeat. "Life's strange sometimes."
"And so is death." Lexa motioned her head over towards the vast emptiness of her fate. Wow. If she was rowing her way to the oblivion of death, then this sucked—but she was glad Anya was with her. "Where are we going?"
"Oh please. You're dying and you still sound like a child. You're going into your past. And it won't be nice."
"Is this the final test of the Commander?"
"Unofficially. Perhaps the final test of a dying Commander."
"To relive my past? To—to change it?"
"You can't change the past," Anya said, and looked at her as if she was a moron. Like any of Lexa's suggestions had been somewhat beyond belief, considering she was rowing a boat on an empty lake, towards her impending doom. "But you can see it if you want. Your brain still remembers, doesn't it? We're not on a lake, Lexa. We're in your head."
"And why," Lexa drawled, "would I want to see my past?"
"Because you're a sentimentalist, Lexa."
"Really? Really?! Tell that to—"
"Did you keep my lock of hair?"
"What?"
"My lock of hair. The one the Sky girl gave you. Did you keep it?"
Lexa continued to row.