Clexa One Shots

Springs of Change

                            By: RavenclawGenius
Clarke is pretty sure that she misheard.

It's an earnest possibility, because Clarke's understanding of Trigedasleng is shaky at best (and practically nonexistent at worst), so it's entirely likely that something has been very, very lost in translation.

... Which is maybe not something to be proud of, since Clarke has spent more time in the Trigedakru's company in recent weeks than with her own people, but... well, fucking float her. Grounder language may be derived from English, but that only carries Clarke so far. And she's been planning a war, so, like, she's been busy, and Clarke feels like that's a moderately fair excuse.

Learning the native language had seemed infinitely less pressing than saving her people from Mount Weather.

Leaders have to make the hard choices - or that's what Lexa keeps telling her, anyway, so Clarke has to believe that it's true, because she's the inexperienced one in this regard - and that one had been a pretty simple decision for Clarke, so she'd taken the easy choice when she could.

She's sure that she misheard. Or maybe misinterpreted, which is also entirely conceivable.

Only, Clarke is equally confident that 'bas' and 'Klok' and 'Heda' had all definitely been tossed into the blend of Indra's declaration, somewhere; Clarke doesn't know much, but she recognizes her name and Lexa's title, and she's ninety-eight percent sure that 'bas' has always come right before an hour long period of stifling irritation while Lexa is escorted to the hot springs for a leisurely soak and Clarke impatiently awaits her return to the council room.

Clarke has translated it to mean 'bath,' but now she isn't totally sure.

Because, honestly, what sort of actual sense would it make for her name to fall in line with Lexa's in the same sentence as bath? From Indra's mouth?

Clarke is exhausted, and she has a supremely aggravating, mildly (... reasonably) concerning gash yawning the length between her temple and jaw - Clarke can't clearly remember the details of how she retained the wound, only that Cage had swiped a Grounder's knife in desperation and had tried to bleed Clarke's life with it, only to fall victim to the same blade at Clarke's vindictive hand - so this likely shouldn't be such a pressing concern, anyway, but it is all that Clarke can bear to think on.

Because if she lets herself think on anything else, then she will think on the blood, and the death, and the fear and pain and relentless gore that she had spent the past several hours scarcely surviving; Clarke will have to think of her people, and how she will tell them about all the things she has sacrificed and the lives she has stolen in order to keep them safe; she will have to assess her dead and wonder if her people's freedom had truly been worth the price she had paid for it.

Understandably, Clarke chooses to trouble herself over this foreign stretch of curiosity, instead.

Because, frankly... the alternative sucks. And Clarke's really had enough of sucky things for a while, and she thinks the pain might be getting to her head, anyway, so she refuses to feel badly about it.

"Come, Clarke," Lexa tells her, perched proudly atop her horse, striking in her blood-soaked visage.

Lexa is hurt, too, and Clarke's fingers itch against the reins of her own steed with restrained desire to evaluate the wounds. She can't clearly make out which streams of blood lining the Commander's armor are Lexa's own, but she's sure that there's at least one laceration carved through the woman's calf, and Clarke wants to be sure it's taken care of.

Lexa is smart, but she is stubborn and annoyingly prideful, so it wouldn't surprise Clarke even a little if she decided to forego seeking medical attention.