depth

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She sits by the pool, eyes forward and focused. Her legs are embraced by the water: at first bracing, but she quickly settles. Legs suspended in motion, she is on the edge of diving – further, further, brighter. Sometime before, she would've been scared of it, worried she'd just fizzle out to become smoke.

But watch her ignite underwater – the true test of endurance.

She remembers sitting by the side of the pool only a few hours ago. Restless, despondent, stifled. Heat was oppressive then, spurred on by Finn's insensitivity. Now a different kind of heat consumes her; a new kind. Fire that pours through her lungs: she made a promise to herself, to Lexa, to embrace it, and to never be as suffocating as smoke. To live like that would be damning. She's seen what it's done. Tobacco stains make a cage of a person.

A deep breath. She looks up, temporarily. It's the hottest hour of the day, and in the air hangs a heavy suspense. The trees do not sway, but they stand tall. Most birds rest.

But one sings, it sings for her.

Outlines on her body, the oppressive heat. They are paint splatters where outlines blur, and they have made their own warmth. That lone bird pours its heart out, and so must she.

Lexa was right. Of course. Clarke never lost her confidence. It's more so that it became dormant – at least, the confidence she wanted to see. Expectations and banality had so panicked her that Clarke had forgotten who she was. Temporarily.

But she thinks of their time in the field earlier, their time painting nails and applying lip gloss – and she knows she'd been regaining herself.

She'd just lost sight of herself. But, think of it: music, dancing, a love for her friends, in a home from home. In the application, an unapologetic embrace of herself: dedication, sexuality, desires that she uncovered despite even the lock and key of imposed banality. This was her, all along; determination to be herself despite following it up with a fear of repercussions.

She'd been so scared, restricted by herself, she was unable to see that she'd been rebelling against that all along. A gentle coaxing, it became; hands cusped over what she's meant to be, encouragement felt through realisations and eye contact and reflection over what she really wanted.

It was not Lexa who promised, "Next time," but Clarke.

(It delights her to no end that Lexa's description of Clarke is truer more than ever now. She's not a tsunami, caused by others. She's a force of nature, because of herself, in spite of herself. She has always been the hurricane.)

They were so obvious. She knows that now. Forced by circumstances to not act on it quite yet, but still so obvious for it. Prolonged stares and silent conversations – their "unique telepathy". How did she think they could be discreet? How did she think this would be anything but certain?

Things are different, now. Her friends have returned to their homes, safe in the certainty of tonight. Clarke is safe in her own eventuality: she must talk to Finn. She hates the idea, hates it, but it's the right thing to do – the only thing to do about him. A fall from his pedestal is not enough if he believes there's still a way to go.

She looks back towards the house; the closed patio door and the glimpse of the chair just inside the living room. Finn's asleep there. Completely unawares. She tiptoed past him on her way here – pushed down the feeling of revulsion from remembering, set her jaw, and sat out here to think. To think, and to embrace. To embrace everything but him.

There's comfort in knowing how he's going to react to that final push; at least Clarke can prepare herself for it, and move on.

She doesn't think she'll miss him, not now that she sees him for who is: a master manipulator, hiding behind a façade of charm.