intimate-landscape

PROMPT: After the fight with Roan, Clarke wants to know why Lexa doesn’t seem to care much about her own death. But she does care, more than she lets on.

So, while I still haven’t watched the newest season, I’ve seen and read enough to know a lot of what has happened, so excuse any continuity errors in here. This started as a short little jaunt, and got a little angstier than I planned. As tends to be the case with me. Stream of consciousness, ignore any errors.


“I—you almost died, Lexa.” You can’t say you almost lost her, because she isn’t yours to have—she’s just a girl who lives inside you, she has grown like vines around your heart, and through your lungs, and you can’t imagine your life without the tightness in your chest. That gets tighter with every unsure glint in celadon colored eyes, every cautious smile. You want to hate how your heart thumps and skips, but it makes you feel alive, and you’ve been a feral corpse for much of the last three months. Shambling and numb.

She looks up at you, from where she glowers at slips of paper, and baskets of gifts; soured things now that the ambassadors have showed their graying colors. Her eyes are pale—almost gray, but still too green to be mistaken for such. “But I didn’t,” her brows tuck closer to her eyes, her skin still darkened slightly from where she’d hastily scrubbed her war paint from her face. “And if I had, my spirit would have chosen wisely—you don’t have to fear for your people, Klark.”

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Ghosts of Britannia: Chapter 2

AU. Sequel to When in Rome. Chapter 1.

She had been dreaming of him, for the first time in months. Had seen him close enough as if she could reach out her hand and touch him, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold onto every scrap of it. He would be – what, twelve now, almost thirteen? He had been born in June, in the high heart of summer; she could still remember the way the sweat and heat and dampness clung to her skin as she struggled in her travail. Only the midwife, a slave, to hold her hand. How it had torn her in two to hear him crying as they carried him away, as she didn’t dare to look. But at least he is happy. He had his adoptive parents, he had Regina, he had all the privilege and future that Roman money could buy. Doubtless the woman who had patronized him was just a fading memory, once upon a time. Henri. She called him that only in the privacy of her own head, didn’t even still have the chance to speak it aloud. These night visions of him were both solace and torment.

No chance of getting back to sleep now. Emma sat upright and tossed the coverlets aside, padding across the room to strike a light in the lamp. By its uncertain glow, she pulled clothes out of her trunk and began to dress. Not the stola and palla of a proper Roman lady, but a tunic kirtled up into a belt, leggings, cross-gartered boots, and a cloak. Last of all she shouldered on her shortsword in its scabbard across her back, and – feeling far too old for this, she was a woman of thirty, not a child – glanced around to ensure that the coast was clear, that the rest of the household was still peacefully slumbering, before she slipped down the hall and outside.

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