Chapter Text
This is how Clarke Griffin dies: with her mouth full of snow, and the hazy, foggy thought that when she closes her eyes this time, she won't ever wake up.
Except she doesn't die on this cold winter morning, stomach empty and bones made brittle by exhaustion. A hunting party from a neighboring village happens to be nearby, and they find her, unconscious and already half buried in fresh snow, under the big oak where she fell for the last time.
And so Clarke does wake up, disoriented and weak, and she's not in heaven or in hell, but in a small dark room that smells of wood fire and salted fish.
She closes her eyes again and doesn't have the energy to cry, but she feels no relief about the fact that she's alive, just a sickening wave of disappointment.
It takes her a full month to recover, and she stays in the village while her body heals. She has nowhere else to go.
The room she's been allotted, she learns after a few days of feverish sleep, is part of a modest wooden hut that belongs to the woman who found her, a grouchy old warrior named Aquia. Her hostess doesn't seem to like her very much, and sometimes Clarke wonders why she's been allowed to stay, why these people care about her survival at all when she doesn't – but she never asks, and nobody tells her.
The Grounders are well aware of who she is – she doesn't even have to tell them her name. But they don't comment on the fact that the Sky People's fearless leader was found half-dead so far away from her camp, in the first frost of winter, and for that, Clarke is grateful.
Well, most of them don't comment on it. Aquia has no qualms letting Clarke know exactly how idiotic of an idea it was to run away on her own just before winter. She grumbles about it in English while bringing Clarke healing potions or clear broth, and spits acidic words in Trigedasleng that are probably insulting Clarke's brain, Clarke's judgment, and her overall worth as a human being, but Clarke can't find it in herself to mind.
Truth is, she prefers Aquia's constant annoyed muttering to the rest of the villagers' impassible silence. It distracts her, and god knows she needs it.
The village is very small – maybe sixty people, and that's counting the children. They don't seem to have a leader, the adults convening in the big building in the central square every time an important decision has to be made. Clarke is a bit baffled at first, but she supposes it's as good an organization as any.
Aquia takes her to her first village meeting about two weeks after she was brought in, when she's finally strong enough to walk on her own.
There, under the scrutiny of dark eyes and imperturbable faces, Clarke is asked about her skills. They want to know how she can contribute. Winters are harsh, they say, we need everyone's help if we want to survive. She feels dark laughter bubble in her chest, and the acrid taste of bile in her mouth. Is genocide an acceptable skill, she wonders.
There's a small voice inside her head whispering about medicine, but she shuts it down. She doesn't want anything from her past, she's no healer and certainly no leader anymore, she just wants to be Clarke.
“I have no skills”, she says to the assembled Grounders. “But I understand that I need to help out, and I'm willing to learn.”
A few people nod, some look at her with disbelief. A young man is smiling at her reassuringly. Aquia grunts something in Trigedasleng that Clarke is pretty sure means “useless”. All in all, they seem to accept her answer.
And so Clarke is put to work.
The first week she works inside, still too weak to bear the brunt of winter's icy winds. The morning after the village meeting, Clarke is sitting in Aquia 's common room, on the bench near the fire, lost in thoughts, when the old woman comes in through the heavy front door, throws some fishing nets on her lap, and settles besides her. She slaps a needle in Clarke's palm, and, without further explanation, she starts working on a ragged hole in one of the nets.
Clarke looks at the needle in her hand, then at the net draped over her knees. She has no idea what she's supposed to do. Her only experience with needle work is stitches, and she has a feeling this won't be applicable to mending fishing nets.
Aquia sighs and lightly slaps the back of Clarke's head, catching her attention.
“Watch. Learn”, she grumbles. “Make yourself useful.”
So Clarke watches her. Aquia's deft fingers work incredibly fast on the strings, tying knots and looping lines, and it's fascinating to observe. She looses herself in the easy rhythm, until Aquia stops and swiftly hits her on the head again.
“Your turn”, she says, pointing at Clarke's own abandoned net.
It takes her three days to mend her fishing net.
Aquia's teaching style consists mostly of exasperated swats to the back of her head when Clarke gets distracted, and her usual stubborn silence, but Clarke feels oddly at ease with her during those long and sometimes frustrating hours. Maybe it's because Aquia patiently shows her, time and time again, how to hold her needle and how to loop the lines to form a perfect shape, correcting her fingers meticulously until Clarke finds the right gesture on her own. Maybe it's because when she successfully repairs the first of many holes, there's almost the shadow of a smile on Aquia's lips.
When Clarke presents the fishing net for inspection, and after Aquia nods, quietly appraising her work, she feels a strange sort of peace come to her. It feels good to fix something instead of destroying it.
She asks Aquia if she can go to the river and try out the newly repaired fishing net and the old woman laughs for a good five minutes, a raucous, gravelly sound that fills the small hut.
“You would have to break the ice first, sky girl.”
Clarke lets embarrassment wash over her, and then she laughs too. She feels light and young, unexpectedly, in a way that she hasn't felt since she landed on this ravaged earth, since her year in solitary confinement, since her father's death. And then, as painful as a punch to the gut, guilt is congealing in her stomach, obstructing her throat like a thick coat of ice, paralyzing, stifling.
It's the first time she's laughed since she left Camp Jaha, and she knows, with a steely sort of resignation, that she doesn't deserve even this ghost of happiness.
Clarke has learned her lesson: you don't fish with nets in the winter. But she still wants to know how fish finds its way to her plate four days a week, and she starts asking questions. After a few days of pestering Aquia and every Grounder she encounters, the young man who smiled at her during her first village meeting agrees to take her ice-fishing. His name is Abel, and he looks to be just a few years older than her. His dark curly hair and boyish smile remind her briefly of Bellamy – before she resolutely swallows back the memories.
Abel is a patient teacher – he shows her how to choose her spot on the river, where the ice is thick enough to support their weight, how to cut a hole with the impressive saw he brought with them, how to put the bait and how to jiggle the rod ever so lightly to catch the fish's attention without scaring it off. There is so much to learn, and Clarke has millions of questions that he answers eagerly. She feels herself buzzing with something close to excitement when they're finally done with the preparations.
And then, comes the waiting part. Immobile, in the cold wind, Clarke is reminded of that time, not so long ago, when she was wandering in the woods on her own, barely surviving, until she fell in the snow and found herself too weak to get up.
She remembers dying – she remembers death tainting her hands too, and if she keeps shuddering, it's not really because of the cold.
They catch three fish eventually, and Clarke pulls one out of the water herself. She's gazing at the animals convulsing on the ice, when Abel presents her with a knife ; she recoils, taken aback. He seems to realize that she has never gutted a fish before and he smirks, not without kindness, before showing her how to do it.
(Clarke looks at his knife tearing into the fish scales, and she shakes and shakes and she knows she won't be able to do that for a very long time.)
A week later, she's doing woodwork with Aquia in the central hut when words come that the Commander has been spotted nearby, and is expected to reach the village before sunset.
She lets the chisel and hammer fall from her hands, in shock, and the clanging of the metal tools on the ground draw Aquia's attention to her.
“What is the matter with you, sky girl?”
“I don't want to see her. I can't see her.”
Aquia raises an eyebrow. Clarke's hands feel clammy, her heart is beating erratically in her chest, anxiety and anger are blending under her skin in a dangerous mix threatening to explode. Aquia must notice how agitated she is, because she puts her tools down and gives her a serious look.
“You can go back home, if you wish. The Commander will probably talk to us here. You will most likely be left alone.”
So Clarke rushes back to Aquia's hut, and then into the small room where she sleeps. She sits on the hard mattress, draws her knees close to her chest, arms braced defensively against her shins.
She closes her eyes, and waits and waits and prays that Lexa will just go away and leave her alone.
She should be used to her prayers not being answered by now, but dread and bitterness still sit heavily in her chest when she hears a firm knock on the hut's main door.
Slowly, she comes out of her room, and goes to open the door. She lives with enough ghosts to know there is no use avoiding them.
Lexa stands on the other side, looking every bit like the last time she saw her, long coat and red sash and black lines under her eyes. There is no blood on her face anymore, but Clarke sees it anyway, dark red splattered across her cheekbones. It's a sight that has been haunting her dreams for two months now.
Lexa looks at her, and there's a hint of stupefaction in the minuscule space between her lips. There's relief too, floating like a shadow on her face when her eyes trail down along Clarke's body from her hair to her boots, like she's making sure that Clarke is whole in front of her.
It makes Clarke's skin crawl, the relief on Lexa's face, because she's anything but whole. So she crosses her arms firmly against her chest, and turns her spine into steel.
“Why are you here?”, she asks, spitting the words around a painfully clenched jaw.
“They told me you were alive, but I had to...”
Lexa doesn't finish her sentence, and Clarke doesn't say anything, lips stubbornly pressed together. Lexa straightens her shoulders, and looks squarely into Clarke's eyes.
“I am glad to find you well, Clarke.”
“I can't say the same, Commander.”
Lexa nods silently, face blank of emotions.
“I don't expect anything else.”
Clarke feels anger and frustration burning inside her, and she tightens her arms against her chest. The night has fallen outside, but she can see Aquia waiting quietly like a sentinel a few steps behind Lexa, and the warrior's presence unexpectedly soothes the tension coiling in her body.
“Well, if you know what to expect from me, you won't be surprised that I want you to get out.”
“Why have you left your people, Clarke?”, Lexa asks, instead of complying.
“I don't have to explain myself to you.”
“You saved them. And yet, you left them.”
Lexa's words are like bullets exploding in her stomach, they burn and devastate and deafen her ears like gunshots would. She feels sick, and furious that Lexa has the audacity to come and question her like that, when she should be on her knees begging for forgiveness. Not that she intends on forgiving her, ever.
“I told you to get out”, Clarke growls as she takes a step towards Lexa, hands tightened into fists. Lexa doesn't move, and Clarke finds herself so close to her that she can feel Lexa's warm breath on her face.
There's a sudden flash in her mind, of Lexa's lips, Lexa's tongue, Lexa kissing her, all sweet and tender, and Clarke shakes her head, disgusted with herself.
“I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to see you”, she whispers viciously to Lexa, who is staring at her with carefully crafted indifference. “I want you to leave, and to never come back unless you want to die with a knife in your guts.”
“You may hate me, Clarke, but you should not threaten me”, Lexa whispers back, voice dangerous.
“Fuck you”, and Clarke punctuates her words with a brutal push, making a surprised Lexa take a step back.
It feels good, so good, and she raises her fists to push her again, but Lexa is expecting it this time, and catches her wrists before she touches her.
“Enough!”, she orders, and when Clarke struggles she tightens her grip, painfully so. “I said enough, Clarke”, she repeats, sternly, hey eyes flashing with anger.
“Let me go”, Clarke protests furiously, to no avail. Villagers are gathering around the commotion.
“Whatever feelings you have towards me, I am still the Commander of the twelve clans, and you will treat me as such.”
“I don't owe you anything”, Clarke snaps back, and there's hate simmering in her veins with an intensity she's never felt before.
“You live on my land, amongst my people”, Lexa replies. “You owe me respect.”
Clarke grits her teeth but doesn't respond, and after a second Lexa releases her hands. Lexa's face softens then, and she opens her mouth but Clarke has had enough of this conversation, enough of her.
She storms off towards the woods just outside the village, without looking back.
For a while, she just walks straight ahead, feet tripping on snow-covered roots, barely seeing anything under the moon's timid light. Clarke walks and walks, with no idea where she is going – the rage in her head is muffling every sound around her, every thought in her mind, like fog in the early morning enveloping the forest in a soft hush.
When Clarke feels calmer, she slows down, and finds herself in a small clearing in the woods. She is not dressed for a walk in the night, in the dead of winter, and she shudders violently, hiding her numb fingers in her armpits.
Her breathing is irregular, loud, almost painful, and she concentrates on regulating the flow of air in her lungs. She thinks of looping lines in a fishing net, again and again, of waiting patiently near the fishing rod as the sunlight shimmers on the ice, of the satisfying thump of the hammer hitting the chisel like a beating heart.
She's finally breathing normally again when she notices she's not alone, and she lets out an undignified yelp. Lexa is standing at the edge of the clearing, the end of her coat drenched from snow. Little puffs of white smoke come out of her mouth, and she looks almost like an apparition, in the dark and quiet forest.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You're following me?” Clarke asks, incredulous, between chattering teeth.
“I know you are upset, Clarke. But it is not safe for you to be alone in the woods at night.”
“Since when do you care about my safety?” Clarke bites back, slowly walking towards Lexa like a cat ready to pounce on its prey.
“I've always cared, Clarke”, Lexa says firmly, and Clarke laughs, without humor. It resonates gloomily in the silent forest.
“Really? Is that why you left me to die at Mount Weather? Is that why you left all my friends to die too? Because you cared so much?”
Lexa stays quiet, tilting her head to the side like she's gauging her, like she knows exactly what Clarke has to say and she's just waiting for the end of her reproach. It makes Clarke mad again, but this time, it's a cold, still kind of anger – maybe it's the wintery winds and the deadness of the trees around them that breed it in Clarke. Maybe it was always within her.
She wants to wipe the aloof mask off Lexa's face. She wants to hurt her, she wants to make her beg for mercy, like she desperately begged her not to leave at the foot of the mountain.
Clarke surges forward, and closes her hand around Lexa's throat, so violently that the other girl stumbles back, and finds herself pinned against a tree. Lexa's hands come pulling at Clarke's forearm, instinctively, but Clarke just squeezes her throat tighter, and she discerns fear in Lexa's clear green eyes, but also something like excitement.
Lexa's skin is warm against her icy fingers. She can feel the movement of her muscles when Lexa swallows – she can feel her erratic pulse on the side of her throat, and it's entrancing, the sudden feeling of power that ripples in her chest. Clarke presses the whole length of her body against Lexa who shivers, trapped between Clarke and a tree.
“I see you're not fighting back. You like that, Commander?”, Clarke murmurs hotly against Lexa's cheek.
“Clarke, let me go”, Lexa stutters, voice wavering against the pressure of Clarke's hand.
“We both know you could free yourself easily, if you wanted to. I'm not the skilled warrior, here.”
“I do not want to hurt you...”
“Bullshit! You like it, and there's no one around to see us.”
Clarke tightens her hold on Lexa's throat, fingers pressing on her windpipe until Lexa is coughing and gasping for air. Then Clarke releases her, and takes a step back. Lexa is leaning against the tree, cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes shining in the night. Unexpected desire is pooling in her lower stomach at the sight, and she swallows, staring at her.
“Have you thought of me, since you betrayed me?”
“Every day.”
“Did you think about me fucking you?”
“Clarke, I...”
But Clarke silences her with a hand cupping her crotch. Lexa bites her lip, and sends her a heavy look under hooded eyelids.
“What are you doing, Clarke?”
“What does it look like I'm doing?” Clarke answers with a smirk, while she undoes the straps of Lexa's coat.
“You do not have to give me this.”
Clarke scoffs. “I'm not giving you anything. I'm taking.”
And without warning, she pulls Lexa's pants down, along with her underwear, leaving her naked from the waist down in the cold air of the night. Lexa's breath hitches – from arousal or exposure to the cold, Clarke doesn't know, and almost doesn't care.
She trails a finger on Lexa's bare thigh, feeling the goosebumps, and the hard muscle underneath.
“You still haven't said no, Commander. Am I to believe you do want this?”
Lexa closes her eyes, and lets the back of her head hit the rough bark of the tree. Clarke draws patterns on her hip and her stomach, light and teasing.
“You need to tell me you want this, or I'll stop.”
Lexa glares at her but she complies, words hurriedly coming out of her mouth. “I want it.”
“Well then”, and Clarke roughly presses her palm on Lexa's clit. Lexa whimpers, softly, and Clarke's hand slips down to the wetness gathered at the entrance of her sex, teasing for only a moment, before she roughly pushes two fingers inside her.
Lexa closes her eyes again, hands gripping both sides of the tree behind her for support. The sight of her, waiting, offered like a human sacrifice, is almost too much. Clarke feels a deep sort of hunger gnawing at her, replacing the anger in her bones, and she starts fucking Lexa, hard and fast.
It doesn't take long before she has her moaning and squirming, hips rolling to meet her fingers. Their white breathes are mingling in the air around them, the forest is silent and ominous. Clarke wants to devour Lexa, she wants to spit her out, she wants to tear her apart and leave her as broken as she feels. She slams into her, relentlessly, her free hand gripping Lexa's hip, until Lexa catches it with trembling fingers and brings it to her throat instead.
They lock eyes for a long second, never saying a word. Clarke's fingers fit around Lexa's pale throat like they were always meant to be here, and Clarke's fingers work inside her like they were always meant to be there too. It only takes a moment before Lexa is gasping and shaking through her orgasm– and Clarke feels the delightful vibrations of her pleasure in both hands.
Afterward, Clarke wipes her fingers on her pants as Lexa puts hers back on, and she feels cold and empty like the woods that surround them. Lexa is watching her, still leaning against the tree, too solemn, too still – Clarke can't look at her when she speaks.
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
Lexa pushes herself off the tree and walks to where Clarke is standing, a few steps away from the edge of the forest.
“I cannot give you what you need from me, Clarke. I cannot say I'm sorry, because I don't regret what I did.”
“You should.”
“No”, Lexa counters gently, “I shouldn't. And you shouldn’t regret what you did either.”
Lexa's words, the softness of her tone, feel like a blade cutting her skin open – like the knife tearing into the scales of a fish, scattering guts and fishbones on the immaculate ice – and suddenly there are tears in her eyes, accumulated guilt seeping out of her uncontrollably.
Clarke grits her teeth, ignoring the wetness on her cheeks. “I can't listen to you anymore. Goodbye, Lexa.”
And with that, she starts walking back to the village.
Aquia is sitting in front of the fire when Clarke comes in, pale and freezing, with dried tears on her face, and what a pathetic vision she must be, if Aquia's first expression is one of worry.
The old warrior takes one good look at her, before she beckons her near the fire, and Clarke kneels in front of the welcomed warmth without a word. Her hands are shaking when she raises them to the flames.
“Did the Commander do something to you?”, Aquia inquires in a low voice, and Clarke tries to talk, but as soon as she opens her mouth she starts crying, like an irrepressible force has finally been set free.
Her shoulders are shaking with each violent sob, she can barely breathe, and then suddenly she feels strong arms around her, and a careful hand on the back of her neck, and it takes her a second to realize that Aquia is holding her.
“You should have left me die”, Clarke manages between two hiccups. “I should be dead, I just want to be dead.”
“Your fight is not over, Clarke”, Aquia mutters back firmly. She presses Clarke harder against her bony shoulders, and Clarke cries and cries for what seems like an eternity.
When she's done, Aquia releases her and wipes her cheeks with her calloused fingers, before getting up. She comes back with fishing nets and sits back on the floor next to Clarke, who looks at her in disbelief.
“Seriously?”, Clarke grumbles, voice hoarse from crying, and Aquia smirks before swiftly slapping the back of her head.
“There's still work to be done, sky girl. Winter is not over yet.”