heda | clexa

chapter twenty nine

Lexa regrets yelling at Clarke, but she is glad that Clarke is gone. She can’t put up with any of it right now; Clarke’s inexhaustible rage, her caring, hurt eyes, the presence of someone else. 

A part of her secretly hoped for Clarke to come back, to put some of her never-ending resistance up against Lexa’s orders to get out. A part of her craves Clarke, because there might be no one else in the whole world who is so entirely in Lexa’s corner with this, no one else who wouldn’t judge her for any of it.

But this way, she’s left alone to a tub of cold water that never seems to wash off the men’s hands, or scents, or the gazes of the audience, and it's what she wished for, right?

She smells like fake, expensive perfume that itches in her nose, no matter how often she sinks beneath the water. She can’t stop hearing the nicknames and the cheers of the crowd, no matter how quiet it is below the surface. Paint sticks to her skin; collarbones accentuated, breasts highlighted, stomach contoured to look- what, skinnier? Fatter? 

The protruding ribs must have been unattractive. Or maybe the ideal of beauty has changed in the last few years, and her hunger is a turn-on now. 

In the dim light of the tent, Lexa’s body feels estranged. When she looks down, she sees an upgraded version of it, no freckles, strangely tan skin at places that never see the sun, edges softer, curves harder. 

She wishes, just a little bit, that she had never gone to bring Clarke lunch, or that she had gone ten minutes later, or that she hadn’t recognized the label on the familiar mask. 

But then again, did she do this because she couldn’t have lived with knowingly sending someone into this, or did she do it because she didn’t want Clarke to ever stand on that stage?

Wasn’t it a mix?

No, she’s glad she saw it in time. She’s glad Clarke was knocked unconscious in that cell. She’s glad Clarke’s body is still so gorgeously sacred, even though she’s not quite sure what to do with her own now. It seems a little estranged, floating in the water like something that isn't really a part of her, all the while she actually feels every inch of it.

It shouldn't be that big of a deal. It’s not the first time she has been naked when she didn’t want to be. It’s not the first time men have touched her that she didn’t want to. It’s not even the first time she has been on that stage.

It isn't that big of a deal. So what if she was paraded around a little? So what if she had to give up a little bit of her dignity? So what if she was hurt in a body that does nothing for her anyway, that brought all this misery upon her in the first place?

She inhales shakily and forces herself to stand up, to dry herself off, passing the sensitive skin where she helplessly brushed and brushed and brushed, hoping to get that feeling off her skin. 

She focuses on keeping her breath steady, her expressions in check, her movements calculated.

At least this she’s in control of. At least her own mind still belongs to her, because this body? It’s no longer hers. It hasn’t been for a long time.

It’s okay. Women's bodies aren't their own anyway, and shouldn't she be glad? She was able to serve, wasn’t she? God planned this, didn't he?

Shouldn’t that be enough?

But a voice in the back of her mind complains, very quietly, in a tone that sounds scaringly like Clarke’s, and tells her that it's not enough at all.

She shakes it off, clenches her jaw and focuses on the next thing instead. She just needs to move, one step at a time, until she's dressed and her hair is brushed and she can forget about this day. She will put it all on God's shoulders like she's supposed to, and he will take care of it for her. She pleased men, and that means she must have pleased God. That's worth it. Right?