Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
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Everybody has their own idea of love. The way it makes them think, the way it makes them feel, and the way it makes them behave. How it can change somebody’s entire concept of life; for better or for worse. How love can caress one’s soul with deft fingers, or how it can choke that very same soul with an iron fist.
But, mostly, how something so defying, so powerful and profound, can be so destructive. How love can make a person feel invincible one moment and then, in the next, tear you down until you are nothing but a shattered, distorted image of yourself. The pieces of you are there, but they somehow don’t fit together anymore.
And the only way to fix it is to sweep up the fragments and dispose of them. Lock them away. Hide from them. This is so you never have to look at the parts of you that were once beautiful, once cherished, but are now broken and obsolete.
Love is dangerous.
Love is weakness.
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The first time she fell in love, Lexa was four years old. She had never been a particularly vocal or social child and rather spent most of her time observing than interacting. So, to encourage her to make friends and experience the excitement life had to offer for such young children, her mother took her to the local park. The young child seemed dubious about the slides and the climbing frame; she even had her reservations about the less cultured children charging about the span of the playground.
However, simply to appease her mother, the young girl braced herself and positioned her small frame on the swings. Then, over the sounds of the other children squealing, laughing and crying, she heard an altogether new sound.
It could have been a song sung by a tormented ghost – haunting, gentle and sorrowful.
The tone possessed her; entranced her.
The young girl slid off the swing and followed the sound until she found the source.
Standing by the entrance to the park was a woman holding, in her arms, a violin.
She stared, wide-eyed at the street performer, everything else fading into the background. Including the shouts of her mother. That was when she felt it. An unbreakable desire and a deep longing to be able to become one with the music – to hear it, create it, play it.
She could recall, following a verbal reprimand, that her mother had taken her home. Not because she was still in trouble, but because she had something of greater interest for her child than the playground.
A violin.
She did not know at that age that her mother had been a highly skilled violinist, so close to attaining worldwide recognition, but had given up her career and lifelong passion to raise a daughter she never intended to have, her success quickly falling by the wayside.
But, for the young girl, she had found love.
And she nurtured it, treasured it, and perfected it.
When her mother died far too soon, leaving her with only an aunt, if she could even be called that, the young girl swore she would make music her legacy. For herself. And for her mother.
And never, never, would anybody get in her way.
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The Arcadian Academy of the Arts (or Arcadia), the first complex of its kind, was situated in central London, overlooking the Thames. Founded by Mathis Jakob Griffin, a well-renowned musician and composer in his era, Arcadia attracted the rawest of talent from all over the world. Although not initially built with the purpose of being a university, it offered extensive and professional academic pursual for scholars; music, dance, art, drama. There was an almost consistent hum of activity in the complex; if it wasn’t a theatre production or an art exhibition, it was musical performance or a festival. For those with less interest in competition, special events or academia, members had access to tutors, practice rooms and resources to fulfil any, and all, recreational desires. There was something for everyone.
Of course, everyone who had enough money to pay for it. The latter statement was absent from the pamphlet, but common knowledge all the same.
Lexa Woods was dwarfed by the parapets of stone, their stature far greater than could be depicted on a simple image in a prospectus manual. Gaining a membership for such a prominent community within the arts had been a right reserved for those with money; those who had been bred for this lifestyle; those who knew somebody who knew somebody. That’s how it had been for decades upon decades. Even standing outside the entryway to Arcadia was an experience attainable only in the furthest reaches of her dreams, until now. Now, the whole thing made her feel like nothing more than a ghost – a phantom. It wasn’t that she lacked money altogether but, to speak frankly, she was no elitist. Rendered invisible simply by comparison to those in her immediate proximity, Lexa wondered, not for the first or the last time, whether this had all been a drastic mistake. Was it really supposed to be her standing in the courtyard to the world’s most prestigious academy? Her gaze fell upon a huge slate-grey clockface situated proudly above the main entrance, prompting her that she was here on a schedule. She had 47 minutes to complete her registration and find her newly assigned tutor – tasks that may have been executed far easier had she possessed the slightest idea where she was going. In stark contrast to feeling invisible only seconds before, Lexa caught herself feeling quite conspicuous as the only individual that seemed incapable of deciding exactly where she was heading. Usually, as somebody who prided herself on precision, the latter prospect had never been an issue.
Deciding the most sensible option would be to ask at the reception, Lexa stepped into the atrium of the building before her, realising very quickly that there was no reception within her immediate vicinity. The long corridors swallowed her as she weaved her way between groups of people. She was certain it shouldn’t have been this difficult to find the registration desks – surely.
It was highly likely that she was lost.
“You look lost.”
Lexa turned at the sound of an American voice, finding herself face to face with a young woman. She recalled that the voice was one easily picked out of a crowd – particularly in England. She was wearing an amused smile as she threw her long blonde hair over her shoulders. To avoid embarrassing herself, Lexa bypassed the remark and continued walking straight forwards, making no attempt to interact with the girl. She was exactly the sort of girl Lexa couldn’t afford to make friends with. Not with a charm like that. Not with a smile like that.
“You’re going the wrong way.” The blonde called out, cheerfully.
Lexa found this remark particularly irritating, and she glanced behind her, “Not that I doubt your omniscience, but…”
“But you doubt my omniscience.”
Maybe it was the slow-building anxiety currently steeping her stomach with nausea, or maybe it was the unsolicited interaction from the young woman, but Lexa found her muscles grasping at her bones in rising agitation.
36 minutes.
She didn’t have time for this.
“Excuse me, I have to go.” Lexa attempted to push on through the corridor, deciding it would be easier to find an official member of staff to speak with rather than the young woman currently grinning at her predicament like a Cheshire cat.
“Go where? To register?”
Lexa hesitated, choosing to turn and carefully study the girl who was idling down the corridor behind her, seemingly under no time constraints herself. She knew she was being rude, but social conduct had never been one of her strong-suits. The concept of ‘friends’ wasn’t one she was especially familiar with. She wasn’t here to like or be liked. Plus, there was something about this one’s self-confidence that irked her.
“Okay…” The girl raised an eyebrow, “… Not that I’m making any more assumptions. But, if you were hypothetically going to register, then you might theoretically go back down the corridor, take a right. And, you know, maybe take a left.” She then lowered her voice, conspiratorially, “And then another right.”
Lexa simply inclined her head, lips pursed, and proceeded in the suggested direction, despite the protests of her pride. She heard the blonde laugh quietly to herself as she walked away. Deciding she didn’t have the time to continue being frustrated with the world and its inhabitants, she focused instead on not making herself later than she already was.
Thankfully, within 28 minutes, Lexa had managed to register and go on to memorise a good portion of the grounds on her way to meet her new tutor. The rest of the map would have to wait until she was safely back within her accommodation that evening.
Scanning her fob across the reader, Lexa pushed open a huge polished door and stepped inside. A frosted glass door at the end of the corridor awaited her attention, a familiar name printed in legible bold font at eye-level.
With a steady hand, Lexa rapped her knuckles against the door, stepping back to be greeted. The door opened after a few moments and a woman stood before her, opposing her every expectation.
“Hello, I believe I have an appointment at half past eleven with Ms Crainn.”
The woman was tall, a similar stature to Lexa herself, dark blonde hair piled atop her head. Her eyes, sharp and alert scanned the young woman before her with refined interest, and in a well-spoken English accent, she replied, “Yes. I believe you do.”
Had Lexa been the sort to feel easily intimidated by others, she might have been inclined to shrink back a step or two. But, as it was, Lexa had been exposed to scrutiny more times than she’d care to admit. Right when Lexa started to consider the possibility that the lady examining her at present was going to turn her away, she made a sweeping gesture with her arm, “You might as well come in. And you might as well call me Anya. I don’t do formalities.”
“Thank you.” Despite her natural aversion to unnecessary social connection, Lexa gave herself a gentle reminder that the frightening woman identifying herself as Anya was going to help her shape her entire future. This was a connection she would be required to forge, and she planned on doing whatever was necessary.
“Alexandra Woods, is it?”
“Lexa.” She corrected.
Anya nodded knowingly, dropping down into a comfortable beanbag and indicating for Lexa to resume the beanbag opposite, “Right, but presumably you’re related to the Alexandra Woods?”
“She was my mother.”
“And your teacher, too?”
Lexa inclined her head.
“I know a little of your background, Lexa.” Thus far, Anya gave no pretences that she was anything other than direct. Lexa said nothing and simply counted the slow seconds of silence until Anya finally spoke again. “I know you haven’t bought your way in here. Your mother gave up her entire career to raise you alone. As I understand it, you have a gift like she did.”
If Lexa was sensitive to the subject of her deceased mother, she certainly didn’t betray it.
“I suppose that’s subjective.”
“Is it?” Anya seemed surprised, offended, even.
“I believe so.”
“Either you’re just being modest, or you don’t think you deserve to be here.” Her tone was clipped; harsh. The temperature dropped. Again, Lexa said nothing.
“Whether subjective, or not, you were selected by Jake Griffin himself to attend Arcadia. Do you think perhaps he was mistaken? Do you think maybe he intended for somebody else to come here instead of you? Could it be that Jake Griffin did not hear you playing that evening in Washington? That he heard somebody else and mistook them for you?” There was something fierce in Anya’s eyes as she leaned forwards, her words pricking Lexa’s skin like hot needles, “If you think that there’s even the slightest possibility you don’t deserve to be here, you can walk your arse right out of my office and never come back.”
Lips parted, ever so slightly, Lexa inhaled. Her new tutor certainly knew how to make an impression.
“So,” Anya steadied herself with a slow breath, tone smoothing like silk, “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to consider your answer very carefully, okay? Do you, Lexa Woods, believe you deserve to be here?”
The light brown intensity behind Anya’s stare could have made Lexa fold. For a moment, she let the words wash over her. Did she deserve to be here?
Did she?
Jake Griffin, the head of the entire complex – grandson of the Mathis Jakob Griffin, had heard her music. By a remarkable miracle, he had heard her perform back in Washington DC at some minimalistic concert, and had actively sought her out to offer her a membership in Arcadia. Why? Because he believed she deserved it. Did Lexa believe it, though? Lexa had very little in terms of wealth. She didn’t run in the same circles as the other scholars and attendees.
She had, however, dedicated her entire life to music. She had practiced until her fingers were blistered to the bone, until her arm was aching to the point where she could barely lift it anymore, and even then, she hadn’t stopped. She had perhaps worked harder than the majority of people in the entire academy, and she was ready for her music to be heard.
She was ready to begin her legacy.
“Yes.” She concluded, resolutely, “I do.”
Anya’s expression gave away very little of her thoughts at Lexa’s response. She only inclined her head, almost imperceptibly, her fingertips pressing together like temple spires.
“There are people here who will tell you that you do not deserve this, Lexa. There are people who will look down on you. Some may even pose as your friends. Amongst the pleasantries of a place like this, you will find it holds a darkness that can all but consume you if you let it. You are here to receive tuition and push yourself to your absolute limits. You are here because you deserve to be, but nobody else is going to tell you that, and out of everybody here, you are going to have to work the hardest to prove it.”
Lexa caught herself absorbing every word as though they were revelations.
“You speak as if you have experienced that yourself.” She observed, her eyes meeting Anya’s without shame.
Then, to Lexa’s surprise, a catlike grin worked its way onto her new tutor’s mouth, “Yes. Jake Griffin found me, too.”
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Lexa wasted very little time in familiarising herself with the areas of the academy that would be of the most use for her. Her accommodation was grander than she could’ve imagined, and the knowledge that she was paying for it at a discounted price (a pleasant perk of first year membership) was enough to make her sick. She could afford the expense of living, just about, but if she was to remain an attendee of Arcadia, she would have to seek other lodgings outside of the main complex once the year was over. She could barely imagine the concept of paying the cost of membership on top of everything else – internally, she thanked Jake Griffin for behaving as if she was doing him the favour by accepting a paid-for space within Arcadia. Fortunately, her place was within a 10-minute walking distance of the music sector, which made life extensively easier.
Lexa quickly discovered her first haunt once exiting Anya’s office block. The Soundhouse, a huge cubic building with an exterior that resembled a cushioned black quilt, possessed numerous soundproofed practice rooms with varying equipment set up for each group of users; pianos, microphones, amplifiers, drumkits, et cetera. Lexa would go on to favour the room she and Anya were to have their lessons in; situated on the top floor, a room with glossy wooden flooring, a sleek grand piano so well-kempt that Lexa could see her reflection in the polish, and the stretch of a flawlessly mirrored wall. The acoustics were enough to push a wave of shivers down her spine when she so much as plucked a single string.
The second building Lexa familiarised herself with was one halfway between the Soundhouse and the Royal Victoria Music Hall (which soon became the third building she befriended). The Orion Arms. A devastatingly important establishment, if not a little overpriced on weekends.
The final area she became familiar with was The Commons. Essentially, it was just a library, and a very large one at that. She wondered why the British insisted on such fanciful names; what was wrong with just calling the damn thing “The Library”?
When she wasn’t in the aforementioned edifices, she would be exploring the city streets or mapping out new routes to run. Generally speaking, the largest portion of her time was spent in the practice rooms. Everything else was secondary, tertiary, even.
By the end of her first fortnight, Lexa efficiently picked up a favourable routine. She would meet with Anya thrice weekly, and would access the practice rooms late at night to avoid seeing other bodies anywhere near her. Thus far, she had done well to avoid forming any sort of connections with anybody aside from Anya. She was content for her friendships to extend no further beyond the reaches of holding a door open for somebody walking behind her.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
And that would be all.
And that would be something Lexa was more than happy with.
For now, at least.
Until something, or somebody, threw an inevitable spanner into the works.
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Hatred is a concept often so sweetly construed as romantic; dramatic; Shakespearean. One could argue along those lines that hatred is a vital component of love – after all, without experiencing one, would you be able to feel the equalling impact of the other? To love somebody so powerfully, and to be betrayed as such, could lead a broken heart to hate. But at least that soul has loved, first.
Or, it may be argued, to feel hatred in its most rudimentary state, stripped bare down to the very core of its true nature, is to disconnect entirely from the purity of love. Surely, the two could never be cohabitants in one heart. How could a person give so compassionately to one and wish for death upon another?
Two sides to the same coin?
One Yin, one Yang?
Perhaps one may hate in the name of love; a barrier; protection. Save yourself from loving the wrong thing, the wrong person. Turn the sweet to bitter, vow to destroy that which has not yet been formed.
Maybe.
Or maybe choose to be vulnerable. Choose to show compassion to that which could so easily be despised. Choose to nurture. Choose to nourish.
Choose to show that, in the wayside of toxicity, there is an antidote to such a poison.
For hatred pierces the soul and turns crimson blood to black.
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It didn’t matter when Clarke Griffin first experienced the heavy-handed harness of hate. It didn’t matter. It was something she had felt before, and it was something she could not bear to feel again. Of course, she’d had a blessed upbringing; never wanting for anything, not really. Two devoted parents who loved her, a beautiful younger sister, a passion for creativity and knowledge. How could she possibly find it within herself to believe she was hard-done-by? When something bad happened, sometimes there was nothing that could be done about it except to let it go. Even if the fury and the resentment still clutched at her skin; even if it took every ounce of strength she had left, it had to go. How would she ever move past this, how could she ever be happy, if all that remained in her heart was hatred?
At the age of 22, moving across the waters of her Southern home in America over to the tiny empire of the British could have been exactly the sort of fresh start she needed. Someplace she could lose herself in, focus everything she had left on building, on creating, on experiencing.
Alternatively, she could lose herself in all of the above, and the even very act of doing so could just ruin her instead.
The Arcadian Academy of the Arts (or Arcadia) … Who cared about the rest of the booklet, anyway? Clarke fully intended on exploring absolutely everything Arcadia had to offer her without a printed textual guide. Besides, there were undoubtedly a great many perks of being Mathis Jakob Griffin’s great-granddaughter: free tickets to any, and all, events, out of hours access to any, and all, buildings, and pleasing penthouse accommodation in the centre of the entire complex.
It took Clarke a little under a week to establish a network of like-minded people, engage herself in a healthy routine, and learn new skills and experiences with the extensive resources at her fingertips.
It was, in a word, perfect.
Surrounded constantly by talent, colours, art, music, and beauty, Clarke was utterly in her element. Plus, she’d managed to keep her identity as a Griffin relatively under wraps, aside from those she was closest to. It wasn’t an active choice to begin with; it wasn’t that she believed herself to be some huge undercover celebrity, although Arcadia did attract numerous famous faces. But, if anything, she wanted to avoid people placing expectations on her, or hating her just because. It was easier for Clarke. People looked at her art, and not at her. They could recognise her work from a mile off, but give her a blank smile when passing her in the street.
For a year, she followed the linear process of her happiness; work hard, play hard, various other relevant cliché mottos, and so on.
And for a while, it worked. It was okay. She could forget about the reasons why she’d moved in the first place. She could prosper. She could live freely.
And then, without any sort of warning, everything changed. It wasn’t immediate, but it wasn’t gradual enough to go unnoticed. It was enough to remind Clarke that there was a darkness within her, as there was in everyone, and that such a darkness could ruin her.
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There was something about her creations that set her apart. Perhaps it was the way she captured the quietest of thoughts in somebody’s expressions, just by examining the dimmest crease in their forehead. Or, perhaps it was the way she replicated the slouch of their shoulders. Maybe even the proud puff of their chest. Everything told a story. Even if somebody believed they could conceal theirs, it only made the plotline more interesting, more telling.
How one person’s smile could change from one millisecond to the next, and how that same smile could betray anything but joy. How somebody’s stare could be so impenetrable, so blank and so concrete, and how that same stare could express an entire universe of devastation. She saw people.
She saw people.
Read them.
She had devoted years to studying body language, facial expressions, human emotion. And it paid off.
Usually.
“So… how was the exhibition?”
Clarke slid into an unoccupied booth at the back of The Orion Arms pub, motioning for her companions to join her, one hand holding onto her glass of house ale and her other resting atop her thigh. She turned to the young man making space for himself beside her.
“Good.” Clarke nodded, responding to the question with a nod of confirmation, “Yeah, I mean, it was alright. I didn’t submit anything.”
With dark eyebrows raised, he rested a toned arm on the table, his sleeve rolled to the elbow, “Really? Why?”
Clarke just shrugged, smiling faintly, “To be honest, Wells, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, really. There will be others.”
Wells inclined his head, wishing he possessed even a fraction of Clarke’s natural ability to read others as if they were nothing more complicated than a child’s colouring book.
“What about you?” He changed the subject, turning to the girls sitting across the table, “What are you working on at the moment, Ray?”
“Dissertation… and I want to end it all…” The brunette ran a hand through her hair, staring deeply into the bottom of her glass as though the gin contained the answers to all of her problems. It probably contained a good few of them, in fairness.
“Dark.” Wells concluded with a sympathetic expression of pain on his features, “I might’ve got some spare arsenic if you need it to flavour your gin.”
“I mean, I was talking about ending the dissertation, but thanks, anyway.”
“Yeah, but it’s your own fault for enrolling in a bloody degree, isn’t it? You could have done exactly what you’re doing now but without all the stress of actual work.” Octavia’s accent was initially passable as English, but Clarke had quickly noticed the subtle way she curled her R’s and shaped her vowels when they’d first met. She had been informed, after making various incorrect assumptions about Australia and such, that Octavia was in fact Irish by birth, but had moved across to England in her early teens to attend private school.
“Yes, because some of us can’t waltz in front of a camera, flash a smile or a tit, and get hired to be a leading role in the next goddamn blockbuster.”
Clarke laughed, quietly, “Have you not tried flashing a tit, Raven?”
“I’ve considered it.” She replied, sucking moodily on her straw.
“Any time you want an audience to practice in front of, let me know.”
“Surely, you see enough tits as it is.” Octavia nudged Clarke’s foot under the table, “Not that I’m insinuating you to be a slag, by the way–”
“–although it is a topic we could put up for debate at some point–”
“–but you draw a lot of naked people. Don’t you get your titty fix doing that?”
“Absolutely.” Clarke raised an eyebrow, provocatively, “It was only yesterday that I was drawing your tits, wasn’t it, Wells?”
“And what a marvellous pair he has.” Raven interjected as Wells purposely flexed each side of his chest to prove her point.
“They’re enough to make Raven green with envy.” Octavia hid her teasing smirk behind the rim of her pint glass.
“And, as if on cue, look who’s just come through the door. Maybe we could invite her into our conversation about your tits.” Clarke suggested, indicating to the entrance where the subject in question stepped into the pub, easily a head taller than most other females in there.
Raven glanced over her shoulder and rolled her eyes almost immediately, “I honestly have no idea why you push this.”
“You did call her hot when you were drunk, once.” Octavia offered, with an angelic smile.
“Yes, once! Jesus, not that I have anything against you homos,” she gestured to Clarke, “but I’m quite partial to penis.”
Clarke scoffed in amusement, “Is that how you identify now? Hi, I’m Raven Reyes and I’m partial to penis.”
“Quite partial.” Wells corrected, happy to climb aboard the mockery train.
“Of course, Wells sides with Clarke.” Raven groaned, finishing off her gin.
“That’s only because Clarke is quite partial to his occasional penis, aren’t you?” Octavia grinned, waggling her eyebrows between both her and Wells.
“I will not dignify that abominable rumour with a response,” Clarke rolled her eyes, “and back to the subject at hand, would you care to join me at the bar for a drink, Ray?”
“I really can’t fathom this obsession.” Raven was muttering, shaking her head.
“But you are out of gin.” Clarke observed.
Raven acknowledged this truth with a small nod, “You’re not wrong. Okay, Hannah Montana, I will humour you this once because, and only because, I need more gin to cope with your bloody American antics.”
“I contest that statement. My antics have nothing to do with my nationality. Also, Hannah Montana was from Franklin, and I was born in Clarksville. Yes, yes, my name is Clarke and I was born in Clarksville. How clever. Congratulations to the ingenuity of my parents.”
Raven raised her eyebrows, her eyes lighting up mildly, “That actually makes a lot of sense, but I don’t actually know where either of those places are.”
Slapping on her thickest Southern accent, Clarke winked at her friend as she pulled her towards the bar, “Tennessee, baby.”
As the two approached the bar, the woman (who had unwittingly been a topic of their conversation) turned towards them with a feigned roll of her eyes, “Oh, excellent. Just what I needed to spoil my evening.”
Raven was quick to retaliate, “Yeah, right. Like we aren’t the most exciting thing that’s happened to you all day.”
“Not here all by your lonesome, are ya, Anya?” Clarke asked moving to stand on the other side of her, ordering herself a pint of the good stuff.
“Actually, no. I’m here with my most recent protégé, but she’s just nipped to the ladies’.”
“Haven’t you corrupted enough women already?”
Clarke bit back a laugh at Raven’s comment. She brought this entire thing on herself, whether it was knowingly or not.
Anya merely raised an eyebrow, watching the young brunette with an impassive stare, “There aren’t enough women in this world for me to corrupt, Reyes.”
“Well, you might as well buy me a gin, then.” She sighed, taking a seat on the barstool beside Anya and resting her chin in her hand.
“Oh, might I?” Anya tilted her head to one side, expectantly, “What will I get in return?”
“Depends how much gin you buy me. Come on, I’ll have a double.”
Clarke suppressed her glee at the interaction between the two, knowing there was likely very little substance behind the entire thing, but grateful for the entertainment all the same.
As she supped her pint, she could feel the shift beside her without needing to look up. It was initially the scent she caught first. Something delicate, pleasant, musky. In response to the new presence, Clarke turned her head by way of greeting, her eyes settling on the familiar face she’d seen a couple of weeks ago. It could’ve been a year ago, three even. It didn’t matter. Clarke never forgot a face.
Although, admittedly, hers wasn’t the sort of face one would be likely to forget.
“Hey, there.” She offered the newcomer a friendly smile, “You’re looking significantly less lost today.”
A pair of pale green eyes slid to meet the gentle blue in Clarke’s. Instant recognition passed over her gaze, but if anything, her jaw only tightened. To Clarke’s surprise, the young woman (no older than her, presumably) tore her gaze away. Clarke had seen this sort of behaviour before; some of Arcadia’s attendees were avoidant of any kind of interaction with others. It was sometimes a narcissism thing, and it was sometimes a shy thing. Appealing to the latter theory, Clarke tried again, hoping to help Anya’s “latest protégé” feel a little more at ease. Arcadia, although full of bright lights and possibility, had a dark side to it, too. It could cast shadows without warning, indulge isolation and inadequacy.
“I’m Clarke, by the way. Can I get you a drink, or something?” It was said with platonic intent. It rarely took longer than a few seconds for her to get someone out of their protective shell.
The young woman stiffened beside her at the question, “I can get my own.”
“Oh, sure, I didn’t mean–”
“–Look, I’m not here to make friends.”
“You realise you’re standing in a social circle at a social venue, right?” She teased, ignoring the uncertainty that prodded at her chest. She was direct, at least. Clarke had to give her that.
“As far as I’m concerned, I’m standing at a bar, having a drink. That, for me, isn’t a social experience.”
Not one to be so easily disheartened, Clarke inclined her head, swayed gently by the alcohol in her system to get past the prickly exterior of the woman standing beside her, “Sure, but you’re having a drink with Anya? So, that’s halfway to being social, isn’t it?”
Irritation flickered over her expression, and she turned, getting a good look at the breezy young woman before her. It wasn’t the first time the blonde had been subject to such appraisal and it certainly wouldn’t be the last time, either. She waited patiently for the dark-haired woman to finish her judgements. “What do you want from me?”
“Want from you?” Clarke raised both eyebrows and shook her head in mild confusion, “I don’t want anything from you. I just wanted to help you feel–”
“–To be clear, I don’t need help and most certainly not from somebody like you.”
“Ah, you’re one of those.”
“One of those?” She repeated, heat whipping the green of her eyes, angular jaw flexing, “I am not one of anything.”
Clarke forced herself to look beyond the rising resentment in her chest. It wasn’t like she was asking the newcomer to stay up late so they could paint each other’s nails, or anything. Taking a steady breath, she grounded herself to respond as civilly as she could, continuing with the conversation more out of stubbornness than anything else.
“So, you’re not one of those who assumes every person they meet is going to try and sabotage their future?”
“And you’re not one of those who would try and do that?”
“No.” She said, quietly, “I’m not. Sure, they exist. But that’s exactly the reason why, in a place like this, you might find that you need friends. It’s all rosy, until it’s not.”
Evidently, the brunette standing stationary beside her thought nothing to her advice and answered dismissively, her voice emanating as much warmth as a solitary stone as she subjected the blonde to a critical once-over, “I’ll pass.”
Clarke should have simply nodded her head, accepted the rejection, and continued on with her night without any further malice. As it was, she felt herself pulled deeper. Maybe it was the way the brunette’s eyes had lingered emptily on her skin.
“Are you sure?” It was her final offer, and the question lodged in her throat as she asked it.
As if to slap her in the face, the young woman was silent, the cold intensity of her stare battling with the fire in Clarke’s. The brunette’s arrogance left her mouth burning and the dormant taste of hate rolled over her tongue in a bitter wave as it woke. She despised the feeling, the way her heart pounded angrily against her ribs. Films and books often left out the parts of hate that took away the humanity in one’s heart. Often left out the emptiness and the restlessness. With eyes painted almost black, Clarke focused on the cold face before her; smooth olive skin and a pale green stare void of anything except arrogance and indifference. She might’ve even considered the girl before her attractive had she shown even an ounce of warmth in her character. The worst part about it, was that it was an overreaction. Clarke had no right to feel such discord towards her – it was unwarranted. But she did.
Her father had taught her only kindness, and her mama had taught her resilience.
And such a conversation shouldn’t have really required either.
After a moment of unbearable friction, the blonde just nodded and pushed away from the bar. Hardly able to stop herself from suppressing the fury brimming on the back of her tongue, Clarke rested a hand lightly on Anya’s arm as she walked by, “I hope her talent truly is exceptional. It will need to be.” She’d managed to keep it calm, and even sound sincere as she spoke the words. She’d meant it.
Raven was tailing her, biting back her inappropriate laughter, “Jesus. Could’ve cut that tension with a knife.”
“I felt like cutting something with a knife, and it wasn’t the tension, believe me.”
Raven scoffed as they joined the others at the table, “So, shall we start placing bets on how long it will be before you tear each other’s clothes off?”
“Sure, if you’re set on parting with your money.” Clarke placed down her glass, casting a glance back over at the bar where Anya stood with her “protégé”. The young woman was biting down on her lower lip, staring at the countertop surface. Then, without warning, her glacial gaze shifted. For the briefest of moments, as their eyes met again, Clarke swore she saw a hint of regret.