archenemy | clexa

forty seven

The rest of that day is a haze.

Clarke's mother rushes towards her daughter as soon as the army is back in camp to tend to her. A soft cry, a mother's hand red with her daughter's blood, transparent tears on tight skin.

Raven is there, going to the healer's tent with Anya to check on Clarke as well. Messy black hair and soft cotton on a hard, bloody armor when Anya and Raven hug, big, round brown eyes pouring out relief and worry both, the slight tension in Anya, a sign of stress even despite the victory.

A broad-shouldered man with a freshly shaven beard searching frantically for Octavia, his sister, a look that a father might wear after his child ventured off into the forest too deep when he finds her, taking the sword and the armor from her first thing to carry them back to her tent. Another, equally large man coming to greet Octavia- Lincoln. Calmness opposed to the mildly passive-aggressive protectiveness Octavia's brother embodies. Kind, warm brown eyes and strong hands shaking Octavia's brother's hand, laughter from the girl, the three going off to perhaps dinner.

Honorable, proud warriors dismounting their horses and letting the people show their respect.

Loud, careless warriors shouting chants, looking forward to the grand feast that will take place this evening.

Silent, unfocused blurs of warriors that must feel the emptiness after war rather than the pride or festiveness.

Azgedans who have lost their clan to war, in chains, led to the prisoner tent.

Lexa does not usually feel a mess after war, does not usually lack pride and honor and the thirst to get everything finished up with the celebration and some planning and organizing left to do.

Now, though, she does not feel like that at all. This war feels strange, as though everything was a big set-up. How can war be the place where she learns about love?

Clarke, of course.

Abby Griffin hugging her, inviting her for dinner.

Lin and Anya.

Eating and talking with everybody at the dinner in Abby Griffin's tent, dancing to Skaikru's music.

Roan.

It's devastating. Love is so unbearably devastating, Lexa never knew.

Her mother is dead, her brother was her enemy just until a few hours ago, Lexa owes Anya and Lin about a thousand favors considering all they've done for her, Abby seems to equally understand and be absolutely exasperated when it comes to Clarke and Lexa. Clarke, who lies half-dead in the healer's tent.

Clarke, whose body Lexa was sure she would kneel for after their very first night together and who Lexa has in fact kneeled for now, at the feet of her enemy, at the tip of a sword.

No, she didn't die. This war has a good outcome. This war gave Lexa good things.

Thoughts such as that roam Lexa's mind on the way back to her tent and she forces them harder and harder by the second. This war brought her love. Love, love, love.

Fuck. Lexa hates that word.

Her tent is empty and dark when she enters it, a pure nothingness, no guards, no candles, no life. Flashes of empty eyes staring back at her from the pile of corpses after battle. The scent of decay. The harshest, loudest sounds Lexa can imagine, gunshots and swords clashing both. The warm, wet disgust of blood running on skin, the cold skin of a fallen soldier, the weight of a sword in hands kissed blue by the ice. Screams, all around.

Nightmares and the comfort that comes after. A bottomless pitch of black and the golden glow of warmth, of Clarke. Anger and passion. Tears and the soft pad of a thumb wiping them away. Costia leaving and Costia killing Nia repentfully. Abby's accusations and Abby's hug and dinner invitation. Two mouths screaming and kissing.