archenemy | clexa

forty eight

Lexa didn't think that was possible, but in this state, Clarke does not look glorious at all. She's pale and vulnerable and lovely, the paint has long been washed off her face and her eyes look more like the eyes of a stone statue than a fierce young woman. It's because her eyebrows are fine and of a plain color now, her closed eyes replace the usual lively, warm blue with frail skin and delicate, long eyelashes and the warpaint is gone without a trace.

There are white band-aids over parts of her face, the ones Lexa expects must be covered in little wounds that have come from treating Clarke without care after Azgeda had captured her.

Now that she looks so closely, Lexa realizes that Clarke's cheeks are more defined than before, hollower, almost fallen-in- Clarke hasn't been eating enough.

How should she have? Azgeda's icy wasteland does not provide much and their abundance of rations has grown less abundant over the last weeks. 

Clarke's hair is flat and rather muted than golden and glowy, her clothes do not fit as perfectly as they seemed when Clarke first wore her armor and Lexa cannot help but search for a blanket to cover Clarke with. It will grow colder even in the warmed tent and Clarke's sleeves are too short, her pants slashed, her shirt torn apart to treat the arrow wound in her shoulder so that the fabric no longer covers and protects her properly.

Then, she gets a bowl of warm water and a cloth and begins to clean one of the few entirely uninjured parts of Clarke; her hands. It's unusual, really, Lexa carries many scars on her hands, but Clarke's gloves seemed to have fought off any attack on her now dirty, grey-ish hands.

Lexa washes Clarke's skin carefully, then her nails, until her hands are rosy and smelling of berries and without a stain of battle on them. It fits her much better. All of it fits her much better, the more non-battle Clarke looks, the more she looks like herself.

And then, Lexa cannot lift one more finger. She has done her services tonight and wishes for nothing else but a long, long night of sleep. The chair besides Clarke's bed does not offer much comfort, nor does the late time promise much sleep, but Lexa is so tired, she is nauseous, and so she sits down on the chair again after cleaning Clarke's hands and falls deep asleep, deeper than she has in a long while.

-

Lexa wakes with a start. The healer's tent is dimly lit and quiet around her and her eyes immediately find Clarke.

"Fuck," Lexa groans, realizing fortunately that Clarke hasn't changed since Lexa fell asleep. She is supposed to look over Clarke, not sleep. She promised Abby to be ready to call for help, to protect Clarke, to look out for her.

On the other hand, nothing sounds better than a warm bed right now. In fact, no matter bed or not, Lexa can't even help the drowsiness getting back at her. She hasn't slept properly in days, the only thing she can do is force her eyes open and yet she drifts back into a restless half-sleep every few minutes. One hand always clutched on her sword, the other on the black box Abby gave her, head resting helplessly on the mattress next to Clarke's stomach in the hope that if Clarke stirs, she will wake Lexa, and perhaps in the pursuit of the bed's comfort.

"Heda," a deep, accented voice sounds somewhere in this mess of reality and dream, being awake and sleeping, and pulls Lexa out of it.

Indra stands besides Clarke's bed and bows. "You deserve rest, Heda. Do not torment yourself with your lover's well-being, you do not have to save her now. She is safe as she is."

"I will not leave her," Lexa says determined.

"I can look over her, if you trust me with that task. I will call for you and the healer immediately in case anything happens."

"My tent is too far, no."

Another, yet lower voice speaks from the entrance, calm but strong, Roan. "I sleep just across this tent. You may sleep in my tent if you wish."

Isn't that what they say, 'be careful what you wish for'? Yeah, Lexa wished for a warm bed but she isn't so sure about joining Roan. On the other hand, she is worn, tired and exhausted in every way and Clarke deserves someone to actually pay attention to her.

"I have to ask Abby."

-

"Would you like a tea?" Roan's tall, broad-shouldered figure looks almost amusing in the small tent. There are two beds (more like nests, but ridiculously comfortable) that can be seperated by a curtain and a tiny living area with only a carpet and a fireplace. "You can watch me make it if you do not want to drink something I make for you without checking. I have lavend-"

Roan stops talking when he turns to look at his sister again and sees her still facing him, but deep asleep. He stares for a moment, considers how she has grown from being such a small, bread-sized thing in his arms to the woman that lies in the corner of the tent now, how much he failed seeing her growing up. Then, he pulls the curtain shut to give her as much privacy as possible, makes himself a tea and sinks into his own bed.

When Lexa wakes up, having slept deep into the afternoon of the next day, the tent is silent. She pushes the curtain to the side and, surprisingly, sees Roan sitting on the carpet completely still, eyes closed.

His skin is clean now, hair not greasy but gleaming healthily, beard trimmed neatly. Two strands of his straight, long hair are pulled into his face, almost making him look elegant, as though he wasn't a brutal warrior with thrice the muscle mass as Lexa.

When he opens his eyes, icy, watery blue looks back at her serenly. "They're waiting for you."

"Who?" Lexa rasps, disheveled and not entirely awake yet, yawning.

"Your warriors. The feast is prepared. They wait for their Heda to begin it."

"Ugh, fuck," she groans and falls back behind the curtain onto her bed, going through her hair with her hands and getting stuck in several knots at once. "I'm a mess, you know? I haven't even had time to clean myself or change into proper clothes or clean my armor or do my hair or my paint or anything. They must have been waiting for a while now, haven't they?"

"Oh, I think they're okay. Some had alcohol last night in private and they are expecting this night to be the one. Not necessarily the afternoon. Your armor is cleaned, a woman named Abby came in this morning insisting that she would take it to clean." The hint of a smile presents itself on Roans's sharp, scarred features. "Considering the guards took my weapons, I chose giving it to her over killing her with my bare hands."

"Good choice."

"As for clothes, she also left you some fresh things."

"Okay," Lexa manages.

"A woman named Lin came in early as well to ask whether you required her for your celebration look. I suppose she meant the hair and the paint, she said she would be delighted to be called any time. I suggest you take a bath in the river, it is quite refreshing and cleansing, then put on fresh clothes and get Lin to do your face and hair."

"Sounds like a plan. This is fantastic, not making plans for once. It almost makes me think you hid a deadly trap in the river."

Roan only chuckles, but he doesn't miss that Lexa takes all her weapons to bathe with her anyway. Whether out of habit, as a general precaution or because she really mistrusts Roan that much, Roan doesn't know. He wouldn't be surprised of the latter, since so far, he has done little to earn that trust. (Except, of course, saving Lexa's life, which is probably why she consented to sleeping in his tent in the first place, and why she is even conversational.)

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