In an effort to get my mind off of all this angst and finale speculation (kudos to @hedaswarrior), I’m going to write about Lexa. Specifically, her love and her connection with Clarke. (I’m not tearing up I’m just—)
Love is born from the fragile remnants of courage and fear, and Lexa knew that. She knew the stakes and the costs. She knew that the dead were gone, the living were hungry, and the cruelty of the world would never cease. She knew that she had to protect her people. And yet, and yet.
Given the infinitesimally small odds of existence, it should have been impossible for Lexa to fall in love the way she did with Clarke, and vice versa. It should have been impossible for her to open her heart and see the stars in this girl. But despite the blood and the cold, despite weakness, she met Clarke and their lives fell into place, second by second, breath by breath. It was a tender, glorious, humble thing to behold. I often wonder what it must have been like for Lexa, deep inside. Was she terrified? Was she in awe? Was she aware that she was holding humanity’s kindest and cruelest weapon in her chest?
We should probably consider that Clarke and Lexa might have been an inherently tragic couple, given the world in which they lived in. Opposing sides, political barriers, the inevitability of fighting in a damaged world. What’s mind-boggling, though, is that they tried. They tried to love each other deeply and fully, and, for a brief moment, they got there. They found each other. Their love was (is) the strongest type of love I’ve ever witnessed. It was built on an unspoken, mutual understanding, and it touched every corner of humanity: survival, trust, betrayal, bravery, fear, loyalty, selflessness, tenderness, even death. That’s the tragic part.
Perhaps, in a different universe, in another lifetime, there are no wars and battles for them to fight. Perhaps they get to have what Miller and Bryan were dreaming of: a house by the lake, a farm, some peace and quiet. It’s nice to imagine that. Forehead kisses, clasped hands, giggling and laughter, intensely aware of each little nuzzle and nudge. Clarke watching Lexa train with nightbloods. Lexa watching Clarke paint the city. Clarke and Lexa loving each other without the terrible urgency of death and survival looming over their bodies. Maybe someday.
Love, especially in the apocalypse, is terrifying. Some say that it is weakness, but that’s only because it has the potential to be our greatest strength. We’ve seen how it has crushed Clarke, but we also see how it keeps her clinging onto threads of hope. We’ve seen Alie manipulate love as a method of torture, but we also see that love is what drives people to stand up and fight. It’s a double-edged sword.
People say that Lexa died for nothing—in terms of how it played out, I agree that it was terrible. But I refuse to believe that she died for nothing. The aftershocks seep into every single post 3x07 episode. In a cruel way, she died showing us how important that little line is: life is about more than just surviving. It’s about being able to face all of the harrowing and horrid corners, and, despite the depravity, being able to find a reason to live with it all. Clarke and Lexa are the direct antithesis to Alie and the City of Light: they prove that there is in fact something strong enough to overcome pain, hate, and fear. Their love is the only weapon capable of battling such a ridiculously powerful force. It’s stronger than familial love and platonic love—it’s unconditional.
And if Lexa kom Trikru and Clarke Griffin had enough heart to fall in love in the goddamn apocalypse, then perhaps we can learn to live with the same intensity that they lived with, to be able to say, “it’s a good day to die, it’s a good day to live, and it’s a good day to love,” all in the same breath. Perhaps, someday, we’ll be able to look back at Lexa’s legacy and smile rather than weep. Perhaps we’ll find a moment to murmur, thank you. Thank you for showing us. Thank you for your love.