By the time they got to wherever they were going, all of those candles had melted and then congealed into one giant mass of wax.
βI regret nothing,β Lexa says, years later, as she lights thirty of its exposed wicks on the eve of Clarkeβs birthday.
βI sometimes miss my mother,β Clarke sighs. βI wonder if sheβs still alive. If sheβs happy.β
βShe is both very happy and very alive,β Lexa assures her, with the confidence of a scorned, heterosexual male, mad for his lack of romantic involvement with an uninterested protagonist.
Heβll keep trying anyway.
βHow do you know?β Clarke asks, turning slowly to meet her wifeβs gaze. They had been isolated for years, their only contact with the outside world was their homing pigeon, Flika, and a looking glass. All they had ever seen was smoke.
βJust today, while you were out, Flika returned with a message from her,β Lexa sets a calming tender kiss against Clarkeβs cheek, βyou can rest assured.β
βWell what did the message say?β
βIt said, βPlease tell Clarke,ββ Lexa leans in close, to press her lips against Clarkeβs ear, and whispers, β'that Iβm doing her mom.ββ
βAnd that,β Lexa will tell their future children, conceived solely by the magic of creative fan fiction, βis why we no longer light up the night. Your mother threw all of our candle into the river.β
yousharknotpass
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