fragile | clexa

chapter fifty two

tw again, between the two '*', there'll be a flashback covering a part of Clarke's time at Jaha's so pls only read if you're comfy with that (also sorry for the delay, I keep accidentally publishing my chapters before they're done soo here you go with the real thing)

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Lexa was acting different that evening, Clarke thought. She had gone to check up on Finn, flanked by several guards that locked him up after Lexa had examined the still unconscious man, and her expressions were unreadable when she came back.

Clarke was still sitting on the edge of the bed in her cut open shirt, unsure of what to do or say when Lexa brought up a cloth, a bowl of water and some ointment for Clarke's wounds. She seemed distracted. Her eyes never met Clarke's as she kneeled in front of her to fix the shallow cut on the blonde's stomach and Clarke didn't dare move.

She had definitely done something wrong.

She shouldn't have hit Finn. Why had she? Why had her body suddenly had this reflex to defend itself? Clarke closed her eyes. It wasn't appropriate. Of course not. She had learned it all and still she wasn't working properly. She had learned it twice, thrice, and a hundred times, every time the hard way. It had sticked with her for years. Why had she done that mistake again after so long?

Clarke lost track of Lexa's hands on her stomach. She was cold, despite the warmth of the room.

-

Clarke's eyes open and suddenly she's not in Lexa's warm room after all. A bag is just taken off her head and she squints with the light that shines cold from the middle of the room.

A young woman stands in the light. "You," she says. Her voice is hard, rough, her finger pointed at Clarke. Of course. She's kneeling at one end of the line in front of another cold, damp stone wall. All of them are young girls, their ages varying between maybe 13 and 16, clad in nothing but a cloth around their chests and hips.

Clarke gets up. Her whole body hurts as she does so, every movement sending a new spike of pain through her. She stands across the woman, their teacher Ontari, the only person Clarke has seen the face of in her few weeks there.

Cowards.

"Strip," Ontari orders. Clarke doesn't move. She stares right back at the woman and Ontari chuckles while forcing a blindfold on Clarke. "You are a fool. It is your destiny and fate to be a slave and as such, you are to keep your eyes down on the ground always, do you understand, 319?"

"My name is Clarke," Clarke spits. She hears the whip slash through the air just the fragment of a second before impact.

"Kneel," Ontari demands roughly. Clarke's body is too weak to fight against the push on her shoulders. She feels a blade against the base of her neck. "Repeat after me. I am a slave and I am honored to see the floor. My master's eyes, face and body are never to be looked at except for explicit wish of my master. I do not speak unless asked to."

Clarke repeats. She doesn't feel like dying today.

"I was born to be an object. The Chosen of the Light have freed me and seen my real value. My purpose is to please The Chosen and the worthy."

Clarke repeats again.

"Good," Ontari speaks clipped. "Get up, 319."

Clarke doesn't argue this time and stands up. She knows what's about to come. Ontari asks her to strip again and Clarke reluctantly navigates her hands to remove her clothes. If it could be called that.

"Very well. You will meet the lesson of preparation again today. You must not move."

Clarke does move. When the men clad in black, full body armor come and put their hands only on her shoulders, she pushes back despite the pain in her body. They step away and Clarke regrets making the same mistake for the 23th time.