[It's one thing to make several declarative statements in a roll, making it impossible for the other person to interject. It's one thing to tell allude to the fact that she's in pain, and another thing to say it. Titus' influence oppresses her even now. The man who revered her, told her she deserved to be Commander, made no secret of it, even as it was apparent that Luna was stronger to her—and the man who killed her for failing to live up to that.
Lexa knows it's unfair to put this all on Clarke while failing to say what truly needs to be said: that she's in pain. That she's struggling. That the months as a host have worn down at her resolve and hearing the person closest to her (aside from Clarke) still cling to hopes of home in such a way had broken down what little she had left. But then, she had been a raw and exposed nerve for a while. Something was bound to strike it sooner or later.
She tries to inhale and exhale with control, but there's a sound that escapes through the folds of clothing that makes it clear that she isn't managing it all that successfully. It's not a sound of sobbing or weeping, but struggling breaths, a point of no return.
Giving up Clarke (the act of giving up Clarke, the recognition of it) feels like giving up a part of herself. Loving Clarke, believing in Clarke, seeing how special Clarke had been felt like Lexa reclaiming a part of herself. It felt like defiance in the face of her people. Having Clarke meant that one part of her life didn't belong to anyone else. She could love. She could care. She could live—and she could try to live, even as her upbringing and training told her to let herself die when it was her time.
Living now is further defiance of that fact. She lives for Clarke and herself, well aware that dying had brought nothing but suffering to her people and to Clarke. She could both look at herself as a visionary, and someone who failed to lay firm enough foundations to live on. She was both Commanders in the end.
If she weren't sitting mere feet away from Clarke, she might have more control now. Clarke hasn't moved, though.]
(I'm telling you what I see. What I believe.) [Even if these observations and beliefs are founded on her own pain. She's known for some time that Clarke and Bellamy love one another. It's just that right now it feels particularly hurtful. Neither of them exposed the nerve. Neither of them asked for Lexa to live this life, bare to everyone else. But the pieces fell in place just the same.]
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Lexa knows it's unfair to put this all on Clarke while failing to say what truly needs to be said: that she's in pain. That she's struggling. That the months as a host have worn down at her resolve and hearing the person closest to her (aside from Clarke) still cling to hopes of home in such a way had broken down what little she had left. But then, she had been a raw and exposed nerve for a while. Something was bound to strike it sooner or later.
She tries to inhale and exhale with control, but there's a sound that escapes through the folds of clothing that makes it clear that she isn't managing it all that successfully. It's not a sound of sobbing or weeping, but struggling breaths, a point of no return.
Giving up Clarke (the act of giving up Clarke, the recognition of it) feels like giving up a part of herself. Loving Clarke, believing in Clarke, seeing how special Clarke had been felt like Lexa reclaiming a part of herself. It felt like defiance in the face of her people. Having Clarke meant that one part of her life didn't belong to anyone else. She could love. She could care. She could live—and she could try to live, even as her upbringing and training told her to let herself die when it was her time.
Living now is further defiance of that fact. She lives for Clarke and herself, well aware that dying had brought nothing but suffering to her people and to Clarke. She could both look at herself as a visionary, and someone who failed to lay firm enough foundations to live on. She was both Commanders in the end.
If she weren't sitting mere feet away from Clarke, she might have more control now. Clarke hasn't moved, though.]
( I'm telling you what I see. What I believe. ) [Even if these observations and beliefs are founded on her own pain. She's known for some time that Clarke and Bellamy love one another. It's just that right now it feels particularly hurtful. Neither of them exposed the nerve. Neither of them asked for Lexa to live this life, bare to everyone else. But the pieces fell in place just the same.]