Her feet take her down the corridors, her footfalls a quiet echo that lives somewhere in the space that breathes around her. Clarke's fingers brush against the cool of the wall, her fingertips tracing the small cracks that wend their way lazily across the rough surface. And it's cold and it's quiet, it's dark, and the shadows linger for too long, the shadows bend and twist and dance through her vision. And her feet take her as far as they can before she comes to a closed door.

Her eyes close slowly, she lets her mind wander and her thoughts drift for long enough that she thinks the wandering turmoil of her doubts lingers too close to the surface. And she feels the quiet press as she leans against the metal of the door, she feels the cold chill as it drips into her cheek as she presses her face forward.

And maybe she pretends she doesn't walk the empty halls of a too quiet beast, maybe she pretends she doesn't still feel the stickiness that clings to her fingertips.

Maybe she pretends.

Her eyes open, her fingers close against her knife's handle as she steps back just once. And then she opens the door carefully, her eyes peering into the dark of the room she finds and she waits.

She waits for a reaper to lunge out at her, she waits for a demon to rise forth and steal her away and she waits for the times when her mind doesn't live too conscious within her head.

Her eyes adjust to the darker room, and it feels an age, it feels a too long stretch of time, but then she steps forward slowly, her eyes moving for a moment over the bed she sees tucked against the wall. Her eyes find the clothes strewn across it, a shirt, worn and weathered and old. Her eyes find the pants, dark and faded, a loose thread halfway free.

She sees the drawings then, she finds them stuck against the wall, a stick figure, the faded black of the pencil rough and shaky, full of love and energy as it runs over the blank paper with a smile and a laugh and a love that exists in times long gone. Her eyes trace the hand that reaches up, her eyes fall to the larger figure, a smile spreading across a face, a nose, lopsided, uneven and a cartoon.

And it hurts.

Her eyes move to the corner of the room. Her eyes settle on what lies there and she feels it. She feels the tears that begin to form, she feels the pain that screams into her mind and she feels the anguish as it shatters her heart and breaks her mind.

She feels the bile rise, she feels it spread and surge and so she turns quickly, her senses fouled as she doubles over, as she empties her stomach into the empty corridor she had stood in. And so she turns back quietly, a grimace open her lips as she wipes the back of her hand against her mouth before she steps into the room.

And it's only a rough scratch of her knife, only a moment's discomfort as she drags the point of her blade against the harsh bite of the metal door. And then she stills her beating heart, stills her frantic breathing and steadies her heaving chest.

And so she pulls a plastic sheet from her bag, she unrolls it next to the corner of the room and she takes one last steadying breath, her fingers gripping the shovel in her sweaty palms as she lets her tears fall.

It will all be over soon.

It's a pained, heavy, broken whimper that leaves her lips as she backs out the door, her back protesting with the weight of what she pulls behind her. But the fresh air is welcomed, the stench and the rotting and the burning slips from her and she breaths in deeply as she swings the door shut behind her.

And so she eyes the two marks she etched into the metal for a long moment before she turns, before she picks up the ends of the plastic weight and before she begins the slow journey to the surface.

136

137

It's a strange thing to find herself walking the hallways of the Mountain, it's a strange thing to see the burning torches that flame and brighten the dark of the hallways, the lights not quite powerful enough to give light to the expanse of the winding paths underground. Not yet, anyway, not until Raven has time to repair the damage she had caused.

It's a strange thing as she passes warriors, it's a strange thing as she nears a group of Lake clan, their eyes peering at a map in their hands as they move through the hallway. And it's strange when the first of the Lake clan raises a head at her footfalls, as his eyes settle on her and as his head bows lowly, a murmured breath leaving his lips.

And so she grimaces, if only by a twitching of a lip, if only by the twitching of a cheek as she nears and as she moves past Jomm who remains quiet.

And maybe she isn't quite sure what to think anymore.

She rounds a corner, her footfalls heavy and tired and she comes to a large set of doors that remain standing open, furs draped over them as tree branches and greens litter the pathway into the next room.

And so she steps aside as a number of wounded warriors are helped through the doors, arms slung over those that support their weight, quick nods sent her way, some wary, some friendly, some more open, some more guarded.

She smiles as she meets the eyes of two Azgeda, their hands coming up briefly to grip her forearm in greeting as they pass her and then she ducks through the doors, her fingers pulling at the furs around her shoulders as the heat from the quietly burning flame lives freely in the centre of what was once the Mountain's medical wing.

Clarke catches her mother's eyes as she moves through the medical wing, her feet quiet as she steps across the furs that line the floor, and she sends a smile towards Abby and a small wave, her mother's eyes smiling up at her for a moment before she turns back to the wounded warrior whose leg remains broken and bloodied.

Clarke passes rows of beds, many occupied by warriors, their bodies bloodied and broken, some with large gashes ripped through their flesh, some with bullet wounds, many with their own tales of strife that linger across tired bodies.

It only takes her a few short moments but she finds who she searches for near the end of the long room. And she smiles quietly as she comes to a pause by the end of the bed, her eyes falling to the sleeping woman who lies before her.

She meets Entani's eyes in the next bed, the healer's face still swollen, her nose still bloodied but set, a large number of bandages wrapped around her waist.

"She has been sleeping," Entani whispers as her eyes fall to Ontari's slumbering face, her chest rising slowly and an arm wrapped firmly against her side.

"She's lucky," and Clarke lets the smile live a bit more freely across her lips as she sits on the edge of the bed, a hand coming to brush away a loose strand of Ontari's hair. "It missed anything important," and Clarke finds a quiet laugh escaping Entani's lips.

"You missed her say some interesting things," and Entani whimpers and curses quietly as her laughter jostles her ribs. "What ever medicine the Skaikru healers gave her is interesting."

And Clarke turns her eyes back to Ontari, her face peaceful in sleep.

"I'm just glad you're both ok," and she means it, and she thinks it hurts quietly, she thinks her mind an ever constant storm that writhes dully, that never settles and always broils within her.

"You did well, Clarke," and Entani reaches over gingerly, her fingers coming to grip Clarke's hand firmly for a moment before she settles back into her bed, her free hand coming to pull the furs over her exposed torso as she leans further into the pillows.

"I'll visit again soon," and Clarke rises, one last smile given to Entani before she turns, her feet already taking her past the rows of beds, her eyes focusing somewhere on the small space in front of her feet, her gaze turned away from the eyes that follow her movements and shadow her steps.

It's a quiet chill that seeps into her bones, that settles itself around her shoulders and brings a small smile of familiarity to her lips. And it's a cold she knows well, it's a crisp bite to the air that she has woken to for days, for months. For years.

And so she pauses for just a moment as her fingers come to hold against the handle of the door, the lone candle burning quietly in the corner of the hallway, a small light all that is given to this lonely hallway of the Mountain.

She hears the warriors behind her shuffle, she feels them close around her and she hears the settling of furs and the creaking of leather for just one more moment. Torvun steps closer to her, his hand resting comfortably upon his knife.

Clarke turns around briefly, her eyes meeting the warriors that flank her, all tall, broad shouldered and barrel chested, their hair braided and fierce, their faces smeared the deathly white of Azgeda. Her eyes meet Echo's for a moment too, the assassin staying back quietly, her eyes peering back down the hallway in habit before she meets their eyes once more.

And then Clarke turns, her fingers come to push against the door and it opens with a quiet swing. And so she walks forward, her eyes moving from door to door she passes in the hallway, the white of the walls too bright, the white of the ceiling too crisp, and the white of the floor too blinding. But it brings a smile to her lips, if only because it reminds her of Ronto, if only because it reminds her of Azgeda and the snow fields and the ice lakes and the blinding blizzards that she longs for.

Her feet carry her further and further down the long corridor, her eyes settling on the number of figures that stand a long space before her, their whispered words meeting her ears gently as she approaches. She passes a number of faces that peer out of the doors recessed into the walls, their eyes suspicious, their gazes fearful, angry, hateful. But she lets them pass, her warriors ignoring the shouted curses sent their way.

And she comes to a stop, her feet muffled by the fur wrapped boots she wears, and so the Skaikru in front of her turn quickly as she clears her throat. And she sees their eyes flick to the warriors behind her, she sees their eyes widen at the weapons that litter the bodies of her Azgeda and she sees their eyes caution in their movements as they take in the white of their war paint.

"Clarke," and Abby steps forward nervously, "what are you doing here?" and Abby's eyes move to Torvun briefly.

"I'm here to speak with the prisoner," is all Clarke says, her eyes meeting Abby's for a long moment.

"It's ok, Abby," and Kane pushes forward quickly, his gaze taking in the ferocity of the glares the Azgeda send their way.

And so Clarke sends him a wary smile, enough to speak of a thanks, before she steps forward, Kane and Abby making way for her, and she finds Wells present too, his shoulder leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest as he peers at the prisoner.

"Has he spoken?" and Clarke isn't so sure to who her question is direction.

"No," and Kane's voice comes nervous, just a small waver to it as the Azgeda stand in front of the open door, their eyes falling to the man that sits in the centre, his own eyes moving slowly from person to person that stands before him.

"You've committed crimes against the coalition," Clarke begins. "You allied with the enemy of my people," and her chin lifts slowly as she peers down at the man.

"You are my people," the man responds defiantly, his hands spreading out before him as he gestures to the Skaikru. "I'm still chancellor," he says. "You chose to break from us."

"You allied with the Mountain. You allied with a people that bled my own. You allied with a people who captured, tortured and killed."

"A necessary evil," he responds.

"Necessary?" and her eyebrow raises in challenge.

"Look at yourself, Clarke," and his eyes hold her gaze. "They scarred you. They disfigured you. For what?" and his eyes snap to Torvun's, a finger pointing at the large man. "And him? Your guard? Look at his forehead," and the man gestures to the two large scars slashed against Torvun's forehead. "You tell me I'm evil, I'm cruel, that I'm brutal because I sided with the people most like us. Who have technology, who understand it? Who use it? Why should we throw it all away to live like savages?"

"These savages," and Clarke lets the words linger for a long moment as her eyes move over the bruises that litter the dark skin that covers the man's face. "These savages never stole your people, never took parents from children, never took sons and daughters from mothers and fathers. Never turned your people into monsters. Don't tell me that we're the savages."

"Jake would be ashamed of you," and his eyes burn angrily.

And it's a sting across her face as the words find her ears. It's a hurt that lingers in her chest at his words. But Abby is the one that reacts violently, and Clarke hears her mother shout out, hears her lunge forward, pain and hate and fury colouring her tone as her voice fills the small room.

And an Azgeda warrior reaches out quickly as he grabs Abby, as she tries to pull away and reach the prisoner. And so Clarke lets Abby's voice quiet, lets her mother's raging settle. And as she peers around her she finds Kane's fists clenched tightly, his eyes downcast. She finds a Skaikru guard gripping his shock baton nervously, his eyes darting from the prisoner, to Abby, to the Azgeda warriors. And she finds Wells, his eyes staring blindly into a space by his feet, his lips pulled up into a pained grimace. And it's a small lingering doubt that colours Clarke's mind as she peers at her old friend, at his part in her father's death. But for now she shakes the thoughts, her mind turning back to the prisoner before her.

"I think you know what I want, Thelonious," and Clarke's words carry into the room, her voice firm and steady once more. "Make it easy for us."

And Thelonious meets her gaze with his own.

"I won't betray my people," he says firmly.

"You already did," and Clarke takes a step forward and she crouches so that she comes level with his face, and her ears pick up Torvun moving closely behind her, she feels the other Azgeda warriors moving into the room too, their movements silent and sure.

"Tell me, Thelonious. Tell me where the rest of the Arkers escaped to."

And it's an anger that burns in his eyes, it's a decision she sees just moments before it happens and so she braces her self and she grimaces as Thelonious roars out, as he spits in her face and as he lunges for her. And so she slips back quickly, Torvun's fist coming to strike the thrashing man across the face brutally as the Azgeda turn on the Skaikru, shouts of warning and threats ripping from their throats as they square off with the Skaikru guards.

"Enough!" and her voice carries over the explosion of noise, one of her warriors passing her a cloth as she wipes her cheek. "We're on the same side. We're done here," she finishes as she moves to the doorway, her eyes meeting the Azgeda she passes quickly.

And it's only a moment for the rest of the Skaikru to exit, only a moment for Torvun to ensure that Thelonious remains shackled and unconscious.

And then Clarke comes face to face with Kane and Abby, Wells still lingering in the background, his eyes unfocused.

"What are you going to do, Clarke?" and her eyes meet Kane's as he looks at her carefully.

"We can't let those who sided with Thelonious and the Mountain escape," she begins with a shrug. "They'll be hunted, they'll be rounded up and taken prisoner so that they can be punished."

"We don't even know which way they went," and Kane turns back to the now closed door. "Thelonious won't tell us," and he finishes with a quiet sigh.

"That won't matter," and Clarke turns to meet Echo's eyes. "I already have people ready to track them. We'll find them soon enough," and she sees a small eagerness live within Echo's quiet gaze.

She follows Roan's movements quietly, her eyes tracing the steps he takes in the open, his own eyes quiet as he thinks over whatever thoughts come to linger within his mind. Roan comes to a stop in his pacing after a moment, his eyes finding hers, a squint to them as the sun shines upon his face.

"I don't like the Mountain," he begins with a smirk. "Too smothering," he finishes with a shrug as he inhales deeply. "But you'd think I'd be used to being locked up," and he jerks his head to the left, Clarke's eyes following the motion as she eyes the large number of warriors that set up Lexa's war tent not far from the Mountain's opening.

"Things will change now, Clarke," and he looks back at her carefully. "Azgeda will need someone to represent the clan here," and he continues to hold her gaze.

"You want that to be me?" and she shifts her weight from foot to foot for a moment.

"Yes," Roan shrugs. "I'm returning to Azgeda. I will need to make sure our Kwin does not make moves to control the Mountain," and he sighs once more. "It would be best if we were both not in the same place," and he swings his arms around him lazily, his shoulders rolling with the motion, a smile coming to find its way across his lips.

"What makes you think I'll be listened to? Isn't there a general or an official that would be better suited to the role?" and Clarke continues to eye Roan thoughtfully.

"Perhaps," and he bends down and groans quietly at the stretch in his legs. "But you know what they call you now," and he looks up briefly, a small shadow falling across his eyes as he peers at her shifting expression for a moment. "They will listen to you," and she thinks him correct.

"The clans will fall in line," Roan continues as he rises, "they won't cross Azgeda for the moment. They won't want to bring your wrath upon them."

"It helps that the Mountain's already being used for healing," and she turns her gaze towards the open entrance, her eyes following the continuous line of warriors moving in the out, many wounded, many carrying supplies between the war camp and the gutted beast. And a smile finds her lips as she eyes a number of Trikru carrying a large tree between them as they head into the Mountain.

"It was a wise plan," and Roan follows her gaze. "The Mountain will be a trading post, a place for all clans to meet," and Roan's voice turns darker for a moment as his thoughts move to a distant time. "Though I am sure some clans do not enjoy the power of the Mountain being so openly used."

"They'll get used to it," Clarke answers cooly.

"Yes," and Roan turns to her, his eyes a quiet glint in the sun light. "They will."

They both fall into a quiet then, their eyes following the number of warriors that move provisions in and out of the Mountain, and she eyes a trail of Azgeda as they move past, their furs a quiet white in the warm breeze.

"Prince Roan," and she turns to him cautiously. "Why is Echo helping?" and she thinks over her worries for a moment, she ponders over the actions she thinks Echo has taken in her past.

"You know of her involvement in the Commander's past?" and Roan eyes her carefully, his gaze quiet.

"Yes," she voices.

"Echo followed her orders. She found a weakness and delivered it to Azgeda," and he shrugs. "Those who serve the Kwin directly are more prone to seeing her violence," and Roan's eyes turn mournful for a moment. "Befriending someone and then helping deliver their head to a loved one is not something Echo is proud of," he finishes with a shrug. "And Echo had seen the clans prosper in her time at the Capital, she had seen the Coalition trade amongst themselves and had seen the way we could survive and live without the constant wars being fought," and Roan's voice turns quiet, a gravel to it that lingers for a long moment. "I was the one to deliver Costia to Lexa," and he lets a sad light find its way into his eyes. "I did not know who it was at the time. And perhaps I was foolish not to…" and he trails off painfully.

"But then you realised?" and Clarke finds her mind turning back to the moments she had shared with Lexa.

"Yes," and Roan shrugs. "Echo had been by my side too, as my guard. But we saw the reaction." and he shrugs for a moment. "Anya and Gustus wanted us both dead, but I made a deal," and he meets Clarke's gaze once more.

"You let yourself be prisoner so Echo could be let go?" and she sees him nod for a moment.

"Yes," and he shrugs again. "A good ruler must be willing to make sacrifices for those under their care," he finishes.

There's a number of things in life that Clarke thinks she hates. She thinks she hates her feet after a day spent walking through the blizzards that spring up near Ronto, she thinks she hates the way the sun this far south feels against her body as she wears the heavy furs and leathers of Azgeda. She thinks she hates the ache in her bones, the chill in her flesh and the bite in her muscles as she forces herself awake some days.

But as she lets her gaze steady, as she lets her eyes burn and water and sting in the smoke, she thinks this not one of those things.

And it hurts.

The flaming pyres burn, they crackle and they scream into the dark of the sky. And it's a sight she thinks won't fade from her mind for a long time. And as she peers to her left, as she takes in the pyres that burn quietly in the distance she thinks it hurts. Her eyes follow the steady line of burning flames as she looks to her right, and she lets the dancing fires burn into her mind as she stares for too long, as she holds her gaze steady and as the smoke seeps into her skin.

And it's too many for her to count. It's too many for her to even really consider. And maybe it's a comfort, perhaps it's a quiet reprieve that she can't tell the difference between the pyres that hold those of the Coalition warriors, those who had fought and died and suffered. And she knows, as her eyes settle on a quietly crackling pyre, as a burnt log crumbles and breaks and falls, she knows she can't tell if this pyre holds the bodies of those she had killed. Of those she had burnt alive, of those who she had sacrificed.

But she thinks it was worth it.

Or maybe she merely hopes it was.

And so she stares into the burning flames. She lets them dance into her mind and burn into her thoughts. And she lets the pain linger, she lets it fill her nostrils with the burning of wood and the burning of flesh and the searing heat of a flame as she stands too close.

And she feels it.

It's a long walk down the hallways of the Mountain, her feet a quiet step as she treads upon the furs that now line the floor. She passes a number of tired warriors, some Trikru, some Lake clan, some Rock Line and some from clans she hardly recognises in her tired state. Torvun walks quietly behind her, his feet a steady thump that gives her mind a moment of ease, his presence a welcome thing, if only because she fears the times when she remains awake, the times when she lingers too long in her own mind.

And so she grits her teeth, she clenches her fists and she continues forward, the torches that burn against the walls of the Mountain the only light she see, her shadows a careful companion that follows her as she walks the quiet of the Mountain.

She walks for an age, her eyes scanning the doors she passes until she comes to a stop, her gaze turning down to the map in her hand for a moment before looking back at the writing on the door. And it's a steady breath, and a shaky outreach of her hand as she pushes open the door and as she steps across the threshold.

And she pauses.

She looks down, the stairwell dipping down into the depths of the Mountain, and she looks up, the winding path reaching up into the heights of the Mountain and so she turns to meet Torvun's eyes for a moment before she tucks the map into her sleeve, her feet already taking her up the stairs, already taking her on the long path upwards.

She comes to a heaving stop, her legs burning and her chest rising and falling rapidly, the climb a painful thing that leaves her breathless and a mess of sweaty hair and lazy braids. But she pushes forward, her fingers splaying out on the door in front of her as she pushes it open and as she steps out into the dark of the night.

Torvun meets her eyes once more as he takes a stand by the door, a hand lingering near his knife as he casts his gaze in a careful arc around them before he settles against the opening in the side of the Mountain.

And it's quiet.

Clarke turns away from Torvun and she lets her gaze take in what she sees.

She stands on the edge of a clearing, the grass dancing quietly in the night's breeze and the trees that linger on the edge of the clearing huddled together for warmth as the cool of the wind rustles their leaves and sways their branches.

And it's a tentative step forward that Clarke takes, her eyes moving over the grass, the occasional flower shining quietly in the gentle moonlight as it shines against the dark of an empty sky. Her feet take her into the centre of the clearing and so she comes to a quiet stop. And it's a moment's pause, a moment's hesitation as she looks around her, as her eyes settle on a lone flower that stands quietly at the edge of the clearing. Her eyes settle on a young tree, a brave tree that sways defiantly, that lets its roots grow and spread, a tree that lets its branches reach up eagerly into the sky.

And so she lets her legs fold under her, she lets herself sit down into the soft of the grass and she lets her fingers splay out, she lets the grass sooth her tired mind and she lets her thoughts wander. And it's a pained smile that lingers across her lips, it's a pained grimace that winds its way across her face.

But perhaps she thinks herself used to it.

She leans back on her hands as her face turns up to the sky. And it's a quiet night she finds herself in. The clouds, barely present, barely there, just a careful haze that clings dutifully in the depths of the dark overhead. Clarke traces the wisps of a cloud she finds, she traces the smudged edges and the careful sailing of it as it breathes through the night. Her eyes gaze at the moon, her eyes trace the curve and the shapes that dance upon its surface.

And she wonders.

She lets her mind turn back the days, turn back the months and years. And she wonders what life would be like. She thinks she feels the Ark's air as it breathes through the hallways, she thinks she feels the steady hum of the air as it recycles and as it gives life to her lungs. And it surprises her when a finger brushes against her cheek, when a wetness clings to her finger tip and when she feels the raised edges of her scars.

And she wonders. She wonders what her father would think. But maybe she doesn't, if only because he no longer lives, if only because he no longer breathes and laughs and smiles with her.

But maybe she embraces it. If only because times of distant memories have faded, have dulled and eased. But she hears the whispers. She hears the quiet words that linger on the wind and she thinks she even sees the dark wisps of smoke that flit just past her, that linger in the corners of her vision and that fade and recede from her searching gaze.

And it's an odd thing now, as she lies back in the grass, as she lets it comfort her and sooth the turmoil of her mind. And as she thinks, as she ponders and questions, perhaps it's a fear. Perhaps its a loss and a hurt.

And it's a sigh. A quiet rebuttal of her thoughts, a quiet rebuke of her wandering mind. And maybe she shouldn't be alone, not after the things she's done, not after the things she dared to do. And yet…

She hears it quietly. She hears the careful call of a bird as it sings on the rustling of the wind. And she knows Torvun calls out to her, calls out that a person approaches. And so she sits up carefully, her eyes peering into the trees before her, her eyes peering up into the barely there clouds and the quiet of the shining light.

And she hears it. She hears the small groaning of the door and the whispered words and the careful step of feet.

And she feels the person approach quietly, she feels the unsteady gait of an unsteady mind. And she feels the strumming in her chest and the quiet pain that must always linger within her tired mind.

And the feet pause, they slow and they halt somewhere just behind her. And she thinks it a long moment that the silence lingers, she thinks it a quiet breath and a careful shuffle before the feet come to linger in the corner of her vision, her eyes still tracing a quiet star as it moves through the emptiness of the night's sky.

And she thinks she shouldn't welcome this, she thinks she shouldn't deserve the company that is offered. And yet…

"You can sit," and she isn't sure why she voices the words, she isn't sure why she doesn't turn from the sky.

And maybe it's a small twitching of her lips as she feels the person come to sit by her side, a space between them, enough for a not yet to still linger, to still take place.

"Prince Roan has requested that you stay here," and the words bring a small smile to her lips, if only because they still speak of plans, still speak of deals and actions and things to accomplish. And yet…

"I know," and she replies quietly, carefully, her eyes tracing the small cloud that begins to settle on the horizon. "He spoke to me earlier," and she shrugs for a moment, the furs rustling against her cheek with the rising of her shoulder.

"Trikru scouts have not found a trail yet," and she thinks she lets a smile live more freely upon her lips when she hears these words, too.

"We'll find them," Clarke says, and she lets her fingers dance against the breathing grass beneath her palm.

"I can send more," and there's a quiet pause as the person considers their words. "Perhaps if we combi—"

"Shhh…" and the sound comes whispered upon Clarke's lips.

And she smiles as she turns to face her companion, her eyes careful in the quiet of the night.

"Can we talk about something else?" Clarke says before she lets her words linger for a moment between them.

And so Lexa nods quietly, a tentative furrow to her brow as she meets Clarke's gaze.

"How is Ontari?" and the question gives her pause for a moment, her mind turning to her still injured friend.

"She's ok," and Clarke thinks she smiles at the stories Entani had told her of Ontari, and the words Ontari had said while drugged.

"You care for her," and perhaps it comes out a question, an observation. An acceptance.

"Yes," and Clarke shrugs carefully, an errant braid falling across her face.

And it's a small sadness, just a barely there thing that lingers against Lexa's face, but perhaps Clarke has always looked hard enough. And perhaps Clarke will always see the things Lexa doesn't wish to be exposed.

"When I said not yet," and Clarke holds Lexa's gaze carefully. "I didn't mean never," and it's a small beat she feels strumming in her chest as Lexa's eyes move carefully, as they move surely and frightfully across her face. "You don't have to worry about Ontari," and it's a small thrill that lingers in her mind as she glances down to her hand, as she finds it creeping slowly towards where Lexa keeps hers close to her side from where she sits in the grass besides Clarke.

And so the silence stretches out between them for a long moment, their gazes turned up into the sky, Clarke's thoughts happy to wander as she follows the path a lone bird cuts through the empty dark.

But she hears Lexa inhale deeply, she hears Lexa's thought linger openly for a moment and so she meets the other woman's gaze.

"You could not sleep? and it comes as a gentle prod, a careful hand reaching out in the quiet of the night.

And so Clarke lets the silence linger for just a small moment, a shrug finding its way across her shoulders.

"Was it worth it?" and she voices her doubts, voices her fears and her pain.

And she thinks Lexa understands the question, understands the plea and the hand she holds out. And maybe Clarke isn't sure why she voices the question, why she feels the need to speak her thoughts. But maybe the presence besides her is reason enough, is cause enough for her to want to form the words, to bring life to the thoughts that burn cruelly in the corners of her mind.

"Sometimes…" and there's just a moment's pause, enough for Lexa to think over her words, to think over what she will say. "Sometimes we must sacrifice our own happiness for our people."

And Clarke thinks the words she hears are pragmatic, are selfless and so very, very much what she expected to hear. But perhaps it brings a wetness to her eyes.

"Does it ever get better?" she thinks a traitorous tear must fall, lonesome and pathetic down her cheek. "Does it ever get easier?"

And she watches Lexa's eyes turn thoughtful, her gaze following the tear that falls. Clarke even thinks she watches the gentle twitching of a finger, a motion that speaks of a desire and a wish, of wanting to reach out and wipe away the pain Lexa must see before her, but she doesn't.

And so Lexa says instead, "you learn to live with the choices you make."

And perhaps the words speak of a finality, speak of an understanding, of an acceptance, of years spent in service to a people, and to lives not her own.

And so Clarke lets the silence hang between them once more, their eyes turning to the forest that stretches out below them. And as Clarke traces the drifting clouds and the solitary birds that fly through the night sky, she thinks a calm must settle over her. If only because she shares this moment with another, with someone who could perhaps understand the raging of her mind and the cracking of her heart.

And so she turns back to the quiet of Lexa besides her and she smiles for a moment, and she makes sure their gazes meet before she continues.

"Thank you. For being here."

She whispers the words, and her hand reaches out quietly, carefully, her fingers tentative as they thread between Lexa's own. And Clarke thinks she enjoys the way the pale of the moon shines gently in the green eyes that smile at her.

"You are welcome, Clarke."