Medusa and The Blind Woman

Ch. VII

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Lexa releases a delighted laugh as she very easily imagines the scene being set—her mind painting portraits of a tiny Clarke with ease. All unruly curls and knobbly elbows, legs littered with scrapes and bruises from her various shenanigans, tiny feet clad in adorably small sandals. She pictures a man that looks little more than an adult sized rendition of Clarke, matching blue eyes twinkling in half-set sunlight as they peer down at the little one waiting impatiently to be lifted onto his feet.

She can see it all perfectly in her mind's eye as Clarke begins lazily dancing among the grass of their little spot, mimicking and explaining each uncoordinated step, peppered with smile-filled anecdotes from her youth.

Lexa watches Clarke twirl, chest filling with a lightness at the sight of her looking young and so carefree. Unweighted by the tethers of responsibility and shame. Speckles of sunlight filter through the canopy of trees, bouncing rays off her hair that cast off in a glow like a crown. 

All it takes is one move from Clarke. A pause in the dance that makes Lexa yearn when she has to pause to find her footing, stumbling along with the wide stretch of her smile as the hem of her dress sways carelessly at her ankles. Clarke is the definition of divine temptation like this, when she reaches out, a siren's call in the way she crooks her finger just so.

“Come to me.”

And oh how Lexa is helpless to her golden goddess's will.

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