When the others looked at her, Lexa knew what their question was. She thought even Clarke asked it. Do you care that she came here because she had nowhere else to go?

Of course not. Of course not. Not when Clarke was safe and alive and healthy—

And yes. Because Clarke wasn't healthy on the inside and only part of her was alive and she wasn't safe from herself. And if Lexa had to choose between Clarke being with her, in Polis, like this, or her being back with her people, still with the fire inside her that Lexa remembered…

Well. She'd always been good at the hard choices.

"Do you forgive me?" Lexa asked once. It was in the morning after the first night, the day Clarke had arrived there and Lexa could believe she was only tired from the journey.

They'd eaten, bathed her, given her fresh clothes—the kind of clean, soft linens that could only be worn deep inside safety, where the Mountain Men had never set foot. Lexa had given her a room nearby her own, but not so nearby that Clarke had to encounter her if she didn't want to. But instead of taking that unfamiliar bed, Clarke had snuck into Lexa's room, curled up on the floor. Lexa had known she wouldn't be moved.

She'd taken the sheets off her bed, the pillow, wrapped some around Clarke and some around herself, and they'd gone to sleep on the same hard floor. "It was like this in detention," Clarke had said, but Lexa thought she might've been dreaming.

"Do you forgive me?" She asked it in the morning. After Clarke had had a good night's sleep. At least as good as Lexa could give her.

"It doesn't matter now."

It took Lexa a while to realize she wasn't talking about what had happened. She was talking about everything.

She put Clarke with the spinstresses, set her to work weaving. Clarke was good at it. Easier than sewing up wounds. She ate her meals and slept on her hard floor, not seeming to notice the rugs Lexa put down to make it softer, and when Lexa insisted, she learned the blade, the bow.

"For me," Lexa said, because even here, someone could come for them, and she couldn't guard Clarke. Just like she couldn't guard Costia. All she could do was give her a blade and teach her all she knew about it.

"I won't use it," Clarke said. Lexa thought she meant that she wouldn't go into battle, wouldn't hunt. It struck her later that as the enemy came for them, as the battle was joined, she could see Clarke not picking up a weapon. Just letting them have her life, since she didn't need it.

She was getting better though. Reclaiming her old strength. Clarke wasn't the kind of person to stay weak for long, even when the world let her. She sewed her clothes faster, engaged more with the rare few who came to her curious with questions about the Sky People. When Lexa forced her to spar, she fought harder, relished her victories. When Lexa gave her a knife, she carried it with her, even if only for carving.

So she healed, and Lexa waited. The more of herself Clarke got back, the more chance there was she would rediscover her anger. Hate Lexa once she was done hating herself.

Lexa watched her sleep. She wondered if today would be the day Clarke woke up with too much self-respect to love her.