She’s born in the midst of a violent storm - the wind is howling, wailing, a ghostly voice whistling through the night, and the trees cower under its might; the rain is harsh and cold, neverending, enveloping the world in grey, and the thunder splits apart the stormy skies and leaves silence in its wake, as if holding breath until her cry high and clear, and then the lightening strikes and the forest is painted red. She’s six when her mother gets killed - it’s a sudden, unexpected death, a murder by a flash of silver metal; she still remembers the warm blood on her hands as she pulls the dagger out and pushes her mother’s cooling body away. She knows then that the world is too big for her, too dangerous, too scary, but her tears can’t bring her mother back to life. Instead, she holds the blade in her shaking hand and bares her teeth in challenge. She’s six when she kills her first man. She’s ten when Anya finds her - wild, dirty, a mess of broken nails and blood-clotted hair; she snarls and watches avidly as Anya approaches her carefully. The blade is a comforting weight in her hand and she has prepared a poison just in case. Anya kneels and reaches for a dagger of her own; a battle then - her smile is wicked; but the dagger sinks in the dirt in front of her and not into her skin, an offering she can’t yet fathom. She’s ten when Anya shaves her head. She’s fourteen when she gets her first tattoo - the ink is black and burning and the needle scratches at her skin, drawing redness to the surface, stinging more than she thought it would. But this is just another test and she has no plans on failing, so she grits her teeth so hard she briefly wonders if her jaw will get stuck that way. The day turns to night and she breathes in the smell of ink when the needle stops. She’s fourteen when she grins and asks for another. She’s sixteen when she falls in love - Costia is bright and full of laughter, curly hair and twinkling eyes, gentle touch and autumn breeze. (And she loves her oh so much that sometimes her heart feels ready to burst.) Costia is blushing cheeks and bitten lips, falling stars and shared dreams in the night. Costia is… dying in her arms, smiling, always smiling, lips painted red but not from kisses. She’s sixteen when she vows revenge. She’s seventeen when they summon her - the whispers follow her every step as if they’re the cloak around her shoulders. Her head is held high but her eyes are empty and that scares them more than the battle stories they’ve been told of her cutting wrath and merciless blade. It doesn’t stop them to bow at her feet when the Spirit finds a home in her hollow soul. She’s seventeen when she becomes Commander. She’s nineteen and her blood is raging - the Ice Queen is the last to break, to fall down and accept her lead (but even then it’s not enough for what she did to Costia). The wars amongst her kind are over and as much as she craves to turn the white snow red, she sees the Mountain she has to overthrow, and that war is far from won, so she spares the Queen, if only for a moment. She’s nineteen when the skies rain fire. She’s nineteen when her plans take a turn - she gains strong allies where at first she saw nothing but easily defeated foes. It’s hard to look at their leader, to gaze into her eyes and see Costia’s strength in her, Costia’s resolve and stubbornness, Costia’s spirit. And despite the walls around her heart, Clarke meets no resistance, and she’s shaken to the core, suddenly unsure of who she really is. She’s nineteen when she chooses her people over Clarke. She’s twenty when the legend reaches her - of a blue-eyes demon with a healing touch, that had the Mountain crumble with nothing but her will. She knows then that she was wrong for Clarke was not like Costia, a summer child filled with hope; no, Clarke was just like her, a broken dark soul feeding on blood, born in a storm so savage that the Spirits were begging for help. She’s twenty when she learns there’s another like her.
She’s Lexa, a child of rain and blood (m.p)
