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Crimson Dew Drops

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Clarke wasn’t always a good trecker, but she’s learning, just like she’s learning new things about herself every day. Like how easy it is to find the shades of the forest in Lexa’s eyes, heavy with burden, yet full of longing for something she will never allow herself to have again.

Love is weakness.

But Clarke doesn’t need to be a particularly good trecker to find her now: all she needs to do is follow the crimson droplets on the leaves. She pushes on through the forest, every broken twig - a clue bringing her closer. How easy it is to see the river, heavy with sediment, in the soft, brown curls of Lexa’s hair.

Love is weakness.

She is strong. She’s heard it many times now. She’s said to herself, as well, but never did it sound like a lie quite so much as when those words fell from Lexa’s lips. Lips so full of softness and fury. Lips that it might kill you to kiss, yet you couldn’t pull away. Clarke isn’t strong at all.

Love is weakness.

She knows this with every step she takes, as the trail of blood droplets, like morning dew upon the grass, gets thicker. She isn’t strong enough to stop moving, she isn’t strong enough to walk away. When the battle is over, you can finally grieve the ones you’ve lost. But she hasn’t lost Lexa yet. Lexa, who stalks off into the forest like some feral cat, to die alone in the wilderness. Well, not on Clarke’s watch.


She sees her by the riverbed, hair undone in wild tendrils along her taught and erect back, parts of her armor fallen off her strong yet slender frame like leaves from a dying tree.

“Go away, Clarke. We have won. And now my battle is over.”

The ashes still fall in the distance over what was left of the Mount Weather, in some morbid way mingled with the ashes from Grounder celebratory pyres. Ashes to ashes, but not this. Clarke closes in on the woman - the girl - about to enter the river.

“Nothing’s over until I say it is.”

“And who gave you this claim over my life?” Lexa’s eyes, mixed jewels of amber and malachite, sparkle with something too close to a challenge.

Clarke can see the wound more clearly now. It looks deep, but there’s a flutter of hope in her heart, so she places her own hand over the bleeding opening.

“My own heart,” she says.

They have antibiotics on the Ark. Her mother is a good surgeon. She will save Lexa. She will do this for her, because she owes her. And because, at the end of the day, Clarke is just a girl too - comprised of kaleidoscope parts of her floated father, her traitor mother, her martyred lover, and now this. The unexpected surprise between Lexa’s lips. Finding love in a time of war. A golden phoenix sprung from the ashes around them.

“Love is weakness,” Lexa whispers against Clarke’s lips as her body sinks into the Sky girl’s embrace.

“I don’t care,” Clarke mutters, drunk with kisses, drunk with victory, drunk with hope.