Chapter Text
Clarke walked briskly down the corridor of the tower, her boots echoing against the stone. She was late, and she knew it. Her heart raced—not from the speed of her steps but from the slight guilt gnawing at her. The history lesson had started at least twenty minutes ago, and Torin, the youngest of the Natblida, had made it very clear that her absence last time had been unacceptable.
"I swear, I’ll be there this time," Clarke had promised them all earlier in the day, with a hand over her heart, no less. But then Titus, the asshole of a Fleimkepa, had dragged her into some long-winded conversation about the implications of her proximity to Lexa (Again). Clarke had barely escaped with her sanity intact.
Rounding the corner, she spotted the door to the small room the Natblida used for their lessons. She paused for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. She needed to prepare herself for what she was about to face. Not battle, not war—no, something far more intimidating: disappointed children.
Pushing the door open carefully, Clarke slipped inside, trying not to interrupt too loudly. Lexa was already seated with the group of Natblida, looking everynot the slightes bit the stoic and composed Commandershe did around the eneral public. Around her, the young Natblida were arranged in a half-circle, their tiny faces filled with a combination of curiosity and focus.
Except for Torin, who crossed his arms and glared at Clarke the second he saw her. "You said you'd come last time," he said, his little voice dripping with accusation.
Clarke winced and walked over, hands up in surrender. "I know, I know, I got held up by Titus. Again."
Torin’s scowl deepened, and the other children shifted, glancing between him and Clarke. Aden, who was always the most composed of the group, gave her a small nod of acknowledgment but didn’t say anything. The others, though? They weren’t so reserved.
Anuri, her tiny braids swaying as she shifted, chimed in, “You always say you’ll come, and then something happens.” Her tone was slightly teasing, but Clarke could sense the undercurrent of disappointment.
Evie nodded solemnly. “And it was boring without you. Torin got mad.” Clarke tried realy hard not to laugh at Lexas mildly offended expression.
“I wasn’t mad!” Torin huffed, his cheeks puffing out. “Just… annoyed.”
Clarke knelt down in front of them, glancing at Lexa, who was watching the whole thing with a small, amused smile. Of course, the Commander was never late—always perfectly composed and in control. Clarke, on the other hand, seemed to be in a perpetual state of apology. She could kill Titus for this.
“I get it,” Clarke said softly. “I let you down, and that’s not fair. So, I promise you—I will be here and on time for the next lesson.” She looked each of them in the eye, trying to convey just how serious she was. But the look on Torin’s face showed he was still skeptical. “But what if the Fleimkepa comes again?” he asked, brows furrowed in concern. “What if you get held up? You might miss it again!”
Clarke blinked. Right. The Natblida didn’t seem to trust her promises anymore. Understandable, given how often she’d been pulled away by one crisis or another. But she wasn’t about to let them down again. Not this time.
A mischievous grin spread across Clarke’s face as an idea struck her. "You’re right. A normal promise isn’t enough." She glanced at Lexa, who raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "So," Clarke continued, "I’m going to make the most sacred of oaths." She extended her hand toward Torin, her pinky finger held out. “A pinky promise.”
The Natblida stared at her, completely baffled. Even Lexa’s normally unreadable expression shifted into one of confusion. "What is… a pinky promise?" Lexa asked, her head tilting slightly.
Clarke turned to her, trying not to laugh. "It’s something from back home. It’s a very serious promise where you lock pinky fingers with someone. Once you do that, you can’t break the promise, or—" She paused for dramatic effect, her voice dropping low. "Something bad will happen."
The children’s eyes widened in shock and awe, but Torin still looked skeptical. "That doesn’t sound real."
Clarke leaned closer, lowering her voice like she was letting him in on a grand secret. "Oh, it’s very real. You can ask Raven or Octavia. Pinky promises are unbreakable."
Torin looked at her, then at her outstretched pinky, then back at her face. Slowly, cautiously, he extended his tiny hand and linked his pinky with hers. Clarke gave it a firm shake, their fingers hooked together.
“I promise,” Clarke said solemnly, “that I’ll be here for the next lesson. No matter what.” Even if that meant insulting Titus to his face and calling his schtick of trying to seperate her fro both Lexa and the Natblida. She'd been wanting to do that anyway.
Torin still seemed unsure, but there was a glint of excitement in his eyes now. He gave her a firm nod, as if accepting the terms of this sacred oath. “Okay,” he said, finally smiling a little. “But you better not break it.”
“I won’t,” Clarke promised, her voice serious. “Breaking a pinky promise is a big deal.”
The other Natblida, not to be outdone, quickly jumped up to join in. “I want a pinky promise too!” Tanza said, bouncing on her toes. Clarke had to make rounds, locking pinkies with each of them—Evie, Tom, Anuri, Sya—all giggling as Clarke initiated them into the ancient Earth custom of the pinky promise.
By the time Clarke had locked fingers with each child, she glanced back at Lexa, who had been watching the entire display with an amused but thoughtful expression. “Heda,” Clarke said, standing up straight and mock-serious, “would you like to join the pinky promise?”
Lexa blinked, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. “I think I’ll leave that to you, Wanheda,” she said softly, her eyes twinkling with affection. “But I trust your word, Klarke.”
Clarke couldn’t stop the warmth that spread through her at Lexa’s words. She turned back to the kids, who were still buzzing with excitement over their newfound knowledge of pinky promises. Torin had a triumphant look on his face, like he had just won some grand negotiation.
“Well,” Clarke said, clapping her hands together, “now that we’ve settled that, what are we learning today?”
“History!” Aden answered immediately, his eyes lighting up. “Heda was just telling us about the time she started uniting the clans.”
Clarke glanced at Lexa, who looked the tiniest bit bashful at the mention of her great accomplishments. “Of course she was,” Clarke teased, a smile tugging at her lips.
Torin tugged on her sleeve. “But you’ll tell us more about Skaikru history later, right? You promised.”
Clarke knelt down next to him, looking him dead in the eye. “You’re right. I did promise. And I always keep my pinky promises.”
Lexa, observing the scene, couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed in her chest. Seeing Clarke with the Natblida being so soft, so caring, and somehow turning an awkward situation into something special, it made Lexa’s heart ache in the best way possible. The sight of Clarke, crouched down and pinky-promising tiny warriors, was possibly the most adorable thing Lexa had ever seen.
As the lesson resumed, Clarke sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by the children, who hung on her every word. Lexa watched from her chair, her gaze lingering on Clarke, and for a moment, the weight of the world felt just a little bit lighter.
It was, perhaps, the smallest moments like these that reminded Lexa why Clarke kom Skaikru was more than just a leader, more than just a warrior. She was their heart. And in that moment, with the Natblida gathered around her, Clarke was showing them all the strength of her promises—even if it involved something as simple as a pinky.
(The next history lesson was just two days later, and Clarke was the first in the room. For weeks, no-one would find out just why the Fleimkepa couldn't attend to his duties that day. Not until one night, when drinking too much, Raven would tell the grande tale of how she taught Clarke how to break door-locks. It took almost the entire day for the Fleimkepa to be able to leave his chambers).