[Clarke's sobs and Lexa's tears act in contrast to one another; whereas Clarke allows herself to feel, with her body shaking with the grief of having lost Lexa, Lexa is almost silent, still, like she's trained herself to exhibit nothing to no one. Right now, it's difficult for her to hide her pain from Clarke. She had pretended time and time again like her life was meant to be lived only until it finally slipped away. She had told herself that it was normal to see things that way. The weight of her mistaken perspective bears down heavily on her now.
They've come a long way from the days when Lexa tried to keep Clarke from being wounded like this. Some part of her wishes she could tell Clarke that she might be stronger if she felt nothing for Lexa, so that she could excise the pain away. She knows better than to try. She knows that demanding such a callous perspective from Clarke is cruel, and she can't do it to her (or herself). Maybe it's selfish to have demanded that Clarke move on from her feelings for Finn but to not do the same for her. No, it's definitely selfish, but they aren't the people they were that day, so many months ago. Lexa changed within hours of hearing what Clarke and her people were driven to do in Mount Weather. She had to bear the consequences of her actions, and knowing what she had made Clarke do in the wake of her betrayal.
Just as she had changed then, she's changed now. Every day she spends as a host makes it harder for her to deny attachments. Bellamy is riddled with them. Lexa would prefer to maintain her distance, but it's difficult. With Clarke, she doesn't even pretend to try. There would be no point. And here she's finally granted a boon in no longer having to be the leader of her people: she no longer has to hide her bias toward Clarke. Funny that life after an avoided death is where she no longer owes anything to anyone.
When she turns at Clarke's beckoning, it's clear that Lexa has contained her tears by then. Her eyes are still red and swollen, but not as bad as they could have been. Clarke's eyes are still brighter and bluer than they've ever been, a sign of her lasting pain. She wishes she could rip it away from her. She wishes she could make her remember nothing of her own death, but there's nothing to be said or done for it. It happened. In Clarke's version of their world, her reality—it happened.
The odd thing about Lexa is that for as much as she conceals her emotions, her eyes always give away a different story. Here, she looks a little lost, like she wants to protect Clarke from this pain. But she can't. And so, she says nothing, remaining close-lipped for the time being.]
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They've come a long way from the days when Lexa tried to keep Clarke from being wounded like this. Some part of her wishes she could tell Clarke that she might be stronger if she felt nothing for Lexa, so that she could excise the pain away. She knows better than to try. She knows that demanding such a callous perspective from Clarke is cruel, and she can't do it to her (or herself). Maybe it's selfish to have demanded that Clarke move on from her feelings for Finn but to not do the same for her. No, it's definitely selfish, but they aren't the people they were that day, so many months ago. Lexa changed within hours of hearing what Clarke and her people were driven to do in Mount Weather. She had to bear the consequences of her actions, and knowing what she had made Clarke do in the wake of her betrayal.
Just as she had changed then, she's changed now. Every day she spends as a host makes it harder for her to deny attachments. Bellamy is riddled with them. Lexa would prefer to maintain her distance, but it's difficult. With Clarke, she doesn't even pretend to try. There would be no point. And here she's finally granted a boon in no longer having to be the leader of her people: she no longer has to hide her bias toward Clarke. Funny that life after an avoided death is where she no longer owes anything to anyone.
When she turns at Clarke's beckoning, it's clear that Lexa has contained her tears by then. Her eyes are still red and swollen, but not as bad as they could have been. Clarke's eyes are still brighter and bluer than they've ever been, a sign of her lasting pain. She wishes she could rip it away from her. She wishes she could make her remember nothing of her own death, but there's nothing to be said or done for it. It happened. In Clarke's version of their world, her reality—it happened.
The odd thing about Lexa is that for as much as she conceals her emotions, her eyes always give away a different story. Here, she looks a little lost, like she wants to protect Clarke from this pain. But she can't. And so, she says nothing, remaining close-lipped for the time being.]