Oxygen becomes limited within the Sky Box.
Regardless, Clarke doesn't sleep, and lays weakly stomach-first on the chilly, steel floor of her prison. She only uses her energy to breathe deep, sketching flowers and plants from Arkadia's historical pages and what the bleak, starry skies could have looked from a planet's ground.
What it would have been like to be a Grounder.
Her cell-door bangs open. Regulation, black prison-guard boots knock over Clarke's art supplies. Two of the guards stand over her, grabbing her wrists while she kicks fiercely.
One of them shoves a rod into Clarke's right side, sending an electrical current into her. She screams in agony, drool pouring out of her mouth.
A fist rams into her jaw. Clarke gasps out, her vision blurring. Finn stares down on her, glaring.
"Clarke, wake up!"
Beyond the hellish dream, Lexa shouts over the other woman jolting awake, screaming in terror and struggling to get free from invisible clutches.
"You're alright…" Lexa's dirt-smudged thumb strokes over Clarke's bottom lip. She repeats calmly, "You're alright, you're safe… but I am not a healer, Klark. Tell me what you need."
It comes rushing back — a huge, venomous insect, the piercing, stabbing agony in Clarke's right side, the hallucinations, alone by themselves in the woods — and Clarke groans dismally, slightly adjusting her head resting to Lexa's thighs.
Eventually, she has the words. Clarke doesn't fight getting propped up against a tree, rolling up her shirt and examining the reddened, irritated skin. "If I'm still alive, then it's not as venomous."
"Your fever has broken, at the very least," Lexa informs her dully, tipping a little water from a skin into Clarke's eager, arching mouth.
Their fingers search blindly to cup together.
"Do you know what you were muttering in your sleep?" she asks pointedly as Clarke frowns.
"What did I say…?"
"You were calling out for your father." Lexa's eyes remind her of the bioluminescent green flowers. Clarke feels dizzy while staring right inside them. "Something happened to him, before all of this," she adds.
"He was executed," Clarke says flatly, glancing away. She doesn't want to see Lexa's reaction.
"By his own people?" With the following silence, it's enough of a confirmation. "So our ways are not so different after all," Lexa observes, unoffended by the sneering, angry look from Clarke. When they're this close, she can smell the fur skins and oil and the sky on Lexa.
Clarke isn't sure she will ever understand her. By for the good of her people, she must.
The 100 isn't mine. I really wish I could have gone to Clexacon, but hey, today is some Clexa! That'll make up for it right lmao... any thoughts/comments appreciated!