A Friendship Rekindled
As soon as she wakes up, Clarke turns and curls up into a ball. When she thinks of the previous evening, she feels a slight self-contempt for acting so thoughtlessly, for losing herself in a moment when there was no moment to be lost in.
But then she remembers Lexa’s face when they parted, and feels nothing but pain. She has a desperate urge to fix things, even though she knows this thing might be too broken to fix.
When she gets to the palace, she begs and begs for an audience. She gets as far as the throne room before Indra puts a gentle hand on her shoulder and shakes her head.
Clarke finds her way back to her cottage, surprised to see Nia standing tall in the living room, fully dressed and completely sober, clutching a pair of white leather gloves.
“So only one of can hold our shit together in any given moment, huh?” Clarke spits the words out, and before she even finishes her sentence, furious tears start spilling from her eyes.
Nia moves in close. “What happened, Clarke? Did she do this to you?”
Clarke shakes her head, unable to stop the tears from flowing. “We did this to each other.”
“Do you love her?” Nia doesn’t beat around the bush.
Would you cut my head off if I did? “I hardly know her.”
“Since when does that matter?”
“Please, stop asking me questions” Clarke says, eyes moving side to side in search of something, anything to focus on. “Can you just be Lilith for a minute?”
Nia pulls Clarke in without even hesitating. “I never stopped being her, Clarke.”
She strokes Clarke’s hair and Clarke feels her heart breaking all over again. Nia continues to hold her until her breathing steadies. After a minute, Clarke pulls away and wipes her face.
“I know,” Clarke says. “I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring you. I shouldn’t have. I just...I couldn’t connect the woman I considered my friend with--”
“The murdering vixen of legend?” Nia’s mouth turns up, ever so slightly. “The enemy of the alliance, the mistress of darkness, the…”
“--I was gonna go with the wicked witch of the North,” Clarke says, sputtering a laugh through her slowing tears. “But I’m glad you’ve kept your flair for the dramatic.”
“Turns out that drowning yourself in bad trysts and worse drink is a surefire way to fuel the creative mind.”
“I think something’s off with your cost-benefit analysis.”
Nia sets down her gloves and shuts the front door tight. She picks up a furry blanket and slouches back onto the couch, pulling Clarke in and wrapping the blanket around them both. Clarke looks out the window and sees a silent town, still but for the occasional roustabouts who are still lolling around in their dress clothes, picking up the empty bottles in the streets.
“I guess the party’s over,” Clarke says in a small voice. “And somehow, we survived.”
“And not a little worse for wear.”
“That’s what happens when you drink your own weight in ethanol,” Clarke says.
Nia laughs at this. “I like you, Clarke Griffin. From trainwreck to spitfire in 60 seconds.”
“I’d be happier somewhere in the middle.” She looks back at Nia, and notices again how she’s in full battle dress, shoulder braces and all. “What’s with the costume?”
“Circle jerk of pompous idiots.” At Clarke’s raised eyebrow, she sighs. “The clan chiefs are gathering for a congress of the Alliance.”
“But you didn’t want any part of that.”
“I know,” Lilith says with a soft smile. “But to win, sometimes you have to play your part.”
“Lexa said something similar to me.” Clarke scrunches her forehead, trying to remember. “Something about how one man, in his lifetime, plays many parts.”
Lilith breaks out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“After all these years, the girl’s still got the social skills of a drunken canary.” Lilith swallows another laugh and sobers herself. “That was her signature move when she was young, quoting Shakespeare and making oh-so-serious love eyes at the object of her interest. Not that it ever worked.”
Clarke blushes, knowing that look of Lexa’s all too well. “You knew her? When she was young?”
“A little. Before she was ripped away to become the Commander.” Lilith’s voice carries more than a hint of bitterness. “She was just another warrior in training, but serious beyond her years, even as a kid. But she had a big heart. I guess being Heda took care of that little weakness.”
Clarke turns to the window again. A hooded man walks past, followed by a group of soldiers in old overcoats and ten-gallon hats, clutching their lapels the way they would normally clutch their weapons. They walk with suspicious eyes, heads faced forward while their eyes scan from left to right.
“Sankru. They walk the desert like cowboys of old. They’re in the alliance insofar as it protects their independence.”
“That’s a contradiction in terms.”
“Most politics are just that.”
After the Sankru pass, another hooded man walks by. Clarke smiles at the way that golden tufts of hair peek out from beneath his hood, giving him the air of a wet porcupine. Then, she can’t restrain herself from swearing aloud when she sees who follows.
“What is it?”
Clarke moves to the window to get a better view of the unfolding scene. The group comes to a sudden standstill, pausing in fear as one woman emerges. The woman in question holds her head high and berates the soldiers, grinding her teeth as she spits out her orders. Her eyes are dark and her face is haggard, but she still wields her authority well. She moves to the front of the group and they set off with purpose.
Clarke gulps. “My mother.”