station72 | [mission: hyrypia] and when our bottles and all we are fill’d with immortality

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[mission: hyrypia] and when our bottles and all we are fill’d with immortality

CHARACTERS: The Barithian Hunters (and anyone sneaking along)
WHERE: Hyrypia - The Finger Maze
WHEN: DAY :018
SUMMARY: The barithian hunt leads into the depths of the Finger Maze.
WARNINGS: Violence. Animal slaughter. Character death. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

THE FINGER MAZE
DAY :018
IN MORNING'S PRE-DAWN GRAY the camp is far more subdued than on preceding days. There's no music, breakfast is a quiet and simple affair, and the servants are hushed as they go about their duties. Before the sun has even fully risen, the members of the Envoys participating in the hunt make their way to their mounts. When they arrive they are given a speech that seems practiced - likely only a slight modification of something that the Elinmaster has said many times before. The group - just under forty hunters kitted out with all of the weapons and traps they have had time to learn in their days on the graze - is brought to the fenceline running parallel to the technomagical barrier which guards the mouth of the Finger Maze proper. In the fence is a plain gate. Once the hunting party is gathered there, it opens. A slash in the technomagical barrier disintegrates before them and the smell of ozone evaporates or is carried into the twisting depths of the Maze by the wind howling mournfully inward from off the Graze. The Elinmaster leads the hunting party through the gap.

Once on the other side, the party draws pauses until the technomagical barrier rises once more behind them. No crowds today. No onlookers (unless they're being especially industrious). Then the Elinmaster brings a familiar sounding horn to their lips. It's long, low wailing note echoes down into the maze and splinters down the endless twisting pathways. With that, the hunt begins.

INTO THE LABYRINTH
I. THE STAGING GROUND
HERE IS HOW YOU HUNT A BARITHIAN, explains the Elinmaster. First, a field of battle needs to be chosen - and it's always better to know the ground you're fighting on than to be caught unawares in unfamiliar territory. The hunting party will need to establish a fall back position inside the canyon that's advantageous to them, at which point it will be lain with all manner of traps. Memorize it. You'll want to know every nook and cranny when you return here under duress.

Plan your routes and lay your traps. You do remember how to set them, don't you?

II. BY THE TAIL
WITH THE STAGE SET, only the star is lacking - or the villain is. But the Finger Maze is a vast labyrinthine space that stretches on for miles. Finding the Barithian, even as large as it is, presents a challenge - perhaps the second greatest challenge of the hunt. It is time for the hunters to separate. Some go off alone, some travel in small groups. Each is equipped with a small version of the horn that had summoned them to this work in the first place. Their task is simple and herculean: to search the maze for signs of the beast and locate it, then to draw its attention and lure it back into the staging ground. Lastly, they must send out the call to summon the rest of the party to rendezvous meet them where the chase will end. However, only one route leads to the barithian. Perhaps--

a) There were signs - a bone, a tell-tale scrape on the canyon walls, a corridor of felled coral. It was difficult to tell from the back of the Elin, so it made sense in the moment to dismount and check more closely. --At least, it made sense right up until now when you suddenly hear something. Something-- big. Its footfalls shake the floor under your feet; its heavy breath snorts out of its multiple sets of nostrils with a wet visceral sound. You can’t go back the way you came - the trembling footfalls seem to come from that direction. Luckily, there's a narrow cave opening in the canyon wall right there.

Inside is dark. The cave goes very deep indeed - so deep that after a time you can smell the promise of fresh air again. Maybe there's another exit? Which is good, since the way you entered is no longer an option: the beast is there, it's massive forepaws clawing into the stone on either side of the cave entrance and its huge mutli-nostriled nose sucking in big, gulping breaths.

b) ((OOC NOTE: first come first serve)) You find the Barithian. Even with its great hulking back turned to you, it's awe-inspiring. Terrifying. The Elinmaster's assistants had described it on the way in, but their words failed to convey the details. It's disturbingly massive - mammothian, even -, its six legs coiled tight with muscle, and strong, sharp claws on each of the massive paws. You have to get it’s attention. How you do it is up to you, but you know that the moment it turns its massive head toward you with its beady eyes hidden behind a broad, triangular face plate and its multinostrils flaring with a horrible groaning noise that it's time to get a move on.

c) Your search has turned up nothing - but that's not surprising is it? The maze is huge. Not everyone could strike gold. Hell, not everyone would even want to. It’s almost a relief until you hear it: the low, moan of the signal horn echoing through the maze-like canyon. You need to get back to the staging ground and you need to go fast - or risk leaving the other hosts to face the beast alone.

III. THE BATTLE
THE HORN DOES ITS JOB. By the time the hosts unlucky enough to have the tiger by its tail come riding back into the staging ground, many members of the hunting party have already returned and are armed, if not ready, for when the creature comes barreling in behind them. It shakes the brittle bone coral with the weight of its galloping footfalls and makes a deep, low sonorous noises that echoes down the stone walls. With its ire raised, the barithian is even more fearsome than it had seemed from a distance. It’s size and strength are undeniable up close. The creature tears great mounds of earth up under its clawed feet and there's a mesmerizing, horrific quality to the flash of filtered canyon light off its sharp teeth.

The riders are now tasked with the last phase of the challenge - kill or be killed, using the weapons and techniques they have learned in their time here. And hey, maybe you have a few non-Hyrypian tricks up your sleeves you can play with some subtlety. Fighting fair seems less than ideal when one of those huge paws comes swiping right at you.

IV. THE FRUIT OF DIPLOMACY
'DON'T GET CLOSE TO THE HEAD,' had seemed like an easy to follow rule back on the Graze, but the reality of facing down with the barithian is far more complicated. And despite being slowed by the environment, the traps laid for it, countless spears jutting from its dense marbled hide, here in its last moments the great beast is at its most dangerous. Maybe someone gets over confidant. Maybe it's just general exhaustion. Maybe it seems like the barithian is staggering when really it's turning for one final, deadly snap of its ferocious jaws.

It bowls three riders from their Elin with one swipe from its massive paw - mechanics twisting and bursting with brilliant flares of released technomagical energy - then lunges for the felled hunters left in the wake of their ruined mounts. A Descendant throws up both arms in some lunatic, useless defense mechanism. Beside her, Lavellan drives the blunt end of his spear into the ground and braces the shaft across his knee. The Barithian drives itself down on the point of the spear, snaps down on his arm by reflex and then recoils - tossing him clear like a horrifying rag doll as the great animal thrashes.

There's an immediate, palpable, indescribable POP! A ship being hulled and all the air sucked out of into into the vacuum of space. A glass bauble splitting into a hundred thousand pieces on some distant stone floor. A seam splitting. A branch snapped across the knee. And then there's nothing left at all except the frothing barithian snapping out those nearest i to it.

V. THE RETURN
THE RIDE BACK TO THE CAMP seems to take twice as long as the one they took to the Finger Maze - though it hardly seems long enough, knowing what lies at the end. Certainly the other Hosts will have felt Lavellan's death, but you know what they say. Seeing is believing.

It doesn’t matter. The camp awaits their return regardless. As they ride through the gate again one of the massive technomagically driven wagons passes them, headed into the maze to retrieve their kill. Once they reach the edges of the encampment, the atmosphere there remains subdied. While the other Envoys and Hyrypian hosts might not know the nitty gritty details, the certainly seem to have considered the possibility of things going badly. There is food, drink, and eventually even some gentle, sober music, however the evening is quiet and many of the envoys retreat to their own tents rather than remain in the public spaces.

Some victories are not celebrated.

((OOC Notes: This log covers the barithian hunt and any relating events that take place on DAY :018. You can find information about the hunt and ask event specific questions HERE.

Have more generalized questions? Drop them on the MISSION: HYRYPIA OOC POST or get in touch with us on the Mod Contact page.))

NAVIGATION • GAME CALENDAR • MISSION: HYRYPIA • FAQ
• MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

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( the realization that she had failed at her attempt to be stealthy comes a few hazy heartbeats after lexa squeezes her hand, and something like guilt tries to swell in her chest. but clarke is all wrung out of real emotions. between the loss of the man she'd never truly known, and the dealings with her broodmates, and the constant push and pull of heightened paranoia, she is a worn washcloth, too tired to cry another tear. oddly content with a headache blooming behind her eyes, curled around a very alive, breathing lexa. maybe if she tries hard enough, she can fold into the other woman — absorb any lingering ache and pains, swallow some of that tranquility that seemed to pool in lexa's chest.

through the thick wrappings of her headdress, clarke can still smell the sweat and dirt in lexa's hair, can feel the fuzzy ache of muscles from a hard days competition. her own body feels oddly light, save her stomach that sits like a stone in her abdominal cavity. it's a borrowed sort of numbness, from her counterparts who dislike her, but for now clarke leans into it as heavily as she leans into lexa.

are there words that don't sound heartless? to describe that, at the very least, she's happy it wasn't her.

...no?

then how about the overdone platitude of — ) Sorry.

[Perhaps it had been naive to believe that this would be a moment of silence, body against body, and grasping for the other. Perhaps it had been foolish to think that she would have the opportunity to acknowledge anything but the brick of guilt that seems to control every single one of Clarke's actions. She'd been aware of that guilt long before Clarke's arrival as a Host. It seems that there's nothing that can be done about it.

Lexa wavers between acknowledging the apology for what it is and pointing out the flaw in its existence, and ignoring it altogether. Neither feels truly appropriate. The uncertainty in how to proceed can undoubtedly be felt by Clarke: Lexa tenses up once she hears the word, and her hand stills for a moment.

And then, finally, she decides, because indecision is worse than anything:]

Sleep doesn't come easily for me, Clarke. [She both acknowledges and evades, taking the apology in new context.] You aren't unwelcome.

Aren't you tired?

( she is. exhausted down to the marrow, energy spent climbing cliff faces and holding in her insides when it felt like lavellan's death had gutted them all. clarke has learned his name by now, and feels all the more consumed by her visceral grief and objective relief that at least it hadn't been one of her people. aren't they all my people? a notion that had warred within her head as she'd warred with broodmates in various stages of grief.

it isn't on par with participating in the hunt. clarke squeezes her arms around lexa's midsection, revels in the way living skin has a give and warmth to it that reanimated corpses could never hope to achieve. for all her guilt and the halfhearted offer to retreat, she's making no move to scoot to her own bedroll and leave the other woman in peace. )

Edited 2017-10-13 06:22 (UTC)

[Being tired seems so simple in contrast to how she feels, and how she knows that she will continue to feel in the coming days. Communicating that to anyone is a struggle in and of itself. Lexa knows she failed the first time with Clarke not long ago on their walk. She has tried since to change that with others, but the words still fail to form in her mind.

Instead, she calms her mind for a moment, and opens it up enough for Clarke to see a flash of a memory: Lexa on the ground, in robes, so it's apparent that it is here. Her prone position on the ground is familiar, however, and not unlike the time when Roan nearly took her life. This moment is different. Lexa chooses more than to live just to live, as she did back during the fight with the Prince of Azgeda. She knows what it means to die—to be grieved and mourned and lost, and for everything to burn in her wake. For her to burn, lost with the Flame that would never pass on.

And then her mind stills, not closing Clarke off, not shutting the doors. But there is a careful moment where Lexa represses the feelings of anxiety associated with mortality. It's not the loss of Lavellan that bothers her now. No, it's the burning reminder of nothingness in the wake of her death—of a death that could come at any moment.]

We're all tired, [she eventually says, breaking the silence. That doesn't make it any easier to rest.]

( clarke's quiet, all senses tuned into lexa for the time it takes to communicate that memory and all the feelings that come along with it. she's intent, but it's like straining something through a cheesecloth. the haze of alcohol swimming at the back of her mind is borrowed, making it easier to excuse away how tightly clarke holds her; how insistently she crowds against her back and buries her face in lexa's hair. but it's so much easier to lean into loose-lipped intoxication when it comes to asking for what seems like the impossible. )

Please don't do it again.

( more accurately, to beg. in that twinged, beseeching voice she gets when stripped of resolve and openly vulnerable. )

If there are more trials or anything, just — please.

[How does she proclaim that she doesn't trust the others without sounding selfish and judgmental? The question of that stirs in her mind and Clarke will be able to know she glosses over it, but doesn't come to any answer. Lexa also knows that it's unfair. The others who chose to hunt weren't foolish or weak. They could handle themselves.

Therefore, it comes down to pride. Lexa has nothing to prove here, either to the Nest or herself. She knows that she's strong. Her leadership won't be on the line because she asked for someone to fight in her place.]

Will you ask the same of Bellamy? [It's where she ends up, clearly trying to avoid the request (at least for now).]

( lexa doesn't trust the others, and clarke may not completely either. she feels the tugging of heartstrings and intuition telling her they're a hodgepodge makeup of a team, they're all in this together. but if she were being completely honest with herself, at her core she doesn't care. there is a hierarchy in the heart of clarke griffin of who needs to survive this ordeal, and at the very top of the list is lexa. it's selfish, wholly and completely, and thus she doesn't fully acknowledge it. but it's a factor, just like the alcohol — both of which send her mind swimming when bellamy is drawn into the conversation.

clarke stills at lexa's back. not because she'd forgotten bellamy, nor murphy, but because it's a sudden, rude reminder of his potential mortality as well. how much had it hurt to think she'd lost him all those times? how much would it hurt to actually lose him? )

I haven't yet. But I will.

( asking never hurt, even if in another unacknowledged recess of her mind, clarke doesn't expect either of them to do as she'd wish. it isn't frustrating. it's terrifying. )

Perhaps he'll respond better to you than he did to me, [she says, her words just above a breath of air as they leave her mouth. Lexa knows that she's hinting to something that makes her vulnerable—to the bond between Clarke and Bellamy, and to what they mean to one another. She doesn't allow herself to give life to that something. She doesn't let herself reveal what has been her perception of Clarke and Bellamy for some time, too afraid of what it might mean for her.

Instead, she presses on, trying to escape the complication of that:] I tried to stop him today. [Today. Long ago. Their preparations before the hunt feel like they were in another life.]

But just as he refused to step aside, I can't promise you what you ask for, Clarke. [Not when it feels like the one thing she's most simplistically suited to do. Lexa doesn't act out of recklessness, not like many others. She acts because being a warrior is a part of her, and it makes up the roots of who she is, even long before she fought in her conclave and won (and watched Luna leave Polis for the last time).]

( Lexa... )

( her name slips from clarke's mind, even as her mouth sets in a relatively hard line in response to being told no. there's a frustrated sort of desperation coloring her thoughts, floundering somewhere between demanding and begging. the arms around lexa's torso squeeze once more, then relent as clarke (a little precariously, with an accompanied headrush) shifts up onto her elbow. she seems to belatedly realize her costume is still in place, veil obscuring her face and making the tent darker than it actually was. she grapples with the fabric for a moment, shoving the bulk of fabric up and over her head to fall back against her shoulders, then pads at lexa's arm, imploring her to turn over and look at her.

with a little more composure, a little less whiny, clarke tries again. )

Lexa, please.

[A stubborn part of Lexa debates not turning, but it's that same part that Clarke can undoubtedly feel. There's no real feeling or sentiment behind the temptation. She just wants to be difficult. Right now, being difficult after denying Clarke that request feels like a poor choice.

No, correction: it's a cruel choice.

So, she turns, eyes meeting Clarke's. Even in the darkness of the tent, she can make out the contours of her face. It helps that she's memorized them countless times before.]

You saw what happened out there. To me. Do you think I truly intend to die?

( be it heady emotion, or the vicarious effects of the hyrypian equivalent of moonshine, her response to that question sticks in her throat. it's difficult to work around the lump of sentiment, and clarke doesn't want to dredge up home. she doesn't want to remind lexa of the death she'd never experienced — the death that had been quick, painful, and unintentional. because that bullet had been meant for clarke.

she swallows. )

I don't think Lavellan intended to die out there today. But he did.

We don't know what Lavellan intended, except to save the life of the person who would be dead instead of him. [For what it's worth, it's all that she knows about him. Her knowledge of the other hosts is usually much greater, but she never knew him. It's that detachment which helps her.]

But I know myself. I know that my ease with my death never helped you, Clarke. I once believed that my spirit would pass on. That my people would be safe. [There's a beat here, where silence stretches as much for dramatic tension as Lexa wanting the initial words to have an impact. Then she speaks again:] But I made a choice to come here. To live and deny my people my spirit.

I may die as you remember. But I will try not to make it so simple or sudden. [She will fight for her life. As a warrior. As a survivor. Because she chose to live. It's a consequence she has to live with now. She chose to live twice over, and she's known that since the day Bellamy showed up.]

( a high noise of dissatisfaction rises in her throat, choked and unhappy — frustrated, because as nicely as lexa is letting her down, it's still a resounding no. promising not to die suddenly or without great cause was not the same as promising to not die at all, and clarke has to rationalize with herself. has to focus on lexa's words, and who she knows the woman to be as a leader, and as a person, and understand that this concession was the best she would get without begging. without forcing lexa to be untrue to herself.

but it still stings.

in her sober, reflective moments, clarke never chooses to dwell on just how irrevocably losing lexa had broken certain parts of her. but swimming in borrowed drunkenness and drowning in warring emotions, she can't help but bite her lower lip. to wonder if it was ever possible to recover from losing the love of your life twice. or even once. )

I tried to pass on your spirit, ( she eventually whispers, voice hollow in the face of remembered failures. ) We found Luna, but she wouldn't take the Flame. And when I did, I — I thought I felt you.

( the flame will protect me, she'd told her mother, confident in the press of foreign conscious at the base of her skull. it had been quiet, not quite the same as here. it had been a steadying hand on her shoulder that belonged to no one in particular, but she'd so desperately wanted it to be lexa at her back, lending the courage to open her mouth for the chip. so desperately — i wanted it to be you. )

I would have been there. [Just as the Commander who trained her had been waiting for her alongside all the others so she could begin the ritual of saying the names of all the previous Commanders. Lexa has no doubt that Becca's technology would have worked again, even with Clarke as a makeshift Nightblood in a desperate situation. Her voice is low as her hand reaches out to press against Clarke's face, a ginger, careful action, all done to comfort her. These strokes come more easily to Clarke. Intimacy is something she's still relearning. One moment in bed isn't enough to completely uncover years of stuffing how she felt away as if it was a wound that would never heal.

(There's a lot to unravel here, but Lexa just bypasses the mention of Luna, of her not taking the Flame, feeling that this is hardly the time—)

Lexa swallows, wishing suddenly that she had something to drink. She wonders if it's her proximity to Clarke, to the scent of alcohol on her breath, that's making her feel this way. It could be. Or it's the matter of emotions and her death itself.]

The Flame is with me now. Where I intend to keep it. [For a moment, she means to leave her words there, assuming that Clarke might grasp the depth of what that means—of how much she intends to hold on to her life. But it occurs to her that that's a presumption that may be unfair.

She inhales and exhales, eyes closing.]

It's not enough. I know it won't stop what you've already experienced. What you feel every day. [Whenever she's close, there's that weight—Lexa knows that it's new, that it's born only from her death.] But I told you I meant to protect you and I failed to protect you from this once. [I won't fail again.]

( if this is lexa's attempt at comfort, at making that almost impossible promise clarke had asked of her... well, it doesn't not work. the worry and fear still gnaw at her like rabid dogs at exposed heels, but clarke wants so desperately to believe that they — them, all of them — would escape future dangers with their lives that she's willing to accept lexa's proclamation. lets her weight slip, bringing her down on her ribcage with an arm curled under her head. allows oaths of protection to loosen the knot that seems to have tied itself around her lungs of its own volition.

but the air of apology in her words? that doesn't sit well. )

It wasn't your fault.

( that she'd died. that she'd been murdered. at first clarke had blamed titus, had spat as much in his face. but his cold surety, his teary-eyed you killed her, that — that had split the blame. settled it over her shoulders like a heavy chain that threatens to swing between them know, to tighten around her throat and choke her speech. )

You didn't fail me, Lexa, I — ( failed you. killed you. loved you. clarke belatedly realizes her nose feels wet, and brings up a hand to drag the edge of her sleeve across her mouth. )

[The words break off, but not entirely: the different options for filling in that specific blank space filter into her mind. Lexa's throat tightens as Murphy's words return to her. If she had been willing to understand Titus' pain and empathize with it, she might have known what he would be pushed to do. At the same time, isn't that a matter of blaming her for the death she just barely missed? Had the Enemy not come—

Her eyes reopen, focusing back on Clarke. Tears well in the corner of her eyes, but not so much that she can't breathe or speak.]

I left you and your people to die once. [Retreading that feels like a bad idea, but it's clear she has more to say. Her mind, though the words aren't available, makes that clear, like she's ready to go on.] If Titus had his way, I would have done that again and again. I made my choice, Clarke. I don't regret it. But it was my choice.

[Now isn't the time to unpack what it means to bring up Titus in that way. But she knows why she left Clarke once before. It felt like cutting off a limb, like denying herself something so that she could be strong. All it did was make her feel weak.]

( the words break off, and fail to reform. not in the wake of watching lexa's eyes well with tears, not in the wake of bringing up titus' wants and betrayals, and not in the wake of talking about regret. the lump that rises in her throat is bordering on painful, and in her hazy, emotionally clouded state of mind, all clarke can truly think to do is descend upon lexa in a flurry of robes and arms, grappling to hold her in the tightest hug. perhaps proximity can communicate all the sentiments she can't quite wrap her tongue around.

let the minute shake of her shoulders serve in place of professions of forgiveness for mount weather.

let the firm press of her face in the crook of lexa's neck take up the space where they could lament their choices, but never the decision to gravitate towards each other.

let the squeeze of her arms looped awkwardly under lexa's rib cage replace reiterations of maybe life should be about more than just surviving.

but there are some things that the tight press of their chests can't quite communicate, some things that might have subsisted thus far as unspoken truths. but now claw their way out, demanding to be said and heard, with — ) I love you. ( — being by far the most pressing.

though at the same time, clarke's thoughts bubble up, carrying a slightly different declaration. i loved you. past tense. i loved you, and i lost you — and it would indefinitely color the scope of their relationship, whether she liked it or not. from the ferocity with which clarke held her, to the reservations in professing her feelings aloud; from the selfish drive to beg lexa to abandon her morals in order to ensure her safety, to the way clarke breathes in the scent of lexa's hair with something akin to reverence. no matter the reassurance, this all edges towards borrowed time, fleeting and precious. water that could slip through fingers; heartfelt, but hollow. like whispering i love you too, before slipping a dagger into finn's kidney. )

[Clarke holds on to her as if she's afraid that she might slip away. The desperation of the way her limbs fall into place is all too apparent to Lexa. In return, she allows it: shifting ever so slightly so that her body might mold itself to offer Clarke more purchase onto her person. Her breathing becomes more hitched the more Clarke holds on, and as much as she hates it, the tears begin to take over, forcing Lexa to focus on only two things: Clarke's hold on her and trying to suppress the tears. There are still others. Even if everyone is dazed and mourning and broken, there are still others.

And then there is herself: some part of her can't help but feel divided over the fact of her tears, of her sorrow, as they rock through her. Clarke's words and sentiment that follows—love and loved—only gives strength to Lexa's unease, and it takes her several moments, arm wrapping around Clarke's torso in turn, fingers clutching on to some part of the robes that still remain, for her to steady her breathing. Somewhat. Somewhat.]

I love you, too. [Lexa's mind doesn't provide a mental revision, but she does her best to press up against Clarke's, to remind her that she's there. Some Clarke, a different version of Clarke, did lose Lexa in arriving here. She knows that much, has pushed it aside, has ignored everything that it means to have abandoned her world and her position and her identity as a symbol of strength for her people—

Would that Clarke see it as a betrayal? Possibly.

But maybe it would be better than this. A betrayed Clarke can fight on. A broken one can, too, but how many times can Lexa be the cause for her pain?

Perhaps if she let go of Clarke, it would be easier for her to live. She could know Lexa lives, but not have to deal with how that feels. But then, that might be asking too much of Lexa.]

( it's incredibly easy in this open, vulnerable moment to feel a little selfish. on the tip of her tongue rest a litany of unvaried pleas all along the lines of please don't die, please don't do anything dangerous, please stay with me. lexa's conscious presses reassuringly against the frayed edges of clarke's thoughts and it serves to strengthen her resolve while rocking her world in the same stroke. is it possible to be so tightly wrapped in someone's arms and still want to clutch frantically, press in farther, and hold all the harder? there's no physical distance between the two of them, each are solidly there, and yet...

a creeping disconnect grows. they hold each other and cry, comforted yet tormented. it's an uncounted number of moments, maybe stretching into minutes before clarke can successfully swallow down self-indulgent requests for lexa to defy the very bravery and forward thinking that makes her lexa, and even longer to shift back on her knees. sit up and wipe her nose on the sleeve of her tunic. there was a time to be selfish in this relationship, but that was in the dubious future that may never come — when their people, divided into whichever factions, no longer needed their sacrifice to live. and while liberties may be taken within the embrace of the nest, while they could hold each other like this and weep in the face of boldly stated endearments, like it or not all the other hosts were their people in this world. )

You should sleep, ( clarke whispers, seemingly just now remembering the sleeping bodies scattered within the tent. if any of them had been listening in, they made no acknowledgment of the tragic love story several bedrolls away. )

[It's less the sleeping forms that jars her and more that Clarke removes herself from where she had been, forcing a separation that feels all too unnecessary. Will she leave? Will she go to mourn elsewhere? There was a time when Lexa would have chastised that. There was a time when she would have wanted to suppress that pain within Clarke the same way she had within herself (or convinced herself that she had—which is a significant difference).

They have an unspoken agreement of distance. Lexa doesn't know where it began. With her? With Clarke? But right now, it feels unnecessary. The others are likely not even asleep, not fully. It's too late. (Deep in the back of her mind, the pressure of appearances and strength echoes. She ignores that.)

Her fingers reach out to take Clarke's hand, to pull her close.]

And so should you. [But there is a deeper, unspoken thing to this action:

She doesn't want Clarke to move away. She's too raw, too bare and revealed, to go back to what might is the status quo. Not tonight. Right now, they owe nothing to anyone else.]

( if she's too punchdrunk and lovesick to fully grasp and appreciate the upheaval her movements cause lexa, the hand on her hand is more than enough to give her pause. clarke freezes almost immediately, a brief flash of confusion giving away to understanding, and then a small crisis of uncertainty. she almost immediately wishes to be better enclosed in her state; tangentially drunk, but belatedly grappling for the remnants of her newly erected mental barriers. she wants to be stronger and better equipped to deal with this tragedy on her own like she should be able to, because at first glance the unspoken offer feels like a boon given for her delicate state.

but after a long, careful moment — a moment that spans many moments, time seems a loose concept when staring into lexa's eyes — it's easier to blink through her wounded, bleeding heart. easier to set aside the idea that she has to be immovable and stony because of the tears she'd so easily shed into the other woman's hair. a wanting heart recognizes a wanting heart.

and the ache in her chest for lavellan, for asuka, and to some degree rust, it had abated somewhat while wrapped in lexa's arms. )

Okay. ( soft and whispered, and clarke slowly tips sideways, stiffly leveling herself back into the pillow. she's still fully dressed and has not even thought to remove her gloves and the many layers of their costumes. )

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[mission: hyrypia] and when our bottles and all we are fill’d with immortality

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