[hatch log / mission: hyrypia] the winds that will be howling at all hours

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: New Hosts & EVERYONE
WHERE: Station 72; Hyrypia - Naerstone House
WHEN: DAY :002 - :003
SUMMARY: New hosts hatch on the Station, are briefed, then make their way to Hyrypia to join the rest of the hosts… while they attend a very important history lesson.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

STATION 72
DAY :002

NEW HATCHES
YOU WAKE UP are are suddenly changed. --No. That's not right. You're you and there's no suddenly about it. It's been a while, hasn't it? It feels like waking up from a very deep, extended sleep or surfacing up from the darkness of some wine dark sea. Nothing is different and everything is because right there in your own head there's something both familiar and strange. You know intuitively that you've been unconscious for more than just a blink of the eye.

But here you are, a small miracle of the multiverse: lying in a small, faintly hexagonal chamber with a gentle white light emanating from the surrounding walls. If you were injured during your escape, those injuries have been healed. If you were anxious or frightened or distraught, those feelings have been calmed. There's something peaceful about waking up here - like you belong. That feeling persists even as you find the tube running from the base of your neck to the compartment's rear wall.

But once the tube's disconnected? Things get loud. A wave of emotion fills that peaceful void - fear, uncertainty, relief, a sense of purpose or loneliness or anxiety. A matching dread. An easy comfort. Maybe some of these emotions are yours, but they can't all be. After the initial sensory overload, the mental buzz elongates: stretches out into a murmur like the sound of a party happening behind a nearby closed door.

You can sit up - barely -, and shift out of the pod. There’s a ladder at your feet and a little cubby just before it with anything you brought with you as well as a set of crisp, loose-fitting white clothes; while your injuries are healed, whatever you’re wearing is in the exact state it was before. Maybe it's time for a change? Drop down the ladder to the floor of the Nesting Deck and you’ll find you’re not alone.In fact there are lots of you and none of them are the strangers they should be. Some even seems like people you've known for a very long time.They are as familiar as this place you've never been is.

Welcome to Station 72. Beyond this room it's quiet and still, feeling for all the world like a hollow shell.

--Or it does until a voice separates itself from the white noise in your head:


BRIEFING
THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD isn't really a voice at all. It's the warm tang of camaraderie, tinged with a flash of impatience like ticking hands on a clock face and a flicker of wonder: a falling star. It says:

( My, you're all very fresh aren't you? Unfortunately, the multiverse waits for no spring chicken. Once you've figured out which way's up, won't you all join us? )
Join 'us' where is the question. And yet, once you're ready to meet the owner of the voice in your mind, your footsteps simply lead you there naturally. Two strangers sit in a small circular briefing room - a tall being covered in short brown fur with a rigid demeanor, and a pale alien with yellow washed frills at her jaw and throat who is smiling cheerfully.

"Hey there, sunshine," says Rhan, her frills humming as she speaks. "Why don't you take a seat so we can get started?"

[ooc note: please see here for the catch-all briefing thread]


THE STATION
WITH A LITTLE UNDER 24 HOURS before it's time to make the trip to Hyrypia, this is as good an opportunity as you're going to get to familiarize yourself with Station 72 before you leave it. There's plenty to see, but a distinct lack of people to make conversation with. It's lonely and quiet and there's a sensation of dust gathering even where there is none. Maybe studying the briefing files on your databank and going over your mission kit is the most proactive distraction, but if not? Well there's plenty of places to get lost...

HYRYPIA - NAERSTONE HOUSE
DAY :003

MEETING
A SINGLE SHIP LANDS in a field the color of burnished gold, returning to the place it had until late the night before occupied. It's carefully inserted beside dozens of other spacecraft bearing more than faint similarities, though each has its own unique aesthetic. When the gangplank drops, the loud engines powering down, it reveals--

New hosts. Seven fresh faces - obscured as they are in layers of intricate fabric - are led down the gangplank by Rhan There to greet them is a number of other hosts - any who answered to the sweet crystalline ring of Collector’s voice in their heads hardly a half hour earlier, speaking with certainty born of truth:

( Rhan and Siva’co are returning. Shall we see what stories they have to tell? )

Despite the solidarity that both combined groups provide, there's a feeling of eyes here. A number of guards along the edge of the shuttle field are watching the reunion like hawks. Better perhaps to return to the apartments where they'll be able to speak in private and teach the new hosts what it is that has been learned since their arrival. --Or explore, for those who prefer not to rest. Naerstone House's grounds are vast and they are almost entirely open to the parties of the pilgrims to explore.

THE PERFORMANCE
AS THE SINGLE RED SUN of Hyrypia dips low on the horizon there is a long, low, mournful sound. A deep bell-- or a horn? Or maybe it's something else entirely, but the call is heard and answered as any nearby servants inform the guests of the house:

“There will be a performance of the First Journey in a quarter turn. All guests are invited to attend.”

There's no mystery as to where the event is occurring. A steady trail of guests and servants lead out past the Veranda into the central garden where a number of pillars have been mounted and a large tiered platform festooned with with numerous draped curtains and abstract representations of trees and mountains - a great stage - now sits. The stage is surrounded by numerous low settees and tables, piles of thick cushions and richly colored rugs around which guests can be found clustered, lounging while sipping thick, syrupy drinks.

Each table is illuminated only by a single glowing orb at its center. Otherwise, as the sun sets it pitches the garden into darkness as even the castle itself has been left unlit. There are no lights in distant windows or on Naerstone House's high walls; these small orbs and the glitter of stars in the black sky might very well be the only points of light in the whole universe.

The allotted time passes and the performance begins. A sun rises over the stage. It's a much larger, more intricate glowing orb and reveals a number of players dressed far more simply than the Hyrypians the hosts have met. They wear complex machine masks upon their faces that shutter into different expressions as their hands flitter across their faces: dramatic caricatures to accompany the droning sound of their singing voices as they unfold the tale at the center of the performance - the one which drives this pilgrimage and for the Nest's very presence in the universe at all. It's the story of lost Rabadoceans coming to a planet near barren intent on brutalizing them - about loss and hardship until finally a single player separates from the rest. The orb of the sun over the stage turns, it's mechanical face shifting and resetting to indicate the passage of time as the very central platform of the stage begins to turn so that this lone player might walk. And walk. And walk through deserts and scrub land, through dark woods and dark caves, against the wind and with it. Through it all, the orb over the stage slowly lowers until at last this lone player can take it in their hands.

It cracks like an egg and brilliance streams from it. Braziers catch fire in the darkness. The garden illuminates itself. Every light in Naerstone House comes to life.

With that, the silence of the crowd breaks. There is applause -- each culture in its own unique fashion -- and then there is a rise of chattering conversation as the guests are served several small dishes and talk about the show they’ve just seen - and whatever possible clues it might give to the pilgrimage they themselves would soon be undertaking.

---

((OOC Notes: This is the hatch log for all new hosts as well as the evening's performance. Feel free to make your own logs and posts additional to this if you care to. You can find a more detailed overview of the host hatching process HERE and additional setting information about the Station HERE. Please be sure to review the MISSION: HYRYPIA ooc information. If you have any questions, please hit up either the mission's question thread, the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages!))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

IV

[adamance]

[The blinding burst of emotion in seeing Clarke for the first time in months is brief, fleeting—but there's a low buzz of it just the same, just as she wraps her mind in walls, ensuring that anyone but those within the vicinity of her can't know how she feels. But the feeling remains, even if her expression is cool as they proceed down the hallway, even as they end up in a room and Lexa watches as Clarke's hands tremble and twist into the cloth she's holding.

No matter what, Lexa has always cared too deeply for Clarke—or, more accurately, has felt too deeply for Clarke. From intrigue to curiosity to wonder, she had always found herself enraptured by the other girl. She was a wonder to behold: she could both feel compassion and love for her people, but make the incisive decision to show mercy with both her head and heart. No matter what praise has come Lexa's way for her wisdom and vision, she has never managed that line like Clarke.

It's what makes this moment painful. It's what makes the reality of her failure to protect Clarke from her death so real. She had promised to protect her, to protect her clan, yet none of it feels like a success in this moment. She recalls the blistering pain and blinding emotion of finding Costia in her bed—to finding the remains of Costia, left aside to taunt her, to remind her that she has extensions of weakness. Before now, it had been less her death that haunted her (though it had) and more the death of the coalition, the signs of chaos and Polis burning, that had left her feeling this bereft.

The tears that burn in Lexa's eyes are immediate, but she acts in spite of them. She steps forward, hands coming to cover Clarke's, all to ensure that Clarke can recognize that she's real. She pulls away the cloth and drops it on the floor, as it can be picked up later, before she touches Clarke again. Lexa then leans in, forehead to forehead, her breathing raspier than she'd like. Her lips don't purse, instead spreading to make a soft sound:] Shhhh ... [Which is then echoed in her mind:] ( Shhhhh. )

[Each and every wall comes down around Lexa's mind then and there, opening up so that Clarke can feel and touch and recognize that it is her. She has done this for no one past her initial awakening, and then it had been intentional. Here, every step is done with intention, as she allows Clarke into her mind: into her childhood, growing up running among the trees with Anya looking on, preparing her as a warrior, to her time in Polis. None of it floods into Clarke's mind at once, but there's a sense of who Lexa is: more than just a Commander, more than even just Lexa, but a culmination of all her parts, including her time here, hoping that she could end this particular war so that Clarke may never see or experience this place. It's all raw, but subtle enough so that it doesn't overwhelm her. After all: these walls are meant to confirm the reality of her, and to confirm that there is nothing that Clarke needs to apologize for. She doesn't know that it will be enough. No, rather, she doubts it will be.

Without pulling back her forehead, almost in tune with this sensation, she adds:] I'm here, Clarke. I'm here. [In her mind, these words sound more grounded, more forceful. In reality, they are just above a whisper, thanks to the tightness of her throat, the welling of emotion.

Still: she's here. There is no denying that she's lived on in some way.]

[skaikru]

( clarke is still a pit of molten emotions, each swelling above the last in renewable waves of misery, heartbreak set on making itself known again, and loss reimagined. there hadn't been time to grieve lexa properly before — it'd been a swift and immediate death, unfair in the way they'd all been unfair since they'd touched down on the ground. the mission had shifted from solidifying the peace accords through the coalition to hunting down luna to stop ontari, then alie. her grief had wrapped itself neatly inside the line of duty, and clarke had persisted without too many mental breakdowns. it seems appropriate, then, that the tears and gross, congested hiccups come to a front when they're face to face again. )

I t — thought I'd never see you again, ( a particularly wet whimper, accented by all those restrained emotions and her failing attempts to get a hold of them.

i'm here, lexa's insistence isn't just verbal. it echoes around the inside of clarke's skull with enough force and life to adequately drown out all the fears and misgivings she'd felt since waking up in that warmly lit honeycomb outcrop in the wall of the nesting deck. there's the reassurance in the form of soft thoughts, memories offered up for her perusal, but clarke isn't of a mind where she can sit and parse through all of the personal slideshow with focused interest. it's enough to get a sense of lexa, regardless; who she was, where they'd come from. it's more pleasant than the haphazard mental assaults that she and the other newly born hosts had flung at each other in desperation; in depth and personal, but not unfamiliar. and it's enough, but also not enough, because clarke has to tug her fingers free of their entwined hands to brush along the cut of lexa's jaw, just to be certain. )

And you're real? ( because finn collins had haunted her. and maybe she'd taken the flame so readily in some misguided desire for lexa's ghost to do the same. but this? this was better. lexa's skin is warm and soft, and even in this strange world with so many strange people and creatures, clarke swears her hair smells the same. her eyes are the same shade of green as she'd remembered, and clarke's are the sort of dazzling blue that could only be achieved by crying red rings around them.

belatedly she laughs at her own question; a choked, hysterical sound that squeezes past the lump of sentiment in her throat. she's pulling her other hand free of lexa's too, because as nice as holding hands could be, cupping both hands to the other woman's face is much more appealing. a little desperate, but steadying. )

[adamance]

[For a moment, she considers opening her mind fully to Clarke. If it were another time or another place, she might be more hesitant, even with Clarke. But she wants to continue to confirm the realness of her, to allow Clarke to drink up every second of it. Lexa recalls the hours and days after Costia's death. She's buried many of those deep down inside so that they can be little more than an echo of the young girl she'd been when she first became Heda, but they can still drift to the surface. They have here, after all; there are a number of people who know of the dark haired girl who flits and flees from her memories, just as there's a girl with blonde hair and deep blue eyes filled with certainty.

So, she knows what it's like to be haunted by someone you love, by being unable to grieve. In that, the realness of her death is all the more palpable. Lexa wants to assure Clarke that she is more than a haunting image formed by the collection of minds of the Nest, brought forth to make her feel as if she's going crazy. She knows that Clarke has taken the Flame before, knows about that experience from Bellamy and then Murphy, but this is nothing like that. She knows the need to fortify this as something outside of the confines of her spirit—here, more than anything, her spirit lives on.

It helps, of course, that Clarke laughs just before she takes Lexa's face into her hands. Lexa's eyebrows raise with mischief as she's drawn close, and it's a look that she's only granted Clarke in private or relative private. After all, there had always been the divide for her: the Lexa with the solidified voice, ready to project the very foundation of strength and the Lexa who relaxes, who can smile and feel at ease, as if everything will be okay. (It was always easiest with Clarke.)]

I am real, Clarke, [Lexa says, and there's something fulfilling in being able to say her name. That fulfillment had always been there, had always been echoed in every repetition of her name, but there's no hiding of the depth of how much she cares (loves) the other woman. Her eyebrows knit together as she allows Clarke to examine her realness.

In turn, she appreciates the closeness of Clarke, of the touch of her hands. She had always wanted this to be longer than a moment, to be longer than their extended good-byes in her quarters. She takes note that Clarke's hands are rough but not too rough, showing the lines of what she experienced in the days following Lexa's death. More than that, there's Clarke's hair, still showing the remnants of her time in Polis, her bright eyes, filled with tears and intelligence, and the tension of her forehead. Even when she smiles, it's almost as if she's waiting for the other shoe to fall. It had always been that way. Not that she has much room for smiles, beyond that strained, belated laughter.

She had memorized everything that made Clarke Clarke long before it was even fair to do that, long before it was right. She had told Titus that Clarke elevated herself, and she had been certain in that. But long before her betrayal, she had wanted to know, memorize, understand every part of what made Clarke tick. She realizes now that she has a chance to do that, but doesn't pry or probe.

She merely waits, eyes half lidded, and after a moment, her hands come up to cover Clarke's, to provide an echo of exactly how real she is. With that, she adds:]

I don't intend to go anywhere. Not this time. [There's a sense of reticence in speaking of her death. Lexa knows of it, but speaks as if she's been informed of it. That, too, echoes in her mind. Her life here has taught her more about what it means to live, and how much more can be achieved through it. After all, there are no Natblida to carry on her memory in perpetuity. There is only her.]

[skaikru]

Good. ( the chilly buzz of disbelief, then the cold hum of reawakened grief clarke had experienced in the last twenty minutes has begun to give way to the delightful, warm and tingly sensation in her chest. it's happiness washing over relief, folding back in on itself to bring her as close to giddy as she could get while a tears still wet her eyelashes. her thumbs brush soft lines along the cut of lexa's cheekbones almost unconsciously, each stroke affirmation that the other woman was real, solid, and here. not going anywhere — ) Me neither.

( there's weight in those two words: regrets for staying in polis for as long as she had, to the point titus had resorted to desperate measures to be rid of her, and resentment for ever having to leave. remorse for the world being the way it was (had been?), and their circumstances preventing them from ever getting to know each other without the shadow of command and responsibility hanging above their heads. once upon a time, they'd spoken of a life where they owed nothing more to their people. and now, clarke can't help selfishly thinking this pseudo-afterlife might be it.

clarke leans back a little, just enough to get a good look at lexa's face without going crosseyed from proximity. she is as beautiful in their alien disguise as she'd been in armor; as formidable with wet, earnest eyes and a small smile as with black war paint, wielding a sword. there's a rush of sentiments that can't make it past her teeth; clarke nips at her lower lip, undecided if she should try to voice any of the swirling thoughts in her head, momentarily forgetting they were wont to bleed over anyway — black blood seeping through cloth and staining her fingers, that bulldogged determination to fix this, the crushing realization she couldn't; murphy's hands on her shoulders trying to guide her away and that anger at the very implication. wanting to die. may we meet again.

and now they had. words would never be enough to describe simultaneously what it had felt like losing her, and what it felt like now being given a second chance. so clarke just leans in, squeezes her eyes tight, and bumps their noses together gently.

they've only ever kissed in times of high emotion, and yet this time feels like so, so much more. clarke's mouth is dry, her lips quivering. it's the kiss of the tentatively desperate, of those teetering on the edge of a cliff and too scared to see how far they would end up falling; of someone who expects the worse when she opens her eyes, and thus cannot lose herself completely in the pleasant spark of heat that swells in her chest like a balloon. it's a mirror to that last kiss they'd shared, where she'd felt lexa's death rattle against her mouth.

but this is a hello kiss, and when clarke allows her mouth to part, darts her tongue out to drag across lexa's lower lip, there's no suppressing the shiver that rockets up her spine. )

[adamance]

[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.]

[skaikru]

( this is —

fast. by rights, they should slow down, talk about things. clarke doesn't feel as if she has said sorry enough yet, the weight in her chest still remains; i'm sorry i couldn't fix you, i'm sorry i couldn't save you, i'm sorry it was all because of me. absolution wasn't what she was after, no matter how much reassurance first bellamy, then lexa could offer, it wouldn't ever be enough to chase off the remnant feelings of responsibility for the role she'd played in the death of another person she'd loved. no, clarke would be sorry until the end of her days, and would chant apologies through the tears until she'd grieved properly. lexa deserved at least that.

this is too fast, they ought to talk about the mission at hand. faceless enemies intent on stealing an entire planets fuel would be harder to parse from the crowd of civilians as those who'd openly rejected skaikru and the commanders coalition. they'd need to be careful, they should review notes on what has been learned thus far. this is too fast, and clarke is still reeling. no matter how real and tangible lexa is in front of her, touching her face, kissing her mouth, it still somehow doesn't feel it. her brain has short circuited, comprehending the other woman's existence but still not making any sense of it when dredged up alongside their tragic final moments, and everything else that had transpired since. if not talk, clarke ought to maybe be by herself for at least a short while. to think, the understand; to swallow down the lump of sentiment and pain that rises up behind her teeth. the urge to run away is fleeting, but there, even if by now she's learned from experience that distance and solitude don't necessarily ease the ache of the heartbroken.

everything is happening so quickly, and yet — the way her head spins, the way her stomach twists and flops is decidedly welcome.

they have the space, they have a little time. lexa's hand is brushing up the length of clarke's arm, the touch a featherlight reminder of all they layers they were draped in. it's not as easy as the buttons, buckles, and snaps of the clothes she was familiar with, but clarke busies her fingers in the folds of fabric anyway. twists, tugs, pulls, nearly rips; she has to break the kiss to drag her arms through sleeves, and then the outer layer of tunics up off her head, but it provides another welcome moment to stare at lexa's face. her kiss flushed lips, her too bright eyes. clarke searches her features for the span of a few heartbeats, looking for that same reckless abandonment of words in favor of touching, feeling each other as alive and present instead of discussing how it came to be.

and when she finds what she thinks to be that agreement, what she remembers it having been in that breath of time in polis, where lexa had sat on the bed and gazed at her breathless, hopelessly entranced — clarke crowds her in again, cupping her face and kissing with enough force to propel them back a few steps further to one of the beds. )

[adamance]

[If Clarke had been allowed to leave, allowed to return to her people to ensure that they didn't continue along the same path of mistakes, would their reunion be like this? Lexa would like to hope so; she'd like to believe that there would be something simple in being able to have this moment, in welcoming Clarke back into her embrace, and in allowing herself to feel the depth of emotions that she experiences for Clarke. Loving another should be simpler than this, but her life—their lives—haven't afforded them that opportunity. Life has taught them that love is sometimes divorced from survival. In fact, love itself can be the very cause of failing to survive.

Lexa knows that there's more to this than just being together. Her last few months have left her full of ambitions and certainty, as well as stubborn in not allowing herself to slip away. Without a brood, she struggles. Without human contact, she struggles. She denies it, but she struggles just the same. Still, she is Lexa: she has a purpose. She will fight. She will secure her people's future. She will protect them, because there is nothing more to live for. Her legacy is in shambles. She will be nothing more than a memory, and the loss of the Flame hardly impacts her people. They will have to move forward. They have no choice.

These convoluted notions will come rushing forward. Lexa knows that Clarke will be swallowed whole by them, concerned by the politics not only of the Nest but of the mission itself. They are nothing if not twinned in their concern for their people, and what it means to do everything for them.

But in this, Lexa allows herself to be selfish. That's not to say that Lexa isn't a selfish person. It's a similar selfishness to how she felt the first time she kissed Clarke, uncaring about the raw wound that Finn's death left in her. It's how she felt the when she rescued Clarke from Nia's bounty on her head. And it's how she felt when Clarke moved toward her and kissed her, as a trembling desperation overtook Lexa's body, as she was guided down onto the bed.

They have time: that's the most important notion of all. They can both be leaders and with each other. Denying each other that would be like ripping a part of themselves out. Lexa cannot pretend any longer that she doesn't care for Clarke, and she had made that clear to Titus. Murphy implied that was a mistake. But it doesn't feel like one, especially now—

Especially as Clarke nudges her to the bed, especially as Lexa's hands come to begin to drop layers of clothing, until she's nearly bare, leaning back, Clarke hovering over her. With each kiss, Lexa can taste the tears that come—and she doesn't know if they come from Clarke or if they come from her, but that doesn't matter so much. Not here. Not right now.

As Lexa finds herself bare on the bed, Clarke over her, there's a moment of reconciliation, of realization of both life and death, and how Lexa has averted the latter. She keeps a hand on Clarke in some way as the other woman explores her body again—either in her hair, or at the back of her neck, mind focused and both fleeting, unable to focus. But as Clarke's mind opens up to her—either willingly or unwillingly, as it's difficult to tell—it's apparent to Lexa that this is almost too much for Clarke.

It's then that she leans up to kiss her, taking in the taste of her skin from Clarke's mouth, and then she directs her back, consoling her either mentally or verbally—at this moment, it's difficult to tell—as she presses her mouth to Clarke's skin just beneath her collar bone. What follows is more fluid: hands sliding to locations they never got to know as well as they would have liked to, desperate lingering kisses, and bodies tangled together. Lexa is an image of fragility, unfamiliar to her, as the wafting emotions between the two is almost too much for her to manage. But she explores, touches, experiences just the same, sinking into this moment until she comes to linger against Clarke, mouth against mouth (the taste of everything still there and bare), as Clarke's arms desperately wrap around her.

It's only in those final moments that Lexa finds herself guided onto her side, Clarke's arms clutching her from behind, nose buried into the back of her neck, right up against the holy symbol of her people. Her eyes close, body fatigued but still thriving with life, as she falls into silence. Or mostly silence: there's the occasional sharp intake of breath, because there are still tears. She allows herself to feel in this moment. She has to, or else the experience itself will be too much, like a shaken bottle ready to explode.]

10 years later

[skaikru]

( afterwards is — easier.

almost.

it's a familiar picture, being curled around each other in the haze of a warm room; near naked and covered in a light sheen of sweat, mouthes tasting of each other, and breathing barely settled. the first time they'd been like this, the last time they'd been like this, had been softer. warmer. clarke had trailed her fingers down lexa's spine, along the curves of her tattoos, and remarked that they were beautiful. the markings of the conclave are still there — she can see them when she slides down, settles her forehead between lexa's shoulder blades, and huffs against the other woman's skin. they're still there, still as beautiful. but where falling into bed with each other in polis had been the cumulation of months of building intensity, and they'd allowed themselves an hour to relish in it...

here, everything was still tainted with sorrow.

to her credit, clarke tries. she tries to bite back the tears that threaten to overwhelm her again, offers herself the reassurance that lexa is here; real and alive and here. tightens her arms around lexa's frame when the mental consolation isn't quite enough, but the tears still leak out. she's no idea how long they stay like that, crying into long brown hair and trying not to shake too violently through the sobs, but it's a long and quiet stretch of time. the light in the room shifts, and the weight of her entire life compounds until exhaustion mingles with grief, and clarke thinks she drifts off between dry heaves. her eyes hurt, her teeth ache from grinding them so ferociously in an attempt not to moan with each fresh reminder that this could never have happened at home. it's difficulty to justify — was the joy she felt at seeing lexa again enough to make leaving her people in alie's hands worth it?

it feels like several hours, but is probably no more than one. a level of acceptance — the same for every curveball life had thrown at them thus far — edges the more jagged parts of her thoughts by the end of it, and eventually clarke is untangling her arms from around lexa's waist. props herself up a little on her elbows, and curls fingers around lexa's bare shoulder. )

Hey.

( she doesn't want to talk. not really. everything is so fresh in her mind, yet so difficult to put into words. clarke only speaks to prompt lexa to roll onto her back, to look at her. she wants to see her face again. no matter how vividly she'd remembered it, memory could not paint the way the light flitted in her eyes, or the soft edges of her mouth as accurately as the present. )

[adamance]

[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.]