[Black blood and the lingering sense of it captures her attention whether she likes it or not. That desperation bleeds through as a remnant of Clarke's emotional state, and she can't help but feel choked by the realization of it, especially with how powerless she had been. Coming from a culture where power is defined by strength and strength is defined by the ability to adapt and push against any and all obstacles, she cannot help but find herself feeling lashed by that image. May we meet again—but those words mean something more to Lexa now. They mean this, along with the acceptance that her spirit will not pass on, will not choose someone else.
She had told Bellamy once that her spirit had chosen wisely in Clarke, in having her seek out the means to restore peace and free will to her people. But she has a better grasp of that now and the tenuous line that exists between technology and religion for her people. She knows that Titus died (Titus killed himself) because instead of baring himself to that line, he offered himself up for her—and because her memory deserved better than him tainting it.
Lexa is not lost in the puddle of black blood (which stirs up a memory of a dream, of a girl who looks like Pidge being dragged into it)—
Instead, it's Clarke's lips that draw her back into this moment, that allow her to shove down that recognition of her mortality again. She hopes it's for the last time. (It won't be for the last time. Even in the kiss itself, there's a reminder of that. It bleeds between the two of them in a way that Lexa will have to learn to manage, to smile away, to act as if it's nothing for both her and Clarke's sakes.)
But mirrors show the opposite, and "hello" is the opposite. More than that, the mirror image of death is life—and Lexa lives, clinging to the knowledge that she is likely the last of the Commanders, knowing full well of the chaos left in her wake. She knows that this is a life where they may owe nothing to her people, where they owe nothing to their people, but they aren't fond of shirking those responsibilities. Yet there is some freedom in being able to live up to them together without guilt. (Or with less guilt, as it is with Clarke.)
There is only a moment of trepidation on Lexa's end. That hesitance is a sign of her life—that current of intimacy that she's been lacking for months. Even within a Nest like this, she's concealed herself and walled off others, feeling far too exposed. There's some freedom in being able to taste Clarke on her mouth, in being able to surge forward and kiss her, in being able to ensure that the connection between them is lasting. Lexa mimics Clarke's same movement with her tongue, just before canting her head to the side, inhaling sharply as she means to deepen the kiss itself.
A quickening of emotion slips through her all too easily with the realization that this is neither "hello" or "good-bye," but rather—this is what we can finally have. She only pauses in the kiss but briefly, all to meet Clarke's eyes with her own (they're tear-filled, all over again) and grab her hand to draw her closer as she takes a step back toward the beds. It's only once she has her hand on Clarke's arm that she kisses her again, the hold itself offering her some stability as a similar wave of emotion courses through her.]
no subject
She had told Bellamy once that her spirit had chosen wisely in Clarke, in having her seek out the means to restore peace and free will to her people. But she has a better grasp of that now and the tenuous line that exists between technology and religion for her people. She knows that Titus died (Titus killed himself) because instead of baring himself to that line, he offered himself up for her—and because her memory deserved better than him tainting it.
Lexa is not lost in the puddle of black blood (which stirs up a memory of a dream, of a girl who looks like Pidge being dragged into it)—
Instead, it's Clarke's lips that draw her back into this moment, that allow her to shove down that recognition of her mortality again. She hopes it's for the last time. (It won't be for the last time. Even in the kiss itself, there's a reminder of that. It bleeds between the two of them in a way that Lexa will have to learn to manage, to smile away, to act as if it's nothing for both her and Clarke's sakes.)
But mirrors show the opposite, and "hello" is the opposite. More than that, the mirror image of death is life—and Lexa lives, clinging to the knowledge that she is likely the last of the Commanders, knowing full well of the chaos left in her wake. She knows that this is a life where they may owe nothing to her people, where they owe nothing to their people, but they aren't fond of shirking those responsibilities. Yet there is some freedom in being able to live up to them together without guilt. (Or with less guilt, as it is with Clarke.)
There is only a moment of trepidation on Lexa's end. That hesitance is a sign of her life—that current of intimacy that she's been lacking for months. Even within a Nest like this, she's concealed herself and walled off others, feeling far too exposed. There's some freedom in being able to taste Clarke on her mouth, in being able to surge forward and kiss her, in being able to ensure that the connection between them is lasting. Lexa mimics Clarke's same movement with her tongue, just before canting her head to the side, inhaling sharply as she means to deepen the kiss itself.
A quickening of emotion slips through her all too easily with the realization that this is neither "hello" or "good-bye," but rather—this is what we can finally have. She only pauses in the kiss but briefly, all to meet Clarke's eyes with her own (they're tear-filled, all over again) and grab her hand to draw her closer as she takes a step back toward the beds. It's only once she has her hand on Clarke's arm that she kisses her again, the hold itself offering her some stability as a similar wave of emotion courses through her.]