Chapter Text
Until now I wasn’t much inspired to write due to the quality content the show was providing regarding clexa. But now there is an ache, a dread and need so large. I don’t want the clexakru to disappear and part. I don't want writers to stop writing, artists to stop creating, editors to stop editing. And I don’t want the pain to blind the love of Lexa and Clarke, how profound and beautiful and cosmic it is, and forever will be. They’re soul mates, and I want to write their love, their dynamic, to celebrate it. Because lord knows their love was the love of legends, not even fairytales, but legends. I won’t forget clexa. I wont. I vow not to in my heart. I hope to write for clexa for as long as their love inspires me, if I'm able, I hope to write a season 3 au that endorses that love is strength, and not weakness, and not death, and after struggle and strife you're rewarded. To quote these lovely words, that will embody all I write for clexa:
I think we deserve a soft epilogue,
my love.
We are good people
and we’ve suffered enough
- Seventy Years of Sleep, nikka ursula
Lexa sat in a lounge chair, her mind preoccupied by the words she read, the book sitting comfortably in her hands. The room was silent, lit a gentle gold by the flickering flames of candles and sunlight through the windows, the thin drapes; the entirety of it all with the weather was soothing, and if Lexa had the mind she could have dozed – it would not have been the first time. But despite the luxury of leisurely reading, despite the beauty of the day that made sitting inside almost a crime, the day wasn’t one of total relaxation. While Lexa’s mind was not thinking of the meeting to be, she knew once started it would take most of the day, would turn the hours to the late afternoon when the sky would be yawning and darker. So for now she enjoyed the blue of the heavens and quietness of the room high in the tower, enjoyed the automatic rising and fall of her chest as her heart pumped steady, enjoyed the comfort of the chair and the texture and smell of the book in her hand and most of all she enjoyed the words she read that filled up her mind almost entirely:
“Don’t say anything,” Fatima interrupted. “One is loved because one is loved. No reason is needed for loving.”
But the boy continued, “I had a dream, and I met with a king. I sold crystal and crossed the desert. And, because the tribes declared war, I went to the well, seeking the alchemist. So, I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you.”
The two embraced.
She liked these words, thought of Clarke in them, and she read further until a voice outside her mind reached her ears.
“Where’s Clarke?”
Lexa looked up to Kane, to Marcus, nodded minutely in greeting as he sat down across her, in a larger lounge, a couch, placing a box on the knee-height table between them.
“She’ll return. She went to find Abby for the meeting.”
Marcus smiled, kind and open and with a lightness that spoke of an absence of worry, and nodded to her book.
“Reading in the mean time?”
Lexa glanced down to the open page, then to Marcus; and because the day was beautiful and her time enjoyed, and she considered Marcus, Kane, a friend, a trusted confident, and because such serious worries in comparison to the past have been so absent for both of them, Lexa’s lips upturned at the corners. Marcus was glad Lexa smiled more these days, at least that he has seen.
“Yes. It’s a favourite of Clarkes… The Alchemist. I started it yesterday.”
“Yesterday? It looks like you’ve nearly finished it,” Kane noted, sat forward in his chair.
“It’s simple to read but meaningful. I think it might be one of my favourites as well.”
“I’ll be sure to give it a look then.”
Continuing with his intentions, Marcus opened the box he brought – it was wooden, aged and worn and it unfolded to form a solid flat surface, save for the short borders, covered in squares of a deep brown and a lighter, cream shade. Lexa’s interest piqued, recognising it to be a game of sorts given the pieces that spilled out from the once-box-now-board object.
She closed the book, memorizing the page and set it on the corner of the table in front of her. Mirroring Kane’s stature, Lexa leaned forward as he moved the pieces to a standing position, lining them up along the first two rows in front of him, and the last two rows from him.
“And what’s this?”
Marcus’s smile never left, but his face lightened again, a shining to his eyes, that brought a smile forth from Lexa as well. Smiles had a tendency to be contagious, she had read.
“This is called Chess.”
“Chess?”
She had read such a thing, she thought, vaguely familiar with the word and concept. Clarke may have spoken it to her. She missed the blonde at the thought of her, suddenly wishing her presence. Then again, she was always longing for Clarke.
“Hm. It’s an old strategy game – goes back centuries, possibly millenniums, or some version of it. I found it in one of the markets before I came here; no one seemed to know what it was. I traded my watch for it.”
“And what is the aim of this game?”
“To capture the king. See…” and Marcus, with quiet passion and love, proceeded to explain the pieces and their movements and the rules, and it was not long that Lexa understood the mechanisms, with Marcus only needing to explain once, and they started the game.
Lexa studied the board intensely, as Marcus watched her. He didn’t know the count of games they played but it must have been an hour, though he wouldn’t know since he no longer had his watch. He was good at chess, had played it many times on the Ark, in Arkadia, and was one of the better players around. Still, Lexa had bested him again and again, his victories near nil. He watched calmly and quietly and with intrigue as Lexa, just as she did most times, gave long thought to her moves before making them – eyes darting and lingering all over the board. He could never predict the strategy that formed in her mind. He watched her now and thought he might this time. Then:
“Why did you sacrifice that bishop? It’s more valuable.”
He blinked at the sudden question.
“Well…”
Clarke walked in and found them, her mother trailing behind. She stood by the door and watched Kane and Lexa talking as they moved pieces and she watched Lexa’s smile, small but sincere and beauty unlost. She watched and felt nostalgia at the game and felt in love. All this was a moment, one or two or three or maybe five.
“I think the meeting might be awhile longer,” she said, not loudly, not disruptively, to her mother.
It looked like Lexa and Kane had started a game recently, not many pieces taken or moved.
“I think you might be right.”
They walked, Abby sitting down beside Marcus and he looked to her with a smile, shared it with her as she placed a hand on his knee and he placed a hand on hers, squeezing affection, before their gaze turned to the game and Lexa. Lexa didn’t look away from the board at all, not a peep, as Clarke came near her, sat down on the couches armrest. Lexa took Clarke’s hand and kissed it, held it, eye’s never straying from the game as she made her next move. Clarke smiled and fought the urge to kiss the commander, this gentle warlord.
Abby saw it all and felt the lightness of gratitude and joy at knowing, at seeing, her daughter in love and so dearly loved. She remembered when she found out, that time ago. Dears in a headlight (was that the saying?), they were caught hands in hair and on hips and lips clinging. They were so young in that moment, and while they may have felt embarrassment and coyness or – whatever they felt, Abby could still remember the relief, the surprise, at them, at a life beyond survival for her daughter. She had guessed, had pondered and mused before then, of course. It was in their eyes when they looked at each other, in their smiles and the way they danced that time. The eyes never lie.
“How long has this been going on?”
Marcus glanced to Abby, “Long enough.”
“I like this game.”
“Well you keep winning.”
“I’m good at strategy.”
“Maybe you should go against Clarke; on the Ark she played Chess all the time.”
“Mum.”
But Lexa looked to Clarke and smiled, eyes sparkling, and Clarke was smiling too, toothless, all lips, but full and beautiful, knowing they would have games later. Clarke looked at the board and the game and the positions and leaned into Lexa, bent a little, to whisper in Lexa’s ear and the commander smiled and nodded and –
Marcus lost, the final time that day not soon after. It was a longer game, with Clarke pointing out strategies for both sides that had moves revealed and the whole game up in the air, but it was fun affair, of smiles and laughter and silence. It felt normal and more than surviving, and not at all like a day of business.
“Were there more of these at the market?”
“No. It was just the one.”
“I’ll commission for more to be made. The bishop reminds me of Titus.”
Clarke laughed, a soft and short sound, “A little bit.”
“You could make a Polis set,” Marcus suggested, amused, “with the rook as the tower.”
Lexa nodded, liking the idea, smiling and turned to Clarke, “How do you think Octavia would take her carved on a horse as the knight?”
“Either she’d think it was cool or comment how much of a nerd you are.”
“She wouldn’t dare,” Lexa smiled, smirked.
“We’ll go on ahead,” Abby rose, Marcus following, “tell them you’ll be with us shortly. Don’t dawdle.”
“Next time, Commander.”
Left alone and unbothered by their appointment, by time and duties, Lexa tugged on Clarke’s arm, the girl sliding from the armrest to Lexa’s lap, comfortable. One of Clarke’s arms rested on Lexa’s shoulder, hand brushing brown hair and caressing skin of jaw and cheeks and ears – all the while silent. There was the barest hint of a smile, a ghost of one, so faint, on Clarke’s lips, while her eyes loved and adored and admired, enamoured, with the woman in front of her. She was in love, was in peace, with Lexa. The words didn’t feel adequate to describe the tranquillity that fell over them, but it was warm, a blossoming presence in her being and heart and chest and an extension of her soul, Clarke knew. She knew so much then. And Lexa was smiling, openly, entranced and devout, so much so that Clarke’s smile grew and became prominent that when they leaned into kiss it was all smiles and pecks, until they held each other with their lips, safe, soft and tender. This was home. They knew. Foreheads rested a moment, having missed the contact, till Clarke shifted to the open and unset board that she had always likened to life in many ways.
“Are you going to make the king you?”
Lexa kissed Clarke’s cheek then glanced to the game.
“No. You will be the king, I will be the queen. The pawns will be Nightbloods.”
“I think I’d rather be the queen, I mean it’s going to a Polis set.”
But Lexa shook her head, leaned a little to kiss Clarke firmly, with tamed passion, short but sincere and leaving Clarke with want of more as eyes poured into swirls of green and grey, “The queen can be sacrificed, to further victory, with or without the promise of a pawn reaching the end to bring back a piece of choice, such as the queen. Like how Nightbloods can all potentially become Heda. And the queen is the most powerful piece, yes? I think that fits.”
“But the king – ”
“Is irreplaceable,” Lexa affirms, then, more softly, eyes beautiful and tender and hands on Clarke’s face, thumb stroking cheek and neck and very much a means to distract Lexa from kissing the girl, “you’re irreplaceable.”
A ghost, a hint, small but substantial in effect, of a smile, familiar and loving and kind and that quietness, Clarke was falling evermore. It struck her, how these moments, these moments of safety and words of tenderness and devotion always froze time, made her feel out of time, forgetting what century and world she was in. Lexa smiled, liked this effect, and kissed Clarke at the very corner of her lips, only for Clarke to chase them and demand more, for a moment, one or two or three or maybe five. When they parted Lexa smiled with her eyes, and she turned, and Clarke rose from Lexa’s lap, and Lexa moved to put the pieces back in starting positions, the silence comfortable, while Clarke picked up the book on the side, looked at it fondly.
“What page are you up to?”
“The end of one-thirty-two.”
Clarke stood and flipped the pages, found it, aware of Lexa’s presence joining her, arms wrapped around her middle from behind and breath ticking her neck and ear.
“I like this book.”
“I thought you might.”
“For the same reasons you do?”
Clarke bent and put the book back down on the table, “Yeah.”
“You’re my heart.”
“Well aren’t you just romantic today.”
Smiling, their finger intertwined a tapestry and tangling of souls, and Clarke didn’t fight pressing her lips to Lexa again. It must have been the day and the warmth and the words that prompted such momentous enamour all in such a spurt of time, in such a constraint, when they didn’t have the luxury of tangling limbs in sheets and sharing air with gasps and moans.
“I’ve been told I’m very smooth.”
“From a very biased source.”
“I hold her in high esteem, and she’s often always right.”
“Only often?” Clarke grinned, and her arms were around Lexa’s neck, pushing for time, and Clarke glanced down and a hand played at the seams of clothing, the lace, on Lexa’s shoulder. When Clarke spoke next her voice was softer, strong still, but cautious, important and fragile and yet still, somehow firm and grounded, because the moment was such, standing on the solidity of love.
“You know… I’ve been thinking…”
“How dangerous.”
“Shut up,” Clarke laughed, and they swayed.
Something about the day, the book and the game and the love, and Clarke knew, “How about we be spontaneous and… announce a marriage?”
“I didn’t know Lincoln and Octavia were getting remarried.”
“Oh my god,” Clarke pushed Lexa away, turning, and smiling and Lexa was grinning as her hand tugged Clarke back into her embrace, her face now soft, now meaningful, and so very close with a ghost and fight of a smile.
“Clarke.”
“Don’t you want to?”
They spoke quietly now.
“Always.”
Clarke’s eyes were sparkling, were constellations, like that night when she first bandaged Lexa’s hand, and that smile – it was Lexa’s favourite, one of them.
“I had planned to ask your mother,” Lexa admitted, eyes earnest, “and…make it special.”
“This still feels pretty special.”
“There’s something,” the commander nodded, quirked a corner of her lips.
“C’mon, let’s go send everyone into a ruckus.”
“I don’t think there will be much protest as you expect. We are practically already – ”
“Lexa, let me have my fun.”
And she laughed and let her be hand dragged by the woman, with a glance back to the book and the page left open and the words there, how Clarke was her heart and that’s how she related to it all, and this – this, her life, her present and future, this was happiness, was living.
“Why do we have to listen to our hearts?” the boy asked, when they had made camp that day.
“Because, whenever your heart is, that is where you’ll find your treasure.”
“But my heart is agitated,” the boy said. “It has its dreams, it gets emotional, and it’s become passionate over a woman of the desert. It asks things of me, and it keeps me from sleeping many nights, when I’m thinking of her,”
“Well, that’s good. Your heart is alive. Keep listening to what it has to say.”