#traiitorous

“Yes? Come in.”

[Text]: WAIT THIS ISN’T GLADIONS NUMBER Σ(゜ロ゜;)

Florie sighed and leaned against the railing next to him. “I’m exhausted and he’s not even here yet.”

“No, I’m just taking a break. Need some time to think about… something. What are you doing up there?”

“Uh.. why would I freak out?” She thought for a moment and then her eyes darted around and then she lowered her voice. “Is something bad going to happen?”

   Lincoln finds his worn journal tucked in with Octavia’s belongings.     It takes time before he’s able to bring himself to touch her things,    and the journal is the last item he expects to uncover. The shreds    of memory locked inside overwhelm him, and all Clarke and the     rest of them can do it sit back and watch the warrior unravel. No    words existed in either of their languages that would serve to ease    his pain or diminish his suffering.          He had lost his heart, and the anguish that accompanied          that loss was too heavy a weight. She’d moved to stop          him as he tossed the leather-bound book onto a small         fire he’d tended, but she stopped short, it was his to do         with as he needed.     He comes back together slowly, the passing of time doing what     it can for his wounds. There’s a moment when he feels too gone,     like he may just step out into the forest and disappear.           Days pass, the separation lessens as the seasons fade          together, and somehow when she’s standing with the           others discussing some matter of business, she can           feel him to her side. A small nod from Bellamy the only          acknowledgment that progress has been made. That          there’s hope that the scars might fade.      Bellamy’s a few too many drinks into a starless night when     he finally confesses that it’s Octavia’s birthday. Clarke’s      chest aches, and she leans overs to pour herself what he’s     having. She sees the tears on his cheeks before he leaves     without another word, and she can finally take a breath,     he wanted to be alone. He was alone a lot these days.          She’s taking a sip of her drink when Lincoln comes         to mind, and she knows without having to wonder,         that he’s aware of the significance of the day. It takes time and patience for the rhythm of sketching to comeback to her, but muscle memory kicks in and steadies her hand. It’s rough, something from a glimpse of a memory, and her ownrecollection of the once beautiful and innocent girl. It wasn’t thesame one that had turned to ash that night in the fire, but is wassomething. A gift he wouldn’t give himself, one that she hoped he wouldn’t frown upon. Her gesture is held gently in her hand.The sun is rising at her back as she finds him at the perimeter fence, and there’s a knot in her stomach, nerves that want herto turn back.            “Clarke,” his voice is curious, and she offers him a             small smile. Biting her lip between her teeth she            holds the small page out to him without comment.            Nothing seems to fit right in her mouth so silence            fills the space between them as his eyes travel             over her drawing.    It’s an eternity resting between the space of two heartbeats,   and his eyes never leave the charcoal lines of Octavia’s face   even as he voices his thanks. There’s a touch of warmth to    his gaze, where nothing but a haunted chill used to live, and   none of them are ever going to be truly whole again, but at   least with a picture of her, there’d be one more piece of him.              “Ain hod in,” his voice is heavy with loss               as Clarke leaves him with his memories.