Clarke wakes when her head falls off her shoulder and connects rather loudly with the side of the moving cart.

It's dark now, and Murphy is whistling something she can't make out. Lexa is still breathing raggedly, and Aden is curled up by her side, sandy blonde hair falling into his eyes as he sleeps.

Clarke stretches, rubbing the slight welt on her head, wincing in pain.

"How long was I asleep?" Murphy turns slightly to face her.

"A while," he says, shrugging his shoulders. Clarke blinks sleep out of her eyes, pulling herself to sit upwards as she takes in their surroundings.

"We should make camp," she says, "It's late." Murphy grunts.

"I really just want to get there. I'm sick of this starting and stopping," he groans out, rolling his eyes. Clarke bristles, suddenly defensive.

"You don't have to be here," she hisses, jabbing her finger into his side, "You're free to go. I don't need you. I don't particularly care what happens to you, so if this is inconvenient for you, you don't have to stay." Murphy's eyes narrow, lips upturned in a sneer.

"Well, well, look at that, the Princess shows her claws."

"Don't call me that," she grits through her teeth. Memories of Finn flood her mind – his sweet smile, the desperate feel of his hands roaming her body as they fucked in the bunker, overcome with emotion; the sound of his laugh, the cheekiness of his smirk, running into his arms in sheer relief at being alive. But then, the darker memories – hearing the gunshots, walking into a massacre, his breathless voice and relieved expression; I found you. And then, those last words, strained against her ear as he accepts his fate: Thanks, Princess.

Murphy chuckles low in his throat, "Touched a nerve, huh? Well tough shit, Princess. You do need me. If you want your psycho girlfriend to live, you need the extra person. You'd drive yourself into the dirt trying to do this yourself. Not that I care, obviously."

He smirks at the way she bares her teeth at the insult to Lexa.

"Fuck you," she growls, seeing red, pushing at his shoulders, and pulling at the reins to bring them to a stop. She shoves him hard off of the top of the cart, the commotion jerking Aden awake who stares bewilderingly at the scene unfolding before him.

Murphy barely lands on his feet, stumbling to keep his balance.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he shouts, advancing on her as she jumps down to the ground to join him.

"Just go!" Clarke yells in return, tears in her eyes even as her rage overtakes her, "If you don't like the way I do things, you're free to fuck off." Now it's his turn to shove her, and he does, hard, slamming her against the side of the cart. She pushes his hands from her shoulders, kneeing him in the groin. He doubles over, clutching his crotch as he hurls expletives at her.

"Go!" She shouts, giving him one last shove before she turns away.

He scrambles to his feet, jumping in front of her to head her off.

"Listen up, Princess," he smirks when she growls again at the nickname, "You need me and you know it. So suck it up."

"I don't need you," she denies, shaking her head vigorously, as if that will somehow make her statement truer. She knows he's right, but she doesn't particularly want to acknowledge it. She's angry, and Murphy is one of the last people she wants to be stuck with while trying to save someone she loves. It's easier to pretend she doesn't need someone she actively dislikes.

"Well, I've got nowhere else to go, so," Murphy trails off, averting his eyes as his nostrils flare in discomfort, a sudden quiet overtaking them, "You're stuck with me whether you like it or not, asshole."

"You're the asshole," she quips in return, but her previous anger at him has dissipated. It's suddenly become all too real to her that he is lonelier in this world than perhaps any other person she knows. Everyone has someone to lean on - everyone except Murphy. And suddenly her heart breaks a little for him.

If she had told the Clarke Griffin of almost four months ago, huddled in a tent with Bellamy as they contemplated what to do with an enraged posse of teenagers with Murphy at their head, demanding a ten year old girl to pay, (not for Wells' murder, but for Murphy's hanging), that she would find pity and sympathy for him…that Clarke Griffin would have scoffed at the idea.

But the Clarke Griffin she is now understands layers. She understands that people are not always what they appear to be and the line between good and evil isn't a line at all: it's a blur. It's something so hard to differentiate that it's almost nonexistent. She knows now that people can change - both for the better and the worst - and that sometimes the answers you want aren't the answers you get. She knows loss and pain and death and forgiveness and everything in between. She knows that nothing is easy down here on the ground. And she knows you can't go it alone.

Alone is draining. Alone is painful. Alone is so incredibly hard. She had learned too much during her self-imposed exile, of what it's like to have the loneliness and the guilt and the frustration drive you to the brink of insanity. She knows what it's like to have yourself mutated into something almost unrecognizable - in the wilderness, separated from all human contact, alone with just your thoughts for company. She knows that the burdens of choices made and the brutality of Earth are that much easier to bear when there's someone standing next to you, offering support and understanding; offering to share those burdens with you and show you a little bit of happiness. Show you a brighter future.

Clarke's been lucky. She's found that someone in Finn, in Bellamy, in Lexa.

Finn showed her happiness. He showed her a glimpse of what life could have been like had everything not gone careening off track. If Raven hadn't fallen from the sky and the Grounders declared war and everything gone to shit. He had showed her love, gave her the briefest glimmer of hope when he set her mind and body ablaze with the promise of something greater.

Bellamy gave her someone to carry the burden of leadership with. He gave her support and loyalty; a sort of friend who stuck by her side and learned right along with her how to make hard choices. He had been a steady presence she could turn to towards the end of those early dropship days, when it was just the two of them leading their discordant band of delinquents headfirst into a war they had no chance of winning. He had been the one to attempt to shoulder some of her leadership burdens; to make the weight on her shoulders a little less heavy, and she'd done the same for him.

And then there was Lexa. Lexa.

Lexa gave her all of that and more. Lexa was her equal in both loss and burden, the only one who truly understood all that she had been through, who offered her wisdom and compassion and understanding and never asked for anything else in return. Lexa taught her how to be a better leader. Lexa taught her how to lead with her head (and Clarke likes to think she taught Lexa a little bit of how to lead you're your heart). The world they each carried on their souls weighed just a little bit lighter with the other there beside them. Lexa gave her judgment free support, and Clarke will always be forever grateful for that. And maybe even more importantly, Lexa gave her love. She gave her hope, desire, and a deep, scorching kind of selfless love that knocked her off of her feet and showed her all that she never thought she'd see. Lexa wormed her way into Clarke's heart with her half-smiles and her wisdom and her aggravating life lessons; with her humor and her raspy chuckle and the warmth of her green eyes. And once she was there, firmly entrenched, there was no going back. (Clarke couldn't even fathom trying anymore).

Murphy, though…Murphy, as far as Clarke knows, has no one. No one to watch his back and no one to stand by him and share in both the horrors and triumphs of life. She feels sorry for him. He's hardly a good person, but then again, how many of them really are? After all, she is Wanheda.

"Whatever you say, Princess," he grunts, shooting her an aggravated eye roll as Aden surveys them, head cocked to the side.

Clarke runs her fingers through her hair, sighing as Murphy wanders off into the trees. She turns back to the cart, exhaustion set deep in her bones.

"Sorry," she addresses Aden. He shrugs.

"It is alright." Clarke climbs back up into the cart, sitting down across from Aden, reaching her hand out to touch Lexa's skin, which is still burning up.

"Maybe Murphy's right," she murmurs, "Maybe we shouldn't stop anymore. We need to get her a real doctor." Aden merely watches her, his eyes sharp, glinting in the moonlight through the darkness around them.

"We need rest," Aden says softly, and he looks just as drained as Clarke feels. (She thinks she probably looks worse).

"Murphy!" She calls out; wanting to make sure he'll keep watch first so she and Aden can sleep.

She huffs in annoyance when she gets no response, "Murphy!" She finally hears the rustle of leaves and brush crunching underfoot as Murphy comes into view.

"I'm here, alright, stop yelling." Clarke rolls her eyes.

"Will you take first watch?" Murphy shrugs, his eyes downcast.

"Whatever, boss."

Clarke waits until she's sure he's going to stay before adjusting herself to lie beside Lexa, pillowing her arm underneath her head, letting her weary eyes trace over tanned, fevered, sickly skin. Aden lies down on Lexa's other side, shimming his body as close to her as he can physically get, closing his eyes as he lays a hand on her shoulder; a tether to her reality.

She doesn't think she ever truly understood the bond the Nightbloods had with Lexa until this very moment. She recalls Aden's words from the morning, she's the only family I have left, and it suddenly hits home just exactly how true that is.

She knows being a Nightblood is in itself a lonely existence. Ripped away from their family and their village, thrust into the capitol with nothing and no one, trained for a responsibility none of them ever asked for. Knowing that all the people they grew up with, that they cared for, they would have to kill. She thinks of Lexa, thinks of what she went through when the spirit chose her - poor Lexa, with the weight of the world much too heavy on her teenaged shoulders, her heart much too big for the coldness of war. (She had called Lexa heartless, once. How incredibly wrong she was).

She knows that for Lexa's Nightbloods, she is all they have. She is their teacher, their friend, and in some cases, probably a mother figure. Clarke is hit with a wave of regret for leaving the rest of them in Polis to face the music of the Conclave. She almost wants to turn back, rescue them from their certain gruesome fate. But she can't. Lexa is her priority now. She has to take care of her. Nothing else matters.

So Clarke closes her eyes against the onslaught of sadness, and drifts into fitful sleep.

She wakes up to someone furiously shaking her shoulders.

She brushes sleep out of her eyes, blinking them open, focusing in on wild brown eyes and a tangled mop of jet black hair, spinning in curls around the base of a neck.

Bellamy.

She jerks fully awake, pulling herself upright.

"Bellamy?! What are you doing here?" She hisses, looking into his worn out face, bruised and bloody. His expression softens when he meets her eyes.

"I'm here for you, Clarke," he says, reaching out a hand to bush against her cheek. She closes her eyes and sinks into the touch for a moment, into the comfort of connection, lets his fingers trace the scars on her skin, before she sets herself firmly back in the present.

"How did you find me? What's going on back at Arkadia? Is Pike still in charge? Did you finally come to your senses?" She asks, rapid fire, needing as many answers as she can possibly get but barely possessing the ability to stop questioning so he can actually have a moment to speak.

His smile is strained, haunted.

"I came for you, Clarke," he says again, and Clarke frowns against his hold on her cheek.

"Bellamy, what's going on? Talk to me," she pleads as his hand falls away and his gaze leaves her eyes, focusing on something in the distance behind her instead.

"Look at them, Clarke," he whispers, stepping closer, into her space, his breath hot and acrid against her skin. His eyes bore into hers, lifeless and hurting, blood dripping from cuts on his cheekbones. She doesn't understand.

"Look at what you did to them."

Suddenly she's whirled around, and she's face to face with piles and piles of dead bodies, stacked all on top of each other, spreading between the trees, bloody and burnt and decomposing, the smell of rotting flesh invading her senses.

Bellamy comes to stand next to her, his face twisted into a sickening smile. He points to a swell of bodies to the right, bullet holes shredded through their clothes, the tissues of their organs, their bones cracked and twisted.

"Those are the ones I killed," he says, menace in his voice, "Well, I may have pulled the trigger, but you killed them. All of them. You left, and look what happened. You're responsible for this. For everything awful that's ever happened to us down here. You bear the weight of that."

She feels the tears as they ghost down her cheeks, shaking her head in horror.

"No…no, please…" she begs, "I can't.." she chokes on her own words as the smell of the corpses overwhelms her, crawls into her nose and slithers down her throat, makes her gag with the weight of all of it.

Finn appears then, placing a hand on her shoulder as he comes to rest beside her.

"You murdered me too, you know," he whispers into her ear.

"Oh, God," she moans out, ripping herself away from the both of them, running into the field of corpses stretching out in front of her. She can't escape; all she can do is scream and scream and scream until her throat runs raw.

There are children at her feet now, the bones of dead children, their faces red and burnt, suffocated by toxic air.

"You killed all of them too," Jasper says, looking up from where he's sitting cross legged amongst the bodies, "How does it feel to be a mass murderer? Does it feel good to know how many people's lives you destroyed, mine included?" She shakes her head, tries to block out his voice.

"Please, Jasper, stop, please, I did it to save you, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry's not good enough," he spits at her, "Sorry doesn't bring back the dead."

She looks over his shoulder to find Maya, head tilted to the side, looking at her with dead, unmoving eyes. She doesn't speak, but Clarke can hear her anyway. The accusatory words, the reminder that she is the one who killed her, the one who slaughtered more than three hundred people to save forty-four of her own.

Clarke sobs and it tears through her throat. The nightmare never ends, there's always more dead, there's always more blame; there's always something she did wrong, people she killed. Lives she destroyed.

She turns, desperate to be away from the blackness of Jasper's eyes, but she bumps into someone else in her haste to get away.

Lexa.

There's blood seeping out of her stomach and her eyes are wide and filled with shock, looking at Clarke, staring right into her soul.

"You can't save anyone," Lexa says, black blood curling around her palms. She falls to her knees, and Clarke screams.

"No!" She shouts, propelling herself forward, catching Lexa's body as she crumples.

"I saved you," she whispers into long tresses of chestnut hair, as Lexa bleeds out on top of her, green eyes draining of life. Clarke clutches her tighter, closer, tears streaming down her face now with reckless abandon.

"Lexa, please! Don't leave me, please," she howls into the night, knowing Lexa's death would break her. If Lexa died, half of her would die too. She could never come back from that. She knows that, suddenly and all too clearly in that moment. Losing Lexa would destroy her.

"You are destruction personified," a deep voice says, washing over her. She turns her eyes upwards from the bloody river of Lexa's abdomen, finding Wells' harsh expression staring down at her.

"You kill everything and everyone you love," he says, and Clarke watches as the outline of her father's shadow comes into view, stopping next to Wells.

"Wanheda," Jake says, and the one word sounds like a gunshot, tearing into her flesh, shattering her bones upon contact.

She collapses, Lexa's dead weight still against her, the feeling of bodies closing in on all sides, surrounding her, suffocating her –

"Clarke!" There's shaking, all around. She tries to close her eyes to it, block it out.

"Clarke!" Again, closer this time, more distinct.

"Clarke!"

She jerks awake, eyes wet with tears.

Murphy stands over her, a rare tint of concern in his eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asks, removing his hands from where he'd been clutching her shoulders.

She brushes him off, "Yeah. Just a bad dream." He looks at her skeptically.

"Sounded like a little more than that."

"Let it go, Murphy," she snaps. He backs away, hands in the air.

"Alright, I get it, Jesus," he mutters, shaking his head in disdain.

Clarke closes her hand into a fist against the side of the cart, grounding herself. She hates those dreams. The dreams where the dead haunt her and remind her of all the terrible things she's done. Remind her of the kind of person she truly is. She wishes she could say she didn't have those dreams nearly as much as she did those first few weeks alone in the woods, but that would be a lie. They haven't gone away. They merely ebb and flow in intensity.

She turns around, remembering the addition of Lexa in her nightmare, finding her still unconscious to the world, breathing raggedly. Clarke nearly sighs in relief.

"Lexa," she murmurs, reaching a hand out to stroke an errant hair back behind her ear, taking a deep breath as the panic in her chest slowly fades.

Lexa is here. Lexa is breathing. Lexa is alive. She may be responsible for all of those other deaths, but not Lexa's. No, this one, she saves.

"Heda used to chase away the terrors when I was younger," Aden says, the softness of his voice jarring Clarke from her thoughts. She turns fully to meet his eyes, watching him over Lexa's body.

"Yeah?" Clarke asks, watching his lips twitch upwards into a smile.

"Sha. She would remind me that I am strong, that I needed to be brave. That the terrors were not real; they could not hurt me. And sometimes she would listen to the very bad ones, and she would tell me tales of the old Commanders until I could fall asleep again," he looks down at her, fondly.

Clarke smiles at his memories, and finds herself falling even more irrevocably in love with Lexa. The woman with steely eyes and coiled muscles, ready to tear out your throat for suggesting something contrary to her beliefs; who was yet filled with so much love, so much compassion, despite being groomed to kill and forget emotion. She could have hardened her heart beyond belief. She could have ended up truly heartless. But she didn't. She didn't let the world take her kindness, and Clarke's heart swells with the knowledge, tears welling in her eyes again as she glances down at Lexa's unconscious form. There is something so uniquely special about Lexa, and Clarke's pulled towards her like a magnet; unstoppable. (She doesn't think she'd ever want to resist something that felt so right).

"I am sure she could do the same for you," he adds, unprecedented childlike innocence shining from his eyes as he fiddles with his fingers. It makes Clarke tear up, overwhelmed with emotion for a boy who was forced to grow up faster than he should have and the Commander who made sure he kept some of that youth she never had. Her heart aches for every single person who has never known anything more than fighting to survive. The need for peace suddenly becomes all too apparent to her. The world needs it. She needs it. Lexa needs it. She wants to look into Aden's eyes and know that he doesn't have to die.

"I'm sure she would," Clarke nods in response, sighing as she breathes in deeply, centering herself again, images of Lexa's strong arms circling around her, soothing her, lips against her hairline, whispering sweet nothings in her ear at the tail end of a nightmare flooding through her mind, a movie played out on the backs of her eyelids. She wants desperately to experience Lexa's comfort; to feel the definition of her muscles underneath her fingertips as she holds Clarke with such fragile reverence, like she'd done when they'd made love.

Clarke is hit with an overwhelming, immediate need to talk to Lexa; to see her smile, to look into her eyes, to hear the lilting sound of her voice as her tongue trips over the end of Clarke's name. She has to get to Arkadia. Murphy is right – no more stopping. Not until she is staring into her mother's eyes and watching her take stock of Lexa's wounds.

Her body thrums with renewed energy, eager and determined. She bends down, kisses Lexa's hairline for strength, and straightens her back.

"Murphy!" She calls. He turns at the sound of his name, finding her eyes in the darkness from his spot against a tree, a few feet beyond the front of their cart. He braces an arm against the tree, beginning to raise himself to his feet at the urgency in her voice, "Let's go."

He shoots her a sly smirk as he joins her in the cart, swinging his legs over the front, taking the horse's reins in his hands. She nods to him, a motion of solidarity, and he returns it with a serious look in his eyes as he flicks the horse out onto the dirt path.

Clarke smiles as she bobs against the side of the cart, moving with against the roughness of the ground.

Soon.

It's around midday when Clarke actively starts to recognize the landscape surrounding them. She remembers running through these exact trees months ago, Monty and Octavia and Finn hot on her heels as they tried to outrun the Grounders; as she, Finn, Bellamy, Wells, and Murphy searched for Jasper, as she tried to keep Charlotte safe from Murphy's rage. It had been simpler then, before the Ark crashed down from above and Mount Weather took her and forty-seven others below the surface of the Earth. She misses her innocence; who she was before she killed so many people.

But she can't go back. She can't change what's already been done. All she can do is move forward, make sure Lexa isn't added to her body count, bring peace to her people so that no one else has to kill someone to survive.

"We're getting close," she speaks up, nodding over at Aden.

"You sure about all this, Clarke?" Murphy asks, glancing over his shoulder at Lexa, "From what I've heard it's not exactly Unity Day over there at Arkadia."

Clarke swallows heavily, "I know. But we don't have any other choice. I need my mother's help."

That's when a lightbulb flickers on in her brain, and a new plan clicks into place.

"Wait," she says, and Murphy stops on command, "The dropship. We can take them to the dropship, and you and I can go back to Arkadia. I've snuck in before. I'm sure we can sneak my mom out."

Murphy looks at her skeptically, "What about the blockade?"

"It'll be okay," Clarke nods, trying not to think about the fact that the Grounders may very well shoot them on sight - after all, those are Lexa's orders. She can only hope they wait until she can explain what's going on.

"Whatever you say, Clarke," Murphy says, shaking his head ruefully before spurring the horses onwards. Clarke knows they'll reach the edges of the blockade before long, and the dropship won't be too far beyond. And then, all that's left is Arkadia. She prays that this works. (It has to). This is all she has left.

Clarke knows they've finally reached the blockade once she starts to hear shouting. There is rustling in the trees, the smell of burning fires, the clank of weapons and the sharp sound of Trigedasleng cutting through the air as feet pound into the dirt.

Once she makes eye contact with her first human being, she climbs over the edge of the cart, hands in the air, Aden following closely behind her for support as she advances towards the blockade.

"Beja, do nou jomp op," she calls out it Trigedasleng, "Oso kom in ogonzaun, kom Heda Leksa!"

Weapons are pointed straight at her, wary and trained on her chest and neck, bowstrings tightening and swords gripped tighter. They don't shoot though, and Clarke thinks she can attribute that to the fact that she's dressed like a Grounder from head to toe. They don't object as she inches closer, only tightening their grips on their weapons, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

"Clarke?" She hears a voice call out as they near the ranks, Murphy trailing far behind now, walking next to the horses cautiously.

Clarke slowly lowers her outstretched hands as Indra pushes her way through the ranks, hand resting on the sword that's dangling from her hip, arm in a sling.

Indra narrows her eyes at her disapprovingly, "Okteivia said you refused to return to take care of your people." Clarke nods, pursing her lips. She regrets not being able to tell Octavia that she'd meant to come back with her, but things had just spiraled out of control.

"I wanted to stay in Polis, yes, but Octavia didn't know why I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay for Lexa," she says, and she doesn't care that she's revealing their relationship to one of Lexa's generals, to the people behind her who are attempting to appear as though they aren't eavesdropping on the conversation. But Clarke's beyond caring. She doesn't care who knows. Lexa is all that matters to her right now. Lexa is the priority, and she doesn't care if no one approves. She doesn't need anyone's damn approval to love Lexa. She feels a strange sense of contentment settle in her chest at the thought. She loves Lexa, she loves her and that's all that matters. Love.

Indra furrows her brow, "Explain."

Clarke looks her in the eye, trapping her hands together behind her back, straightening her spine, "I care deeply about your Commander, Indra. I was saying goodbye when Lexa was shot. That's why I couldn't meet Octavia. I was trying to save your Commander's life."

Indra's mouth falls open in thinly veiled shock, and the ranks behind her begin to murmur in distress. There is a distinct wetness shining in Indra' eyes as she asks, carefully, "Is Heda…?"

Clarke shakes her head, "She's alive. I brought her here so my mother can help her. She can do what I can't." Indra blinks quietly, glancing over Clarke's shoulder at Murphy, who has slowly closed the gap between them.

"Will you let us through, so I can save her?" Clarke asks, playing on Indra's devotion for her Heda to make her disregard Lexa's previous orders. She hopes that devotion will be pushing Indra to do whatever it takes to save her. Just like Clarke.

Indra nods to Aden before approaching the cart softly, looking inside to find Lexa, pale and sleeping. Her breath hitches in her throat, and Clarke's heart soars when Indra turns back towards her, giving her a curt nod, fury in her eyes.

"Teik Klark kom Skaikru gouthru! Heda gaf in sis au."

Clarke sighs in relief as the ranks clamber to make room. Some of them are openly weeping, and some fall to their knees in respect, murmuring to each other in hushed Trigedasleng. Clarke is once again struck by this devotion, this care. Lexa's people do truly love her, not merely as their Commander, but as an individual. The tears in their eyes and the waver of their lips and the restlessness of their limbs speak volumes to Clarke about what they are feeling in this moment, the lengths they would go to protect her, how much they value her. She has never seen a leader who is given this amount of fierce, undying loyalty and love before. She's really never seen people with a leader they sincerely believe in before, and it warms her heart. It reminds her of exactly how special Lexa kom Trikru is, not only to her, but to the entire world. It makes her even more determined to save her.

Murphy extends his hand to her as she turns back towards him, and she locks onto his forearm and uses one of the wheels as leverage to hoist herself back up into the cart. Aden slides around the back, taking his usual position of vigilance next to Lexa's side, resting his hand on her shoulder.

Clarke gives Indra a grateful nod as they jerk forward, and people press up against the edges of the cart as they drive through to get a glimpse of their Heda.

Once they can no longer see the shapes of the Grounders that make up the blockade behind them, she allows herself to breathe. This is going to work.

Clarke nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears a choked, messy groan come from somewhere beside her. She flips instantly, whirling around to find Lexa blinking groggily, eyes nearly crusted shut with dried moisture, cheeks flushed with fever. Her hair is wild and unkempt, sticking with sweat in odd places across her forehead, her lips chapped from disuse. But Clarke smiles anyway, because even like this, Lexa is still the most beautiful thing she's ever laid her eyes on.

(She always imagined Earth would be beautiful. How fitting that its leader is even more beautiful than any lake or forest or ocean or sunset that Clarke had ever dreamed of).

"Hey," she says quietly, scooting closer to her, reaching out a hand to steady her shaking form.

Lexa turns her head ever so slightly to face her, lips splitting into that half-smile that makes Clarke's knees weak.

"Hello, Clarke," she rasps out, green eyes finding hers, and Clarke thinks she would give up anything just to stare into them for eternity.

Clarke runs her hand gently over Lexa's forehead, brushing her sweaty hair away.

"Where are we?" She asks, eyes leaving Clarke's to dart around her surroundings.

"Taking you somewhere safe," Clarke responds, and she finds she can't keep her hands off of Lexa, needing to feel her swallowing, see her breathing, watch her eyes move and her shoulders wobble.

"Clarke," she says, tears in her eyes, like she wants to say something but she can't quite find the energy to force the words out past her lips.

Clarke feels answering tears in her own eyes, shifting to lie down next to Lexa instead, just to be nearer. She pulls herself as close as she can get, resting her hips against the side of Lexa's thighs, pillowing her arm behind her neck, resting her chin on the palm of her hand.

Lexa's fingers twitch at her side, reaching out for Clarke's. Clarke sighs in contentment once their fingers brush, intertwining. The grip is loose, but exactly what Lexa needed, if the way the crease between her brows soothes is any indication. Lexa's long fingers wind around her own, thumb swiping lazily across her knuckles, and Clarke feels more at peace than she has at all over the last few days.

"Thank you, for everything," Lexa croaks out, grimacing slightly in pain, looking as though she might fall asleep again at any moment.

"Shh," Clarke shakes her head, "They'll be time for all of that later. You should rest." Lexa smiles again, and it makes Clarke's chest hurt and her stomach flip.

Lexa's eyes droop closed, that smile still gracing her lips, and Clarke leans forward, laying her head against Lexa's chest, throwing an arm around her waist, her ear catching onto the soft thumping of Lexa's heartbeat.

"Ai…" Lexa breathes out in Trigedasleng before she stops herself, but Clarke's heart is already in her throat at the unfinished sentence. She thinks she knows what Lexa's trying to say; it's the same thing she had stopped herself from saying before they had sex, (that's why I –) but Clarke feels it too; the way it blooms within her chest and spreads all the way to the tips of her toes, fills her with this warmth that makes her ache.

"Me too," she whispers against Lexa's collarbone. She doesn't get a response, she doesn't even know if Lexa's heard her, but then, after more than a minute of silence, there's a slight squeeze against her hand, and she knows Lexa understood. Clarke tips her head up slightly, only to find Lexa's eyes screwed shut, dripping tears. The surge of affection Clarke feels is almost overwhelming.

She leans up and presses a kiss to Lexa's cheek, nuzzling her nose against her skin before returning her head to Lexa's chest. She doesn't say anything, though. She knows (hopes) they'll have more time, when she's recovered and they are both in better states of mind to say those words. Even if Clarke knows she loves Lexa, it's not the right time to say it – as much as she wants to, she's not even sure she could. She's not ready, not yet, but she hopes Lexa understands anyway. (Of course she will).

As Lexa's breathing begins to even out, signaling her descent into sleep, Clarke feels it pulling at her too. She doesn't fight it, not this time. Instead, she curls closer to Lexa, and lets herself go, lulled into sleep by the beating of Lexa's heart and the soft rise and fall of her breasts.

(She doesn't have nightmares, for the first time in a long time).

Clarke wakes to Aden's hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently awake. She opens her eyes, blinking against the brightness of the afternoon sun beating down on them through the treetops.

"We have arrived," he says simply. She extricates herself from Lexa and sits up; getting her first real look at the place she'd called home nearly four months ago, when it housed one hundred delinquents who fell from the sky.

The ground that had been charred when she gave the order to burn the Grounder army is beginning to grow back, a soft fuzz of grass coating the ground, the skeletons cleared away. Other than that, it looks almost exactly the way she remembers it.

Murphy offers her a hand as she climbs down.

"Brings back memories, doesn't it?" He says, a pained, wistful sort of look in his eyes as he gazes up at the imposing shadow of the dropship.

"Yeah," she agrees, thinking of Finn.

"Let's get her inside," Murphy says after a moment of stillness, listening to the wind shifting through the trees. Clarke nods, wiping her tears as subtly as possible before turning around, watching as Murphy climbs back into the cart to take the head of Lexa's stretcher. She reaches up to take hold of the end, nodding to Murphy before they count off to three, lifting at the last number.

Clarke grunts slightly against the weight of it, and Murphy carefully lowers himself to the ground with Aden's help so as not to jostle Lexa too much.

Aden runs ahead of them to pull aside the sheet that's still hanging as a makeshift door to the dropship. The minute their feet echo against the metallic floors, memories of being in this exact position with Finn come flooding back. Clarke closes her eyes against the onslaught.

"You okay?" Murphy asks softly. Clarke opens her eyes, shakes off the painful memories, and finds concern in Murphy's. She smiles.

"I will be," she nods. He averts his gaze, grunting in understanding.

"Let's put her on the table," Clarke says, gesturing towards the same table where she'd pulled the knife out of Finn's chest all those months ago. Once they set her stretcher down, they call over to Aden. The two of them lift up Lexa by the sheet underneath her body, their arms shaking with the effort of holding her up, while Aden quickly pulls the makeshift stretcher out from underneath her.

"Damn, she's heavy," Murphy whistles as he massages his biceps, wringing his hands as he falls against the edge of the table. Clarke lets out a soft chuckle before turning to Aden.

"Murphy and I are going to leave for Arkadia in a few minutes, okay? I need you to stay here and watch over Lexa. If anyone comes here that isn't me or him don't let them know you're in here, okay?"

Aden straightens his back and gives her a somber nod.

"Of course."

She takes him over to the door, shows him how to use the controls to lock himself inside in case anyone happens to wander by and gets too close for comfort.

"We'll be back as soon as we can, I promise," she finishes, squeezing his shoulder softly. His eyes are wet with unshed tears as he looks back at his Heda.

"Please," he says softly, "Be quick."

"We will." She turns and motions to Murphy who drags himself up from where he's resting near Lexa, giving her ankle an encouraging pat on his way to Clarke's side.

"Let's do this," she says and he grins.

"Can't wait," he responds, eyes smirking.

(There's something almost…calming about his sarcasm, and she thinks if she was paired with someone who actually gave a damn it might actually be worse. Her panic needs his shrugging aloofness, and no matter how strange it seems - the two of them together - it kind of works).

She takes a deep breath, centering herself, glancing back at Lexa one last time before she steps forward.

She doesn't look back this time, concentrating instead on the way her feet feel as they hit the ground, the messy sounds of Murphy dragging his heels against the dirt behind her, the cool breeze on her face.

"It'll be okay," he says suddenly, long after they've left the dropship in the distance.

"I hope so," she replies, clutching the straps of the backpack she's carrying closer to her chest.

They don't speak for the entire rest of the way to Arkadia, the only sounds stretching between them are their own sometimes labored breathing, the scuffing of their feet over leaves and twigs, the wind swaying their hair and the trees alike.

It isn't long before they see the looming, hulking mass of the remnants of the Ark splitting the horizon, and Clarke is once again struck by how much it's changed in the three months that she's been gone. It looks like a real settlement now; a civilization, rising from the ashes of the ruined Earth. Clarke would be proud of it if it didn't symbolize their greed, their need to conquer and destroy; hurting Lexa's people for their own personal gain. This isn't home anymore, it's not a safe place; it just seems like a stain – like something grimy and unsettling that Clarke can't wash off her skin no matter how hard she tries.

"Here we go," Murphy mutters under his breath, and Clarke echoes his sentiment with a drawn out exhale of air.

Much like how they were greeted at the blockade, Clarke hears guns clicking the moment they're within eyesight.

"Grounders!" She hears someone scream, and the amount of guns pointed at them increases tenfold with that one simple word. Murphy raises his hands over his head and Clarke follows suit.

"Put your damn guns down!" Murphy shouts, only to get frustrated when no one listens.

"We're one of you!" He continues, gesticulating emphatically with his raised hands, "We're Sky People, you dipshits! Clarke Griffin and John Murphy!"

The two guards on top of the gate look at each other skeptically. Clarke doesn't recognize them, so they're not her friends or people who came down on the Ark in those few weeks they spent trying to get her friends out of Mount Weather. They must be Pike's people. It makes sense that they've never heard of either of them. Both she and Murphy have been gone for over three months; these people have no reason to know Murphy is one of the faceless kids they sent down to die, that Clarke was a leader – the one who led the charge into Mount Weather and subsequently destroyed everyone inside.

"We were part of the hundred!"

Someone turns from their post and shouts "Clarke Griffin" down from the watchtower, and the commotion only gets more intense as a result.

Clarke glances sideways at Murphy who shrugs his shoulders, raising his eyebrows.

The gates begin to open slowly, and Clarke can just barely make out the mass of faces waiting on the other side. She lowers her hands as the gates fully open, and starts to walk forward, matching her strides to Murphy's.

Their pace is interrupted by five guards who come charging out, guns at the ready, pointed directly at them.

"What the hell –" Murphy starts, but he's cut off by the barrel of the first guard's gun connecting with his chin, knocking his teeth together and sending him tumbling to the ground.

He's not unconscious because he's groaning in pain, and Clarke makes a move to dart forward and help him, but two of the guards are already grabbing him by his arms, hauling him to his knees, and the first guard whacks him on the side of his head again, and this time Murphy slumps completely.

Clarke's barely even aware that there are guards advancing on her as well, and more are spilling out through the open gate with guns in their hands to provide cover. She only registers the imminent danger to herself when she feels something hard connect with the back of her skull.

She cries out in pain as she falls to her knees, collapsing onto her side, rolling onto her back with the force of her momentum. She can hear shouting all around her, but she can't quite make out what's being said, her brain filled with a murky haze, her vision blurring.

Another guard moves to stand over her, head bent over his rifle. She squints against the brightness of her surroundings, but she can see enough to know that the first guard is raising the barrel of his gun again to bash her unconscious, just like they'd done to Murphy. She's too disoriented to fully grasp the panic rising in her chest, how this is going exactly opposite to how she'd hoped, what she'd imagined; that Lexa is alone and defenseless and sick and she needs Clarke, but instead she's in the middle of being taken, what? Prisoner?

The second guard shifts into her line of sight now, lowering his weapon slightly, and she lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding as she recognizes him.

The last thing Clarke sees before she blacks out is Bellamy's face, staring down at her over the end of his lowered rifle, mouth agape, his eyes a swirling mixture of pain, concern, and anger.

And then, nothing.

Notes:

Trigedasleng (roughly):

Beja, do nou jomp op. Oso kom in ogonzaun, kom Heda Leksa!= (roughly) Please, don't shoot. We come in peace, with Commander Lexa!

Teik Klark kom Skaikru gouthru! Heda gaf in sis Clarke of the Sky People through! The Commander needs help.