archenemy | clexa

twenty

In only a week, Clarke notices what it's like to be in war for real. Not the physical aspect, but the mentality. She sleeps less, eats less. Her hate towards Lexa deflates, she doesn't have the energy for banter. She's fired so many bullets now, most of them clean hits, that she begins to question how the hell she deserves to live but others don't.

Being with her friends and her mom is colder. Most of them aren't on the battlefield, and the news that it's going well for the coalition keeps them perfectly happy. For Clarke, there's more to it.

Then, there's an Azgedan breach into the side where Clarke is stationed. Everything's close up. Blood and blades and gunshots and screams and death, and something inside of Clarke grows rigid.

Clarke doesn't come home on time that night. Lexa paces the tent once again, wonders if Clarke is carelessly wandering off against the rules, if she thinks herself above the strict curfew, or if she's somewhere out there on the field, too dead to worry about the time.

Five minutes pass, ten, fifteen, half an hour, an hour.

Lexa has settled on the edge of the bed, her feet nervously tapping the floor. If Clarke was dead- oh God, if Clarke was dead... Lexa's not sure if Skaikru would be as sane enough as to honor the terms of the coalition then.

She's dead quiet, waiting for a single sound, tense, staring at the tent flap silently ordering it to move, begging it to move, never letting her gaze drift off-

It opens. The distinct black armor makes an appearance, golden hair. Relief washes through Lexa like a tidal wave, leaving behind rational anger. "Clarke, where the hell do you think you've been? You are not allowed to wander about the camp at night just like everyone else! We lost a lot of people today, maybe you should have thought of that as more important than making fun out of staying out late again!"

Clarke doesn't react to Lexa's yelling at all. Her face stays just as tired and cold. "I was in the healer's tents," she says simply, her voice raspy, and only then does Lexa notice Clarke limping.

Her demeanor changes within a breath. "What's wrong with you? What happened?"

"I was in the wing of our army where the breach happened, Azgeda got through the front rows. I'm sure you've heard. Now if you don't mind, I'm tired."

"I do mind, actually. That didn't answer my question."

"My horse died, so I was right in the crowd. A guy falls over me, drags me down, Azgeda warrior chops his head off with an axe, goes right through his neck into my leg, I can shoot him before he gets the axe out again. Now fuck off."

"Have you taken a bath yet?"

Clarke looks up at her, eyes full of hate. "Yes, the healers insisted," she draws out. "Next time, I'll tell them not to wash me, so I can get on your precious bed dirty, maybe then you'll care enough. I told you to fuck off, so do it. Leave me alone."

Clarke takes the chance of Lexa leaving for the bathroom to change into her nightclothes. Then, she lays down on her side of the bed and curls to face the tent wall. She wishes she had a tent for herself like most of the others now. She wishes she could cry, unafraid of losing her Goddess status, away from Lexa for once.

She's already tense when she hears Lexa come into the main tent again, grows tenser when the bed dips with Lexa's weight, but when she then feels a light hand on her shoulder, she snaps. She slaps it away harshly and turns to yell, "I told you to fuck off! Do you need me to kill you and drag your corpse outside for you to finally have some respect of my space? Because I would fucking do it, it doesn't matter now anyway!"

But Lexa is calm. She looks different now, in the soft hue of the candlelight, warpaint off her face without a trace, wearing plain clothes for bed and simple braids. She's never said "Clarke," so softly and Clarke can't fucking deal with her life and this soft call of her name is the tipping point for her tears to eventually overflow.

She's expecting Lexa to make fun of her. Oh, she's so stupid. So weak. How can one be in pain from a simple axe cut to the bone? Doesn't last a week in war.

Lexa doesn't. Clarke pulls her knees up with discomfort again and since she's facing Lexa, she inevitably closes in on Lexa. Lexa, who doesn't seem to care at all. Lexa, who dares to put her hand back on Clarke's shoulder.

And somehow, Clarke ends up curled up against Lexa completely and Lexa simply, hesitantly holds her. She says, "It's okay," gently and Clarke cries into her chest like she's not the last person Clarke wants to be seen by being vulnerable. "I know war hurts right where the pain tears you in half."

"So many people died. I killed some of them."

"That's okay. Everybody went up to that field knowing full well they might die for the cause and consenting. Your mother is in this camp. Your friends. You're fighting for them."

There's a pause of silence and after her breathing has gone more normal, Clarke asks quietly, "Who are you fighting for?" It seems like the only manageable response, as opposed to how killing someone to save another should not equal love.

Lexa's lip tugs upwards in a forced, fleeting smile. She shrugs. "Nobody, now. Everybody. My people."

Clarke knows that the 'now' is dedicated to the white-haired girl who left Lexa. She doesn't ask about it. Instead, she asks tentatively, "Where's your family?"

"I don't have one. Someone put me on the doorstep of the Heda's tower as a baby, with a cut on my arm so they'd see I'm a nightblood."

"A what?"

"I bleed black blood. That's the blood line of Hedas, descending from- well, someone like a Goddess to us. Every child with black blood is collected to train and then, after the current Heda's death, fight the other Nightbloods for the throne. Apparently, my family didn't bother to hide me."

"I'm sorry," Clarke says and Lexa shrugs again. She feels different, too, now, without the coating of anger and war and hatred. It seems to have momentarily slipped away. Like Lexa has no idea how to comfort, so instead of trying to fix Clarke's vulnerability, she made herself vulnerable too.

Lexa tugs her shirt down a little so that Clarke can see a small scar on her arm, right beneath her shoulder, shaped roughly like a lowercase r. She lets her fingers travel over it.

"They shouldn't have left you there."

"They couldn't have hidden me either way."

Clarke's brows furrow like she doesn't quite agree, but she doesn't say anything else. Lexa changes the topic gently when she asks, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine. Sorry. Forget it."

"Okay."

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