#mwtw updates

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The sun hangs bound and gagged on the last day of Michaelmas term, dawn slipping into day unknown amongst the gathering gloom of the morning’s low-hanging clouds. As the hours lumber on, the air begins to catch in the lungs and it only continues to thicken, only grows heavier and heavier as if swallowing the hundreds of held breaths and deep sighs from within the school.

By noon, the whole world outside Polis’ red brick buildings has faded away into a bleak blur, entire fields and forests suffocated in a veil of fog.

The official joining of Polis and Dominicus is scheduled for two o’clock, their annual Christmas celebration of life superseded by a macabre pageantry of death, but it’s still a half-hour before that happens, or at least the cloaked American reminds herself while creeping outside.

Clarke watches the Headmistress greet the local news crew at the front gate with a vigilant eye, a total of five crew members with an assortment of handheld and video cameras. After handshakes and parking directions, they’re led through the Quad and to the bottom of the double staircase flanking the chapel doors. Requisite small talk is made, along with general lamentations about the weather, mostly because the fog ruins the possibility of panoramic shots for their news-spread on the event, and it’s the first burst of joy Clarke’s felt all day.

And she’s not quite sure schadenfreude counts as joy. Not really.

At about twenty minutes to the hour, the vaulted main building doors swing open to reveal a huddle of businessmen, one brave scout risking the sleeve of his suit to check for rain before holding the door open for his colleagues. With grimaces, the troupe tiptoe along the covered walkway for the sake of their shoes, a tightly packed unit of nondescript older white men in dark suits—possibly the same dude cloned six times, in all honesty—but there’s no way Clarke could ever miss the gait of her second heart, surrounded in their midst.

The Head Girl is marched out of the cloisters and up the marble stairs to the chapel as if she’s not already going willingly. As the fog coalesces into a light drizzle, Lexa pulls the hood of her cloak over her head and the men look on enviously. Her face is pale and every step she climbs must be agony.

Her feet don’t falter. Not even once.

They reach the top and Lexa straightens her shoulders. She pulls back her hood and fixes her eyes on the courtyard below. Her posture and expression betray no sign these fucking villains have drained her of her fight.

No, Heda stands arraigned between the stone pillars of the chapel as tall and fierce as ever: born for this responsibility, be it victory or defeat. Neither the howl of the wind nor the wild of her curls dare disturb her plaits, tightly wound as they are, but as she draws her arms behind herself and raises her chin, Clarke can’t help but wonder if Lexa’s crown of braids feels more a crown of thorns.

The Headmistress and photographers join them on the terrace, Nia speaking to Lexa through the corners of her puckered mouth while they’re fitted with lapel microphones. The Head Girl nods in response, both sets of eyes straight ahead, but Clarke doesn’t miss the smirk festering around the corners of Nia’s mouth. The group are posed and rearranged for endless rounds of publicity shots by the news crew and Lexa complies without a word, dutifully raising the corner of her lips in the semblance of a smile when prompted.

Clarke imagines the sensation of her knuckles contacting with Nia’s gloating mug.

Partway through the pictures, the Dominicus Headmaster dashes up the other set of steps, panting heavily. A droplet of sweat rolls down his bald scalp as he thrusts a bag of some sort into Lexa’s hands and then grins at the Headmistress, chattering excitedly about something Clarke can’t hear and then frowning in suspicion when he realises they’ve been taking publicity photos without him. It’s evident that Lexa doesn’t share his enthusiasm because the shadows under her eyes deepen, but she bows her head and steps inside the chapel with the parcel.

When she returns, her beautiful scarlet Heda cloak is gone, replaced by a garish red and yellow striped blazer.

Titus claps his hands together and Nia grins like a fucking snake.

Clarke thinks she might throw up.

It’s a Dominicus school blazer.

They’ve stripped Lexa of the last symbol of her position—her late mother’s cloak, no less—and forced her into this polyester monstrosity. All for their fucking circus.

She may only be seventeen years old, but Clarke decides she may never be more furious than she is in this moment.

They’re calling back the photographer to take more photos of this nightmare when Clarke can’t stand quiet another millisecond and storms up the staircase. The sallow-faced Advisory Board splutter and try to stop her, stretching out their hands, but they’re all too reticent to actually try apprehending the blonde fury.

“Miss, you can’t be here!”

“Young lady…”

“The ceremony hasn’t started yet, the girls don’t enter until—”

“Let her pass,” a stronger voice commands, powerful and steady even whilst shackled to her personal hell, and the business men gape in confusion, looking between themselves but none daring to contradict the Head Girl.

The Headmistress looks ready to intervene as Clarke pushes through to her girlfriend but then seems to change her mind. She simply makes a magnanimous gesture toward the Head Girl and then steps back, just far enough to give the illusion of privacy.

“Two minutes, Miss Griffin,” Nia says, her face the picture of a victor enjoying the sight of her victims wriggling on the end of a spear. “Then I’ll need you back inside for the ceremonial procession with the rest of your classmates.”

Clarke pays her exactly zero fucks.

“Lexa.” She wraps her hand around Lexa’s upper arm, speaking low; the muscles under her fingers are so taut they’re almost vibrating.

“Do you need something, Clarke?” she asks quietly.

“Just…” Clarke takes a deep breath to steel her aching heart. “Just to remind you that this isn’t the only solution. There are so many people behind you, Lex—we can stop this.”

Any last remnant of Lexa in those haunted green eyes immediately shutter away and Heda’s eyes flicker away, back to centre again.

Clarke drops her hand and follows her gaze, tracing over the sprawl of red brick and cobblestone in front of them, the four buildings that border the courtyard and the patch of Holy Ground in the middle. Under the hanging cloud of fog, the whole world feels small, as if nothing else could possibly exist outside these school grounds, as if they’re dwelling on their own earth, under their own skies.

And then she looks at the girl at her side and she remembers—she remembers the breathtaking immensity of the universe.

“All it’d take is one word from you, just one,” Clarke pleads, not caring if she’s overheard anymore. “You protected Polis before, when you went against the Headmistress and united the Houses two years ago. You can do it again—we can do it again!”

The Head Girl lifts her chin and pulls her arms behind her back; it’s a gesture of power but all Clarke can think about is how exposed it makes her neck, how exposed her heart and throat are to the swing of her enemy’s blade. “It’s done. I’m sorry, Clarke,” she says softly. “I have to choose peace.”

With a nod she already knew she’d be giving before climbing the steps, Clarke turns to Nia and raises her chin.  “Headmistress. We’ve taken a schoolwide vote regarding the proposal to dissolve Polis and merge with Dominicus and—”

Nia bursts into laughter—or, rather, cackles—and turns to her Advisory Board to share in the hilarity. It takes most of them a moment, but they join in, too, if a bit stilted and confused, about as comfortable as they’d be if Clarke had asked them for their opinion on tampons verses sanitary napkins.

“A ‘proposal’? A schoolgirl ‘vote’?” the Headmistress gasps out, gnarly fingers forming air quotations around the words. “As adorable as that must have been, little Yankee, I’m afraid a boarding school isn’t a democracy. Dominicus and Polis will be joining together next year; it’s not up for discussion.”

“How can you possibly speak for us, we’re the ones—” Clarke starts but gets cut off again, this time by a long, dramatic sigh; Nia shoots an exasperated look over to the wary Board members as if they’re simply dealing with an over-tired toddler.

“Why don’t you step inside and I’ll explain,” Nia says sweetly between her teeth, digging her claws around Clarke and Lexa’s arms and towing them into the chapel.

Once inside, the Headmistress closes the door and then spins around to regard them both, eyes slitting in consideration before placing her hands on her hips.

“Clearly a tactical error was made by not involving your partner-in-crime in our little…agreement,” she concedes to Lexa while not sounding in the least bit conciliatory. Her tone isn’t one of resignation, either—it’s crafty, as if she’s expected this from the beginning.

Clarke’s not exactly sure what hackles are but if she has them, they’re definitely rising right now.  

“I’m impressed you managed to hold your tongue, in fact,” Nia continues, cocking an eye over at Clarke for only a moment before ignoring her again for the stiff-backed Head Girl. “I was certain she’d be your first confidant. Perhaps she’s less important to you than I thought.”

Clarke almost snorts, unsurprised when the Headmistress reverts to this strategy.

So predictable.

If Nia can’t get Clarke to submit by going through Lexa, she obviously has no shame in falling back on her contingency plan to pit the two girls against each other. It’s the same strategy she’s deploying at the whole-school level—counting on the girls to either fall into line under her puppet Head Girl’s command or to fall into fractionated chaos, weakening themselves from the inside out with Lexa as the scapegoat.

Nia’s an idiot.

“Of course I didn’t tell her,” Lexa snaps, tugging at her blazer sleeves in disgust while avoiding Clarke’s eye. “You may have been able to cow me into submission but Clarke never would have stood for it.”

“Is that so?” Nia turns to Clarke with mild interest, now, her expression predatory. “My son sends his regards, by the way, dear. It seems you two really hit it off last week.”

Clarke grins.

“We did indeed, thank you for ensuring we met, Headmistress,” Clarke enthuses without a trace of sarcasm. “I spent some time chatting with Roan yesterday, as chance might have it. Turns out we have a lot in common.”

Her sincerity sets Nia off-rhythm for a second, especially once the woman checks over at Lexa and receives only a bland expression in reaction to Clarke’s words. “Well. I’m glad to hear it,” she finally manages before clearing her throat and regaining her footing. “But let’s not get off-topic—the ceremony is due to begin in a few minutes and I need your assurance, both your assurances, that it will go ahead with no unexpected surprises.”

With a raise of her eyebrows, Clarke moves so she’s side-by-side with Lexa against the wall of the vestibule and crosses her arms. The familiar sensation of thick wool against her hand gives her the strength to meet the Headmistress’ glare of intimidation without flinching away and she knows without looking it’s the Heda cloak, hung on the coat hooks.

“It will, Nia,” Lexa sighs when it’s obvious Clarke doesn’t plan to answer in the affirmative.

Or at all.

Glaring is much more gratifying.  

Reaching into her black gown, the Headmistress pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to Lexa. “Furthermore, you will be reading this speech we’ve prepared word for word during the press announcement portion. No alterations, no translations into that embarrassment of a secret language of yours, not even an extra breath between sentences. Do I make myself clear?”

Shoulders only sagging for the briefest of seconds, Lexa slips the paper into the inside pocket of the blazer without opening it.

“Yes, Nia.”

The Headmistress lets out a long exhale in satisfaction. “Good. And why will be you be making sure everything proceeds without a hitch?” She leans in so she’s looming over them both and Clarke can smell the cloying stench of her perfume, sees every detail of the scar that stretches across her cheeks and the heavy layer of orange makeup caked over it.

Lexa sets her jaw and looks away, declining to answer this time.

Nia rolls her eyes to the ceiling in irritation and turns her attention to Clarke, currently attempting to hold her breath before she chokes on the sickly-sweet irony of the Headmistress’s ‘Angel’ brand perfume.

“Because the Head Girl knows that if she doesn’t cooperate, I will be taking the opportunity provided to me in the transition to revoke her beloved scholarship programme,” Nia answers for Lexa. “Polis is no longer a non-profit organisation as of last week, nor will the new partnership operate under such budget-hemorrhaging terms. We’re a business, not a charity.”

Clarke shatters as she finally understands the axe Nia’s been holding over Lexa’s head, the captive for which Lexa’s paying ransom.

Almost a quarter of students are funded through scholarships and part-bursaries, literally hundreds of girls unable to attend next year without financial support—girls from high-risk and vulnerable backgrounds, girls like Lexa and Octavia without a stable home life to fall back on, and oh fuck, Clarke should have known. How could she not have known?

“Lex…” she breathes.

“The agreement the Headmistress offered me protects all current girls on bursaries and continues the initiative for ten years on the condition that I ensure the deal proceeds peacefully,” Lexa confirms, voice leaden and eyes on her floor. “Otherwise the new Trust would rescind all funding offers for next year onward.”

Clarke can only open her mouth and then close it again, too angry and disgusted for her brain to form words in its white-hot cloud of realisation.

“Even if the merger doesn’t go through, the status of the school has already been changed,” Lexa goes on, correctly reading Clarke’s first objection once her sting of emotions begins to dampen. “She’d cut off their funding either way.”

“I don’t expect a child to understand, but the world isn’t run on inspiring words and happy thoughts,” Nia prattles on, her tone patronising as if she honestly believes they need it explaining. “A strong business model is the only way to make this school great again.”

“Polis is already great,” Clarke hisses. “And it’s only getting better. Money and prestige, they’re not power, we—”

“Clarke,” Lexa interjects quietly. “There’s more. A merger between two schools necessitates staff redundancies. Part of the agreement was the Headmistress also promising to protect each and every member of the Polis staff next year, either with full pensions or equivalent employment at the new facilities.”

Clarke looks at Lexa and tastes the salt of blood on her tongue, the sick of her stomach slowly dawning across her face.

She hadn’t considered the teachers and staff, either.

But Lexa has.

Of course Lexa has.

“This is extortion,” Clarke spits out and wishes she was literally spitting in Nia’s face. “How fucking dare you!”

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, eyes focused on the stonework. “Em pleni.”

Clarke pretends to have forgotten Trigedasleng altogether, far too furious to listen to Lexa’s plea to stop her tirade. “You should be in jail for this, you can’t just—she’s a minor, you fucking bitch!”

Lexa’s eyes widen but the Headmistress is unperturbed. “Language, Miss Griffin,” she drawls, adjusting her academic gown around her shoulders and straightening the fur-lined hood. “Your parents will hear about this insolence—oh dear, no, they won’t, will they? Consider yourself lucky, child.”

The sneer hits like a slap to the face and Clarke’s mouth falls open, stunned into silence.

There’s no delay in the way Lexa lurches forward, though, her body twisting into the personification of rage as she storms up to the vile woman. “Watch yourself, Nia,” she orders, voice low and clipped, and  Clarke’s gratified to watch the Headmistress take a hasty step backward.

The Headmistress recovers quickly, however, and Clarke feels her skin crawl as the woman smirks and then strokes a knuckle against a fuming Lexa’s cheek, acrylic nails just short of scratching perfect skin. “Oh, darling,” she coos. “Do you really think you hold the power anymore? You may have had the Governors twisted around your finger but their influence is over and along with it, yours.”

Revulsion saturates Lexa’s eyes but she holds herself ramrod straight, refusing to flinch away from Nia’s spiteful touch.

“Get your hands off her,” Clarke growls between clenched teeth.

“If you want to keep your freeloading welfare students and over-entitled staff safe, you’ll learn your place and obey my orders,” Nia continues with flashing eyes, not even bothering to acknowledge Clarke. “As will your little friend over there, if she knows what’s best for her. Otherwise I’ll have no difficulty finding new budget items that could benefit from reallocations.”

Lexa sets her jaw but after a second or two she breaks their stare-off, dropping her eyes. “I will keep the peace, as agreed,” she mutters to the floor.

Clarke takes a deep breath as the beady eyes of the Headmistress slide over to her, narrowed in expectation, and then exhales in a long whoosh. “I’ll do as my Head Girl commands,” she mumbles, gaze similarly falling to the ground.

“Now you’re thinking like rational human beings instead of over-emotional teenage girls. Perhaps you’ll succeed in the real world, after all,” Nia says with a nod, calm and collected as if they’ve been discussing last-minute scheduling changes. She cracks her knuckles and smooths down her gown, satisfied, before beckoning them both back outside.

“I get it now,” Clarke tries reassuring Lexa under her breath as they’re shuffled out the door. “I would have made the same choice.”

The green of Lexa’s irises is faded and they’re churning as she holds Clarke’s gaze for a long beat.  Her practiced countenance doesn’t waiver though and she responds using only a downward flicker of her eyes, as if she’s holding the muscles of her neck so tightly she can’t chance releasing them to nod.

Behind them, Nia leans against the wall next to Titus, the Headmaster blustering about something or other while the Headmistress seems content to let him rant himself out, busying herself with notes and locating her reading glasses.

Clarke holds her stare on Lexa long after she turns away to look out over Polis, watching her scan over each beam and every carved edifice with eyes long-graven with their shape.

The fog has only deepened while they were inside and a frosty wind moans across the courtyard, blowing Clarke’s hair into her face. Lexa’s braids remain steadfast, only the little curls around her temples showing any effect of the onslaught.

It’s a horrible, heart-wrenching decision Nia’s forced upon Lexa and Clarke truly does understand, now.

She understands and it changes nothing.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter what the Headmistress is holding over Lexa’s head—only that she has the audacity to do so at all.

With a glance back to make sure Nia’s still preoccupied, Clarke steps closer to Lexa, close enough that their arms are flush. “The thing is, Nia trapped you into choosing between two bad options, Lex. Sacrificing the staff and scholarships or protecting them by endorsing this merger…it’s a false dichotomy, Lex. They’re not the only choices.”

Lexa swallows but makes no other acknowledgement of Clarke’s words.

“She deliberately pressured you with time-constraints and then distanced you from the rest of the school; you didn’t have the time and freedom to pull together a third option.”

“Clarke…,” Lexa warns.