fragile | clexa

chapter twenty nine

______________________________

Clarke's boots were soaked, her clothes completely drenched, and her steps were shaky. She almost slipped on the mud that was all over the ground, her cane sunken in so deep she struggled moving it for a new step.

She was about fifty steps away from Lexa's tent now. Turning around wasn't an option, so she went on, step after step, pant after pant until her leg cramped, her lungs seemingly collapsed and her leg shot stinging pain up to her brain.

Her destiny was hidden behind foggy clouds and endless streams of water, and after she'd almost fallen on the slippery ground for the tenth time, she wasn't sure she was even on the right track still.

If the usual few minutes way to old Berta took twenty minutes for Clarke or thirty, the blonde wasn't sure. She reached the door of the old woman that had been giving her and the group cooking lessons almost breaking down, but didn't allow her feet to give in while she was praying old Berta was home.

By the time the door opened, she didn't even notice the older woman pulling her in and pushing her on to the kitchen with several, "Oh darling, what happened?" "My dear, sit, sit! Oh you poor thing," or "That's going to catapult you into death, staying out there so long sweetheart! Goodness, goodness, what happened?" anymore.

-

With all of Clarke's coaxing, Lexa had finished her chicken soup within a day. It was actually only one meal, but for illness circumstances, it was a reason to be proud anyway. The problem was, that had been about all warm food they'd been brought by guards and there was no way of getting more, since half of Lexa's guards- such as most of the town- had caught the flu too and weren't able to be on shift. The few guards that were still able to work had a strict order not to move from their place.

For the first day she'd thought it'd work. Broken-down crackers, dried fruits, small pieces of bread, Lexa had been able to eat that stuff easily. But somewhen, in one of her not really controlling what she was saying phases, Lexa'd started babbling about how hungry she was and Clarke sat there with half a package of crackers left.

The thing was, Clarke had been running around all day making tea, helping Lexa drinking it on ocassion, cleaning up the space around Lexa, making compresses and trying to feed Lexa small bits of food and medicine. She had no head for more to do, more problems to solve, and then such an insurmountable one too.

She just wanted to call a guard. One would be able to protect Lexa's tent too, right? At least for a little while. No one was outside with this nasty weather anyway, certainly no one with the plan to attack Lexa.

Then, again, the stories she'd snatched up when her owners had talked about the Heda, the rumors about all the assassins-

No, she couldn't leave Lexa to that.

But she could leave.

Yes.

The idea of old Berta was in Clarke's mind so suddenly that she didn't even have to overthink it before she got on her boots and got her cane ready. That would work. Just cook in old Berta's kitchen.

-

Half an hour after she had almost died on old Berta's doorstep, Clarke was sitting by the fireplace, old and way to big pants on that old Berta had fastened at Clarke's small waist with clips and that she would still fit in twice. The knitted, probably even older sweater old Berta had given her hung just as baggy on Clarke's torso, but it was perfectly toasty warm inside, like a wearable version of a bath or a hug from Lexa.

Old Berta had also insisted of making her a tea and wrapping her up in a scarf- which was, again, so big that it could've been wrapped around the whole of her upper body- and an additional blanket. She didn't want Clarke to get sick too, was her explanation.