Chapter Text
you came thoughtfully, Loved me faithfully, You taught me honour, You did it for me - my love, sia
There was a quietness that she hadn’t expected; a peaceful tranquillity that washed over her, calming and warm. It reminded her of falling asleep. Lexa had never been afraid of dying, and now that she was – slowly, painfully and survival rate low – well, the prospect wasn’t unwelcome. She was so dreadfully tired, after all. It would be so easy, if she let herself.
“Heda.”
If only she was alone, that would be more fitting, more deserving. This she did not voice, nor her thoughts of death, of burden lifted through it, of her people and her duty. She cannot die if she could help it, by the simple fact her life belonged to her people.
“I’m still alive, Lincoln,” she replied, murmured, though she did not look at him; her eyes were closed.
“Help will come soon. Clarke will know something went wrong.”
Yes, Lexa thought. Clarke would know, and a party will be sent, but her death will not wait for their arrival and rescue. Her spirit will leave her soon, Lexa knew this, and she would let it happen. The Ice Nation has been defeated, peace has been achieved. Her people are safe, and Clarke would take care of them, she knew that too. Her only regret, if she were to be selfish in allowing such things, was not having the chance to tell Clarke the truth. Not having tried harder, though Clarke made any attempts difficult – refusing to delve deep into any conversations of the Mountain, to avoid encounters with her alone, being distant but civil if only for the sake of peace. Lexa had wanted to give Clarke space, wanted to be patient. Time was no longer on her side, it seemed. She could tell Lincoln, at least. He would have known sooner, should have known sooner.
“They had guns on them,” she told him, turned her head to him with opened, tired eyes.
He looked puzzled, appeared confused but didn’t voice as such, didn’t question. She always liked that about him: his patience. It was something to adhere to.
“The Mountain Men; they had guns on my people. To refuse their offer meant the death of the same people we intended to save. And the missiles, they had threatened use of them as well. Tell me, Lincoln, was my word to the Sky People worth more than those lives? Could I have risked it?”
Quiet and thoughtful, Lincoln did not reply, which needn’t had mattered. Lexa did not require an answer, had only voiced it to provoke understanding, to provoke realization that nothing was as black and white as it seemed, that morality was a spectrum of greys.
“Does Clarke know this?” he eventually asked, spoke after some time.
“No.”
He didn’t understand this, why Clarke wouldn’t know, why Lexa had not told her.
“You love her,” he tried, confused.
“Yes.”
“Yet you said nothing.”
“I had planned to,” Lexa admitted, her eyes closed again. “I had hoped…”
“Lexa.”
A hand was on her shoulder, strong and gentle, and she breathed more deeply. She was so very tired.
“I had hoped she would forgive without this knowledge. Had there been no guns… it is likely I would have made the same decision, Lincoln. The well-being of my people…”
She imagined wheat fields; being surrounded by the yellow hairs of the earth, hiding her away from duty, from title, with a lake not too far and a house; a simple house; imagined Clarke, there with her, smiling soft and warm as her fingers comb through sunlight hair, gold like the field they were in; imagined huffing short breaths of laughter, eyes wide and memorizing; imagined her head resting on Clarke’s chest, the beating of the artist’s heart thrumming beneath her ears a steady bar-bum, bar-bum, bar-bum, lulling her into a lazy state, a sleepy state; imagined sweet, poetic wooing words; pink, flushed cheeks and soft caresses; imagined Clarke’s eyes that were like the sky and the ocean, vast and gentle; imagined conversation of things outside of war and leadership, of two lovers in their own world, the sun soft on their skin; imagined kisses, and cuddling, nose nudging; imagined being unapologetically happy, with hearts too big for their chest, words too small in meaning. She imagined never having to leave that wheat field.
“They come first. Being Heda,” she inhaled, exhaled, “comes first. At least, in death, I will be free to my dreams.”
She was pausing between words then; they felt heavy, and tiring to the tongue, and breathing was very much a conscious effort. She could no longer feel the wound, and did not know if that was a good thing. She could barely feel the earth around her, the bark of tree at her back, and her heart felt slow and weak. The world was a hazy thing, which was not so terrible. She wanted to go back to that wheat field. That was clear to her, vivid and alive.
Lincoln, unaware to the wheat field and that Lexa was outside of herself, took her in his arms, rested her head on his shoulder, swallowed, face impassive but eyes telling, eyes watering as Lexa’s breaths came slow – too slow – against his skin. He wasn’t supposed to move her, but she had saved his life, and it would not be long. You have someone, people, who love you, waiting, she had said, as if that meant his life was worth more, as if she had no one.
“I have written letters,” she whispered, after a minute, after moments of quiet and death seeping in. “For Clarke, in the event of this, for them to be given. You will tell her?”
“Yes, Heda.”
“Please.”
“Lexa,” he conceded and swallowed, felt an ache, thick and tight in his throat: an invisible lump.
This was not meant to happen.
“Thank you.”
“I should be thanking you.”
Another long wait interrupted them, more moments of soft breathing and silent words. He glanced up to the sky through the trees as he held her a little more securely, though softly. It was a cloudless early morning, very clear.
“I have…lived long for being Heda.”
“You have done well.”
“Do you think so?”
A party would have been sent by then, Lincoln mused. They will not arrive in time.
“There has never been as great a Heda, Lexa. Your fight has been worthy. Good.”
“I am so tired of fighting.”
“No one will have to fight anymore.”
She was so dreadfully tired. She breathed very heavily, thought of nothing but breathing. And that wheat field a little way from the city, that lake that simmered and glimmered under the light of the sun, the house and Clarke, with paint on her fingers, her smile wide and blue eyes un-haunted, lips soft and yielding. She could imagine it, clear as anything, as the sky she could not see.
“I will wait for Clarke.” She was resolute in this.
*
The envoy arrived an hour later, with Indra and Octavia at the head of the group. They found him with Lexa unmoved in his arms, silent and dead, their words long since spoken; found him with eyes having leaked tears, mourning. He thought Clarke should have come, thought of Lexa waiting. Lexa deserved something, she deserved that. But Clarke was not there, and in this Lexa would have to keep waiting. At the thought, his chest, alive and beating, was filled with emotion of anger, of grief and the unfairness of the world, filled with gratitude and love. He looked up to Indra, her face stoic, brave and strong.
“She is dead?”
“She saved my life,” Lincoln said, voice deep and grave.
“She would always protect her people,” Indra replied.
“I did all I could.”
And she nodded.
“We’ll take her home now.”
“To Clarke,” he said, rose as he shifted Lexa in his arms. He was strong, his mouth a thin line. He would carry her, he decided.
“Lincoln.”
He turned his gaze to Octavia, was met with compassion and love. He will tell her he loves her, after. The events have been emotional on him.
“I’m sorry.”
*
News of Indra and Octavia’s return was swift through camp, but it came with a silence and a deeply felt loss. Clarke knew something was wrong, had felt it deep in her bones and veins for hours, like a disease working through her organs; there was a dread heavy in her stomach, and her heart didn’t beat the same. Something was wrong.
She had been with Raven, silent and brooding and worrying, when Bellamy came in. His mouth was tightly shut, his jaw clenched, and eyes apologetic. Something was wrong.
“They’re back,” he said, and she was up and out of her seat fast and impatient.
Bellamy shot Raven a look and she followed with him.
Octavia was waiting outside and Clarke took notice that she too had a gritted jaw, guarded eyes, as if trying to keep it all in. They were still not on the best of terms, but they were friendly, were getting there. Octavia didn’t know how Clarke would take it when she found out, but she felt it in Lincoln’s gaze, in his determination, that it wouldn’t be good. Indra seemed to be of similar opinion, and she didn’t know what to make of that.
“They’re in the Commander’s tent,” Octavia had told Clarke, once she had emerged outside, and then led the way.
Clarke noticed all the people, the grounders around the tent as she neared it, how silent they were. Indra was by the entrance, along with her mother and Kane. They appeared grave, and her Mother had this uncertainty in her eyes, that along with Indra’s single tear had her feel cold, and she knew something was very wrong, had already guessed the worst. Let her be wrong, she prayed, oh, let her be wrong.
She was not wrong.
Lexa was laid on a table, eyes closed and chest unmoving. She looked young, looked asleep, though the leader would never wake. Lincoln stood close by, like a guard dog, tears dried, barely evident on his face. The only one in the tent, he stood tall, stood strong. Clarke hardly took notice, her eyes were instantly on Lexa; Lexa, who she saw just days ago, who was very alive, who had looked at her with vulnerable eyes that she couldn’t face for fear of getting lost in them, eyes she had to quickly look away from. She would never be able to look into those forest eyes again. Regret, many regrets, were already creeping through the cracks.
Clarke was not aware of the moving of her feet, the tears that had already started to fall silently. She thought she had a grip on her emotions, but Lexa was always a source of emotion, of unravelling, and suddenly she was by the table, Lincoln to her right, and she was shaking her head; because this – Lexa dead – wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
“No.”
She couldn’t be gone.
“She saved me," he said, quiet and sad, "I did all I could. We waited as long we could, her wound didn’t allow for movement.”
“No.”
Lincoln swallowed and blinked. “She had wanted to wait for you.”
She shook her head more firmly, fast, felt the tears stinging, staining, her mind whirling: not real, not real, not real. “No!”
“She has letters for you. She told me to tell you. They’ll arrive soon.”
A sob rumbled from her chest and escaped her throat, thick and aching.
“She said she will still be waiting for you.”
And she broke, cried aloud, chest heaving, lungs burning and suddenly her head felt dizzy, felt clouded and her heart torn. And it was real, oh so very real. She felt outside of herself, felt too much, overwhelmed and possessed by a deep grief, a physical pain. It was deeper than skin and bone and deeper than consciousness, this pain. Lincoln caught her as she fell, held her as she shook and shivered in unexpected loss, loss that rattled the soul.
“She loves you,” he said, aware the words would not likely help, would probably make things worse.
From the entrance her friends watched, having entered as soon as they heard Clarke sob, emotional and loose, a storm. They watched as she cried, crumbled in Lincoln’s arms. Abby had moved for comfort, stopped only by Octavia. The room was tense, felt small and uncomfortable, none having known the nature of Clarke’s relationship with Lexa, though there were guesses, were ponderings – Clarke had tried too hard to hate the Commander otherwise for the two to be nothing.
She had cried for nearly an hour, her eyes ringed red and blown, tears dried. It felt longer. She knew once she left that tent her shoulders would be stiff, her head even, eyes guarded and expression stoic. She would be the perfect picture of calm and control, of strength. Ryder had arrived with the supposed letters shortly after, to which she told everyone present to leave, as she sat near and by Lexa’s side, as if the commander was a patient, only sick and resting. Lincoln left first; the others were more reluctant, were unsure and caught like deer in the headlights.
The letters were heavy in her hands. There was a novel of them, she thought. The papers were all folded nicely, with Clarke written across the top on each, the writing surprisingly pretty, lines strong but not harsh. She read her name and imagined Lexa speaking it, and suddenly her eyes felt wet again. She wiped them away and opened the first, the paper rough and with small patches of evident tears dried long, long ago.
Clarke,
I left you at the mountain hours ago. I left you and your people to die. I told you I was sorry, that I made the decision with my head, and not my heart. I am sorry, Clarke. Not for saving my people – I could never be sorry for this; their lives are my purpose, I am a slave to their needs. But I am sorry for hurting you, Clarke. I know, that you would never read this, because it is likely that you will be dead.
But the decision was not easy, Clarke, though it should have been. They had guns to my people inside, ready to execute them should I have refused. They had whispered words of more missiles, on other villages that they had marked long ago. How could I risk this? Such factors should have made the decision simple, and easy. Save my people or let them die, for what? The sky people…? My losses would have been in the hundreds. I had quickly realised this, weighed the odds. Yes, such a decision should have been easy. But it was not, Clarke. I am glad it wasn’t. Because as soon as the Mountain Man offered the deal, showed me visual of my hostage people, all I could think of was you. All I could think of was what I would be giving up. No longer would I be able to take you to Polis, to show you the world, the lives of my people, my culture; no longer would I be able to wait for you to be ready, to kiss you and hold you. I wanted to say no to him. I wanted to be selfish. But I could not.
I was told at a young age that all my people belonged to me to nurture, to flourish. It was years later I learned it was I that belonged to them. I made the decision with my head, and not my heart, Clarke.
But know that your spirit will haunt me, forever. Know that if I could have chosen my heart, Clarke, I would always choose you. Know that now I am truly heartless, because all that was left of it, I left with you. Know that however much I hurt you, I have not come away painless, I have not come away unscarred.
You were a weakness, Clarke, but the best kind of weakness. I had no chance, no choice, against falling for you. You, with sunlight hair, and eyes blue like the sky you came from, eyes that held storms and thoughts the depths of oceans. You, with such a strong spirit, which felt like home, felt familiar, to me. I fell for you. How could I not?
I had read about angels, in old scriptures and books. I do not believe such creatures exist, but you fell from the sky, were passionate and beautiful, and the likeness is similar in my mind. You puzzled me, Clarke, because you made me feel things I had tried to not feel for so long, and you challenged me. You challenged me, and you were so similar, and yet different, to me. I think it was why I felt, and feel, so strongly towards you. I am not sorry for loving you, though the turn of events have left me grieving and aching in a worse, yet all too familiar way.
I will never love again. Nor do I want to. Now my heart - my soul, belong to you, Clarke, eternally. For I believe that we are bound, by our experiences, and shall meet again in the next life. Perhaps life could be more than just surviving then, in a better time.
I had left you there to live, knowing that you would attempt to conquer the Mountain still for your people. If I had more of a choice, I would have stayed, after freeing my people; I would have stayed. But I cannot abandon my people, just as you cannot abandon yours. Your death will forever be my greatest pain Clarke. May we meet again.
Yours,
Lexa
There were moments of processing; the letter was carefully read, was thought inducing, was feeling invoking, and by the end of it Clarke was gnawing at her bottom lip with her teeth, was fighting stirred emotions of sudden anger, sudden regret and renewed grief - grief, that old friend. She thought she knew Grief enough already. Yet here it was, grown, and with loss, because oh, why did you never tell me, Lexa, why did you let me waste so much time determined to hate you?
Clarke felt like crying, again, sniffled and pressed her head into her hands, exhausted. She could let the earth swallow her whole right there, she was suddenly so tired. But there were more letters.She lifted her head to Lexa’s still body, resisted the urge to touch Lexa’s face, her hands, her hair, to press a kiss to those cold lips that were once warm, to that forehead that burdened too many thoughts. She resisted these urges and instead opened the next.
Clarke,
You are alive.
My first thoughts and feelings were of profound relief, of thanks. You defeated the mountain, and I should not have been surprised. You have a brilliant mind, Clarke. But my scouts tell me you are not with your people, and my feelings had me wanting to find you immediately, to ensure that you are well. But I suspect you would hate me, or would hold distrust toward me, at the very least. I do not blame you. My presence would likely rile you, all I could offer is understanding. But know you still hold my trust, Clarke, always. Just knowing your alive has me breathing easier, lighter, because with you alive, so is my heart, and perhaps foolishly – hope. I do not know the future, Clarke, but I will do whatever it takes to protect you, now. I will do whatever it takes to reconcile with you. If that means giving you time, and space, I will happily wait forever. May we meet again, Clarke.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
It is said in old books that the moon does not shine on its own, that it is the light from a star, the sun. Maybe that is the way I am. Maybe it is only by your light I glow, otherwise to forever be shrouded in darkness. Maybe you are the sun and stars and sky, and I am the earth and moon, orbiting around you. Would I get too close, would you burn me, Clarke? Or will your light just shine on me in dreams, at night and in secret. Would I always long for you to look upon me?
There is a day when the sun and moon seem to meet, and we cannot look directly upon them for their greatness. Do you think our meeting again would be similar, Clarke?
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I watched the sun rise today. It was beautiful. These small aspects of life give me some moments of harmony. I would have liked to watch it with you. But I know if I would ask this of you, it is unlikely you would accept. You cannot stand being in my presence, especially alone, for too long, I have noticed. I will have to have someone else suggest the activity to you. Perhaps it will grant you the same peace. Maybe one day, you wouldn’t mind watching the waking of morning together.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I set flowers by a tree that Anya used to train me by. I would like to show you the tree, one day. Anya would scoff at me, at my weakness. You make me weak, Clarke. But I have no choice in the matter. Do you think, in another life, you would be weak for me, too? I like to think so.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
There is this lake, and this wheat field. The hairs of it remind me of your own: gold, rich and yellow. And the water of the lake reminds me of your eyes, blue and deep. When I am feeling hopeful I think of us there. I have imagined hiding in that wheat field, by that lake, with you, dancing, and swimming. I would love you freely and wholly, and you would… you would let me. I think of building you a house, and you drawing, selling art to the people of Polis, while I bake bread. I have read the word bread has associations with the word life. I find this idea pleasing, and so I would not mind being a baker, when all the wars are won, and Heda is not such a burden. I would ensure the well-fare of our people in the morning, then come home to you, and bake bread. I would hunt, and cut wood for the fire. Then we would read to each other, about the Old World. Sometimes I imagine a child too. You would make a wonderful mother, Clarke. We would be happy and I wouldn’t hate myself. But I do not wonder on such things for long. They are foolish thoughts. I do not think I will find such peace in this life time. Maybe you could still have such dreams, Clarke. You are so much better than I, and deserve such things. If only I could give them to you. If only you would let me.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I found a stone today. It was blue, and as the light touches it, the shade of blue changes. It reminded me of your eyes. I thought to make a necklace out of it for you. Maybe one day you will let me give it to you.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
You were given art supplies, by Malia. She is a sweet lady, is she not? I know you may not have time for such things, or simply feel you cannot. Still I wanted you to have them, even if you do not know they are from me. I feared you would reject them if you knew. Malia said you thanked her, were grateful, and your eyes weren’t so heavy for a moment. I wish I could have seen the moment.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I started building that house, by the lake and the wheat field. I want to finish it so you may have a home, when it is over. There will a fire place, so you will be warm, and bookcases for reading, and room for art, because you are a creator, with colours, and brushes. There can be a garden too. I think you would like planting. I particularly like flowers. And the windows will be strong, but wide, for a nice view, and so the sun can cast its glow. I want it to feel like home for you.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
The festivities were nice. Your people seemed to have enjoyed themselves. I am glad for that. I am glad you are with us against the Ice Queen as well. I do not know what I would do if I had to fight against you, Clarke. I do not think I could directly or intentionally harm you. I think… I would let you kill me. I know you have thought such things. I understand. There is nothing to be forgiven should you ever act on such thoughts. You have my heart, Clarke; you may do with it what you wish. I do not think you understand this though, and I do not know whether to be thankful for it. I trust you with it still. Maybe one day you will trust me with your own.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
You spoke my name, instead of Commander, for the first time in weeks. I do not know if it was the slip of the tongue, but I am glad you still recognize it. I am glad I am still partially Lexa, to you, to someone. I am Heda to everyone else. Sometimes, Clarke, I forget I exist.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I like speaking your name. The way it sounds from my mouth, how it rolls off my tongue. It is a strong name. It is unique, and simply you. It is one of my favourite words. When we were forming an alliance and planning war, if there was an apt opportunity to say it, Clarke, I would. You have a lovely name, Clarke. I did some investigating, in old books, and it means scholar, clerk. Did you know this? I think it suits you. My full name is Alexandria. But I do not wish for you to call me this, as it is formal. I like being Lexa, to you. My name means protector of mankind. Did you know that too, Clarke? It is a nice meaning, though it carries a heavy burden. But I do not feel that weight when you say my name, Clarke. Thank you.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
Your house is finished, and in time for war, as well. I had been staying it in, for the few weeks it took. You seemed to have been frustrated during that time with no one telling you of my whereabouts. I am sorry for this. But it is a surprise, Clarke. I hope you will like it. I had help with the exterior, but I did all the furniture myself. It took many late nights and early mornings, but I am glad my hands have created something, like yours do, instead of destroy. It is a nice feeling. I hope everyone feels this way.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I saw you smiling today. It was small. But your eyes were light. I am happy for you. Maybe one day you will smile at me again.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
You looked beautiful, today. You look beautiful every day, but I felt compelled to write it down on this day, because the sun caught your hair in that way, and it seemed to dance, and your eyes were a particular blue, like the lake at noon. Then there were your hands, and your lips. I wanted to kiss those hands, and your lips, to savour them. I was enchanted.
But I could not tell you this, could not act. I have no such right, anymore, if I had any at all. And when you looked at me, for the few moments you did, your eyes changed to the lake at night. I drown in those eyes regardless.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I think of you always.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
There are songs, of the Old World. I do not know their music but have read some of their words. They are like poetry. This is from a song ‘I Will Never Let You Know’. It reminds me of the Mountain.
I will hold my head up high
You will never see me cry
I’ll smile and say ‘I’m good’
But I will fall apart if I could
I’m inside out, shot through the centre
Feel the scar of where you entered
Took my life and turned it upside down
I’m burned to ashes, split down the middle
If anyone asks, it hurt just a little
I died inside the day I let you go
But I will never let you know
I do not think I could be allowed to smile. And while Heda’s cannot fall apart, I did cry, that night. Sometimes, at night, I still do. I miss you, Clarke.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
You looked at me without obvious disdain today.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
There a books in the library back in Polis, books of words that express things, called poems. Perhaps you had looked at them. I expect the art took more of your attention, if you visited. But reading poems was a favourite pastime of mine when learning English. People wrote such pretty words, in the Old World. Eloquent, and graceful, a string of words made me feel and think on many things. But I was not meant to feel, to show weak emotions, so I felt rebellious in reading and feeling such things that I had to contain and keep secret.
Love was a frequent topic in poems. I never quite understood them, what they said, about love. Some of it I did, with love of my parents, of my mentors and protectors Anya and Gustus, and of Costia. No sooner I learnt the pains of love as well. Poems talked of people leaving, and being alone. So I understood more.
But these poets spoke of a world-shattering love, a constant thing, which endures hardship; a love that was somehow tremendous, yet small and gentle too; a love that comes so thick and smooth and seamless, like happiness, it feels like nothing at all when it happens, yet everything; a love that makes you whole, and soul strong. They say such fantastical things much better than I – you should read them, Clarke. But I understand what they say, now. This love is what I hold for you, Clarke. Perhaps, one day, I can read you these poems. Maybe one day you will read them to me.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I am feeling hopeful, and whimsical. I think we should dance, at the next celebrations. I would like to ask you to dance. I do not usually. I can’t, as to preserve reputation. But I would like to dance with you. Maybe in the house, by the lake. You could paint, and I will make you flower crowns, and we would laugh and dance. I think it would be…nice, though unusual for me. But I had dreamt it. In my dreams there were no wars. I kissed you and you no longer pulled away, I was no longer waiting.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
It has been six months since the night of my betrayal. You do not openly glare at me, or have obvious anger toward me anymore. You still avoid me, if possible, and have short conversations out of necessity. I will continue to wait until you are ready.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
If I could, I would tell you were beautiful every day. I would give you flowers to wake up to.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
A love poem by an author with the name Elizabeth. It was very faded. But it speaks to me.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I was going to try to talk to you, today. I was going to talk about the Mountain, and try to make greater progress with you, because I’m tired of not being able to be near you. But you walked away. I understand. Until you are ready, I will wait.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
When I was little, I wanted to be a farmer and house-builder, like my father. He had rough, but gentle hands. Different yet similar to a warriors. He would tell me stories and his hands moved and formed pictures, and he used to pick me up, and hold me so I may be closer to the sky. In this, I like to think I was always yearning for you.
My father died when I was young, but I remember his hands. I think I knew how to love from him.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I saw you hug your mother. It made me happy, because you have her, and your friends. You should savour those hugs, Clarke. I did not hug my mother much, when she was alive, I do not think. I do not remember. It has been years since I have been hugged. I feel it is perhaps a loss, for me. I have seen the power of hugs; have likely experienced their comfort, though the memories, the feelings, are mostly lost to me. I think it would be nice to hug you Clarke. I think it would be one of my favourite things, other than kissing you.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I do not like myself. I accept myself, but I do not… I do not think I am good. But you, Clarke, in loving you I forget such things. I forget to hate myself. You make me feel normal, and human. I do not feel alone, with you. You make me feel alive, Clarke.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I have been alive for twenty-two years now. I did not believe in the special qualities of such days that marked your age, but you looked at me today and your eyes weren’t so harsh, so maybe there is something to them.
There is an old tradition of wishing upon a candle. I wished you would sleep peacefully. I know how the ghosts haunt at night. I also wished to be alive. Most Heda’s have not lived past nineteen summers, as in the past there was much war and sickness and famine and various other harbingers of death. I had not wished to live before, had not wished at all. But I have yet to make peace with you, and I felt I was doing more than just surviving, when I wished upon two candles. I did not think I deserve the feeling. But you do, Clarke. Maybe, when I marked of twenty-three years, after this war, I can tell you, and we might wish upon candles together. Maybe there will be no more wars, and I won’t need to wish to be alive so that you may trust me, but rather I will wish to be alive so that I may love you, as much as I am allowed to.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
The snow began falling. I wanted to wake you, so you may first experience it. But such a moment should not be tainted by my presence, as it would be in your eyes, I am sure. So I sent Lincoln to you, as he would wake Octavia also.
You smiled, fully.
I only watched for a moment. It was enough. I must go over our war plan, now.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
There is a book, very old, about a man, and his long journey home. It is called the Odyssey. It takes him over a decade to reach home to his family. Will it take that long for us, Clarke? I will wait even if it takes longer. You are my home, if not my people. Even if you do not love me, even if you are never ready, that is acceptable. Sometimes loving is more important than being loved. Being Heda has taught me this. Sometimes, Clarke, one must be content with just surviving, if it means others experience living. I may not deserve more, Clarke, but you are better than me. You can be loved. You have people that love you. When this war is over, you should let yourself be happy, Clarke.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
I wanted to tell you before we parted ways for impending battle in a few days’ time, but I could not. So I will write it.
I think, if not for being Heda, I was born to love you. Since my eyes first fell onto yours.
Ai hod yu in, Klark. Always. You are home to me, and I am weak for you.
Yours,
Lexa
Clarke,
We will win, I am sure of it. Soon. Finally, there will be peace.
I…I do not think I will live to see it, Clarke.
But I will try to come back. I will not leave you again, if I can help it. I have to show you that house.
Yours,
Lexa
I will wait for you. May we meet again.