307 essays
Story FanArt! It takes longer than she would have wanted to get the bleeding under control. But frantic as she is, Clarke moves deftly, always calm when put into these situations, her brain always clicking, always shutting down that impulse in the back of her throat that filled her mouth with spit, waiting for the run, waiting for the escape, the sobs, the vomit. None of it existed.
Essays in Existentialism: 307
Story FanArt! It takes longer than she would have wanted to get the bleeding under control. But frantic as she is, Clarke moves deftly, always calm when put into these situations, her brain always clicking, always shutting down that impulse in the back of her throat that filled her mouth with spit, waiting for the run, waiting for the escape, the sobs, the vomit.
None of it existed. Get my mother here. She should only be outside the capital. Send Octavia. Even soaked with blood, the noise is still tender and soft. I want this one! I want you! She feels tears on her cheeks. It takes a moment of debate, but he disappears when Lexa nods his dismissal. From the bed, she lets her head fall back into the pillows as the pressure on her abdomen grows too uncomfortable.
Her mouth is warm, is full of that dirty kind of grit that comes with blood replacing spit. It takes an effort unheard of before or imagined by anyone or beyond anything she has ever done before, but Lexa opens her eyes and stares at the blonde with the furrowed brow, unsure of where to go from there.
Come here I need your help. The pain grips her, scratches and tears at her in places she never knew existed. Her body rocks with the movement, and she feels as if she were drowning. But still, Lexa fights against it, tries to remain stoic and unaffected. Th anger helps. Do it. Stay with me. I just got you.
The righteous anger a kind of amusing joke, as if the title of Wanheda had gone to her head. For a moment her own private joke made her forget her own wrath. She saw her lips and the slope of her nose and the smear of blood on her forehead as she worked.
The sight of her made Lexa angry. As the pain rolled up through her, as it hurt more and more and she fought it, she felt the first pricks of rage tightening her muscles. To be so close to happiness, to fathom it, to touch it, to taste it, to experience contentedness and safety and what she imagines being alive must mean, and to have it wretched away, just as she gets the faintest glimmer erases, for just the tiniest of seconds, the years of training and breeding.
Her body is wrecked with shakes as her lungs stutter and her mouth gurgles. I need your spirit to stay right where it is. With a quick movement, before Lexa can argue or dissuade her, Clark kisses her, hungrily, worriedly, anxiously, fretfully, softly, presses their lips together, as if that could convince her to fight harder.
When the chaos clears, when there is nothing left to check or stitch or mend or monitor, Clarke is left with a surge of the past few hours. The entirety of the situation washes over her at once when the realization hits her that there is nothing left to do; there is nothing left for her to do. The cool air whips at her face though the layer of dried blood protects her. Though she has nothing in her stomach, Clarke throws up, wretched over and weak and weary.
As much as she thought it would help, she only feels worse as she rights herself and drags her wrist along her mouth before spitting again. She almost lost Lexa. She might lose Lexa. Lexa could die. The thoughts swirl and only magnify how dizzy she feels. With a deep breath, she pushes her hands into her hair and crouches, sliding her back down the railing until she is hunched over in a small ball balanced on her heels.
The tears come. She steeples her hands in front of her lips and looks up, back into the room. She catches shadows in the candle light as the evening grows well into night around her outside. It grows harder to breathe as she wraps her arms around herself, hoping to constrict the sobs that rattle around like angry old me in her chest.
The work her mother did had been perfect, but even with that, in these conditions, with theses tools, with the delay of travel, nothing is certain. It would be a long night. None of that is at the forefront of her thoughts though, not like the singular notion that Lexa almost ceased to be, could cease to exist, and right now, right when happiness seemed… plausible.
Clarke felt her hands rung along her own neck, where they begin scratching at the blood caked and staining. It is all too much. All of it. The night, the day, the entire course of human events which has led to this exactly moment.
She feels the weight of it all as her fingertips dig into her skin. Quietly, regaining herself, Clarke stands, wiping her cheeks and sniffling as she turns away from the door. It all would make sense. And then the pain comes, telling her that she is very much alive. Her chest feels as if it has exploded from the inside. When she tries to move, Lexa finds herself unable to sit up, unable to open her eyes. She tries to speak, but fails before falling back asleep. Deep into the night and almost the morning already, the healer sees the Commander swallow, furrow, inhale sharply and fall back asleep.
Hunched over and rooting her hands in her hair, she sighs. It is hard going, trying to swallow. Lexa forces herself to as she knits her eyes together against the light coming from some direction.
The coughs that accompany her dry throat hurt. Tiny, weak things as they are, they feel as if a tornado is raging in her belly. Lexa turns her head toward its direction and fights to open her eyes, to see her again, to be certain she was still alive.
It becomes vital. Just stay still. Lexa tries to listen, though it is difficult. She finally manages to pry open an eye as Clarke rests her palm on her forehead, slipping it into her hair. You needed a transfusion. Lexa searches her face and finally feels alive. Lexa closes her eyes and smiles as her healer leans forward and kisses her softly. It feels familiar, as if from a dream, as if from a moment she was certain she had made up for herself.
But here it is, and it is just as marvellous. For now, the world is just as you left it. When the blockade goes into effect around Arkadia, there is a silent acknowledgement that Clarke has chosen something, though no one is quite sure what it will mean.
Titus knows enough to stay away from Wanheda. Lexa feels the breeze on her stomach as her healer lifts her shirt and presses gently against the incision. Instead, Clarke runs her thumb along a rib before propping herself up on her own elbow. The warmth of the blanket slips from her shoulders. Of that, I am certain. Essays in Existentialism: Until she opened her eyes. With a final deep breath, Clarke steadies, and turns back into the room.
How long have I—? Notes darkwastelandpoetry liked this. Home FanArt! Observer theme by Zack Sultan.
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