Just Surviving (#Clexa)

The Last Mountain Man

Clarke POV

It's night-time in Polis, and I again find myself in the throne room, readying myself for another ceremony I must take part in. Every one of Lexa's subjects in this room knows what choice I have made, otherwise they wouldn't be here. And Emerson wouldn't still be tied to a stake in the centre of the room.

What the people will see is the Wanheda taking her revenge.

Unlike the Summit, we have no singing this time. There's just the slow, steady beat of drums, like a heartbeat waiting to be silenced. I stand by the throne alongside several other important subjects, hands clasped behind my back as I stare dully at the man who killed forty-nine of my people.

I killed three hundred and eighty-one; he killed forty-nine. He took his revenge because he thought he deserved it.

From where I'm standing, the only way that ends is with everyone dead.

Wasn't it me who said those words to Lexa? When I convinced her to do something she'd have previously thought was impossible? What I'm doing now, I know, is a betrayal to the Commander. And, like everything else, there's no going back.

The throne room doors are tugged open, and a guard leads the Heda and her advisor in. Lexa walks ahead, eyes cold, glaring at Emerson as she passes him. As she comes to stand by her throne, she raises a hand for the drumming to stop. In Trigedasleng, she begins: 'We come together tonight, as we have countless times before, to watch a man die.'

Everyone in the room reacts in their varying glances and movements, but no one speaks a word.

'Wanheda,' Lexa barks, glancing over at me. Her eyes tell me she's disapproving, but I know she'd never stop me. I know by now that she'd do almost anything for me.

The Commander draws a short knife from a sheath at her thigh and hands it to one of her guards. He strides over to Emerson and holds it out just in front of him, the blade glittering like a challenge. My eyes are glued to it as I imagine it stained with blood. Emerson's blood.

'Vengeance is yours,' Lexa mutters.

As I step forwards, rounding Emerson, I can feel every pair of eyes in the room on me. And I still don't know what I want to do. Titus is calm and accepting, Lexa cold and calculating.

Which one do I want to please?

I pause before the knife, gazing down at it, and suddenly feel rather nauseous. Death from forty-nine cuts from my hand. If it had been me on the stake, I'd have to withstand the pain of three hundred and eighty-one cuts on my body. And, had Lexa not valued me as much as she does, I would be cut for the three hundred of her soldiers my people killed as well. I'm not blameless, and I never will be. Is murdering Emerson justice or just cowardice on my part?

The whole room seems to hold its breath, Emerson's angry eyes locked on my face.

'No,' I say suddenly.

The crowd begins to murmur, and Titus turns his head to stare at the Commander in anger. Lexa, though, no longer looks so cold; she's astonished.

The guard lowers the knife and turns away, and I spin to address Emerson. 'I don't know if your death would bring me peace,' I tell him. 'I just know I don't deserve it.'

The shock on his face is priceless.

Titus, enraged, strides quickly down the steps towards me. 'This man must die!' he shouts. 'If Skaikru will not take his life, then Heda will!'

'Heda will speak for herself,' Lexa replies smoothly. 'Enough, Titus!'

He stands down, though he still looks as if he'd rather take the knife and cut me instead.