You have blood on your hands. Black blood, nightblood, Lexa's blood wells up between your fingers, unstoppable. You smeared it on her face as you took into yourself her last breath. You left it on her eyelids when you pressed them closed.

Titus took the tech, then Titus took her. He took her from you, and all you can do is watch him, blood dripping from your fingers.

Black blood floods the tiny cracks in your hands, seeping between your cuticles and nails. Ordinarily you would have killed him and found a way to revive the fallen, but instead, you are pierced by Lexa's death as much as if Titus's bullet had found its intended home.

The bullet, the tech, and Lexa have all frozen you in place. You rub your eyes.

And the blood stings.

You barely feel Murphy take your arm. His words echo in your ears, but you can't make them out. Faces are rushing by you. You find yourself clinging to a horse, Lexa's blood your warpaint.

Your cuticles, your eyelids crawl with Lexa's blood. Lexa's blood crawls into you, into your pores.

Sound taken in by your ears still bounces off your mind, but clear voices sound Inside you. Lexa's voice, other voices. Images, sounds sneak in, some you recognize as memories.

Some you don't.

Murphy has stopped your horse and is trying to say something to you, but traversing astronomical distance and geological time to hear him daunts you. And you need the sound of her voice. Your skin crawls with need. Then you hear her, you hear her— it's not a memory—

"Clarke. Go to your people."

You snap back, hear Murphy. You must rejoin your people, must fix what broke in your absence. You must unite the Arkadians. You must bring peace.

When Indra blocks your path, you dismount and go to her. Okteivia appears behind her.

More than your skin is crawling now. Your body, rife with with life, grows stronger as you stand.

"Indra," you say, "let us pass."

"I cannot do that, Wanheda. There is a kill order."

You engage her eyes with this new strength.

"You have not killed your Second. Leave us."

"Heda," she says, "Wanheda," she corrects, "there is a kill order on you, from Skaikru."

You go very still.

"Murphy," you say, "Go to them. We need you inside the fence."

"What makes you think I'd be your mole?"

"You know why. Just go."

You let the words flow through you, yours and hers, strategy and strength, purpose. This won't be vengeance. Jus drein nou jus daun. But there will be a price to pay. The man has given you no choice there. Murphy dismounts and runs.

Indra takes the knife from her waist, makes a cut in her hand, and kneels, hand outstretched. You take her blade, cut your own hand, and clasp hers. You raise her to stand.

You both bleed black.