Chapter Text
Kerymoun
(Soul-Other)
Part I
Clarke is only five years old when she first feels her soulmate. Calling a sprained ankle a grievous wound would be a vast overstatement, but Clarke is only a child, and more than anything, it surprises her. One moment, she's sitting at the table with her mother and father, munching away at the nightly rations, happily swinging her legs back and forth with feet that don't quite reach the ground. The next moment, there is a painful twinge in her right ankle. Clarke bites her lip and makes a noise somewhere between surprise and pain, and her mother looks up at her.
"Clarke?" she asks. "Are you okay?"
"My ankle hurts," Clarke whines. "I think I t- tw-"
"Twisted it?" her mother supplies. "Just now?"
Clarke nods, face screwed up pitifully.
"You're sitting down," her father laughs.
"But it hurts," Clarke insists.
Her mother and father exchange an exasperated look before her mother shakes her head. "I'll look at it soon. Finish your rations."
Grudgingly, Clarke does. When the table has been cleaned off, her mother sits her down and prods and moves her ankle around. Clarke yelps several times throughout the process, but when she is finished, her mother shakes her head with a sigh.
"There's nothing wrong with it, Clarke," she says simply.
"It hurts," Clarke repeats.
"I'll get you an ice pack," she says, but Clarke can tell she doesn't believe her. That doesn't keep her from complaining for the rest of the night though. By the time she wakes up the next morning, the pain is gone, and the sprained ankle is forgotten.
By the time Clarke reaches the age of ten, she has become used to the aches and stinging pains that seem to come at random. There are never any bruises or cuts, aside from the ones that Clarke knows came from a rogue fall down a flight of stairs or that one time Wells shoved her over during an impromptu football game. There is only the pains. Typically, they are gone within the day, but if not, they swiftly fade over the course of the next several days. Clarke has never had one that lasts more than three days.
But nothing could prepare her for the pain she felt the day after her tenth birthday.
Still floating on the celebration of the previous day, Clarke hardly notices the tightness in her chest at first. As the day progresses however, it steadily worsens, and by the time she and Wells are done with class, she is the verge of a full-blown panic attack. Concerned (of course he is) Wells leads her back to her family's pod and sits her down on the couch. Neither of her parents are in, so he stays with her, simply holding her hand and murmuring reassurances.
Eventually, the panicky pain begins to ease, but at the same time, Clarke feels the familiar peppering of pain in various parts of her body. She tells Wells, and his concern increases.
"I'm going to get your mom," he says, standing. "I'll be back."
Clarke nods shakily and he leaves. For several minutes, she is by herself, trying to keep it together as more pains shoot through her limbs. The panic has gone now, though, replaced by what feels like a sad, grim determination.
Then, suddenly, it hits her. A searing pain to her right side, just beneath her ribs, worse than any pain Clarke has ever felt before. Crying out, Clarke rips the bottom of her shirt up, but just like always, there's nothing there. Blank, smooth skin where there should be a gaping wound. A moment passes, and then the pain worsens even more. Gasping, Clarke curls in on herself, trying to wrap herself around her torso as if that would stop the torture. But it does nothing, and the world around Clarke blurs a little at the edges. She feels like she's about to pass out.
When her mother and Wells come barging through the door of the pod, it is to find Clarke curled up on the floor, gasping for air, tears of pain streaming down her face.
Her mother kneels down next to her. "Clarke?" she says, the worry bordering on panic evident in her voice. "Clarke, honey, what's wrong?"
"It hurts, mom," Clarke whimpers. "It's hurts so much."
"Where? Where does it hurt?"
Clarke pulls up the bottom of her shirt and places a hand over the spot where the searing pain is radiating from. Her mother shakes her head helplessly. "There's nothing there, Clarke."
Clarke doesn't answer, just keeps sobbing, curling in on herself even more. Her mother looks at Wells. "Help me pick her up," she says. "We're taking her to the med bay."
By the time Clarke's father gets to the med bay, she is coherent again. The sharp pain has lessened to a persistent ache, but it's far more bearable, and Clarke is infinitely grateful for it. Despite this, it has been replaced with an entirely different type of pain, an aching feeling deep in her chest that feels like sorrow.
"What happened?" her father asks when he reaches her bedside.
It is her mother who answers. "We don't know," she says with a shake of her head. "She had another episode, very bad this time, but there was nothing there."
Clarke watches them carefully, and she doesn't miss the grim look that passes between them. It's the same look they've been exchanging for the past several months, whenever Clarke tells them about the random spurts of pain.
"What's happening to me?" Clarke demands. Her parents look at her and her mother opens her mouth to tell her that, once again, they do not know, but Clarke shakes her head before she can get the words out. "You know. I know you know. Mom, dad. What's happening to me?"
Clarke's parents exchange another look before her father nods and her mother lets out a sigh. Her father sits in the chair at her bedside while her mother busies herself with the other patients in the ward.
"Dad?" Clarke implores.
"Listen, kiddo," he says. "It's kinda complicated, so you need to hear me through, alright?"
Clarke nods silently.
"This happens sometimes. That pain you've been getting? It's from your soulmate."
Clarke scrunches her eyebrows together. "My soulmate?"
Her father nods. "The person you're destined to be with."
"You mean like, the person I'm supposed to marry?"
Her father considers that for a moment before shrugging. "Yeah, something like that. Whenever they get hurt, you feel it, and whenever you get hurt, they feel it. Sometimes you even feel their emotions."
Clarke bites her lip for a moment. Then she looks up at him, eyes big. "Why does my soul… soulmate get hurt so much?"
"I don't know, kiddo," her father shakes his head. "That's what me and your mom want to know, too. We would have told you before, but we didn't expect it to get this bad."
"How do I get it to stop?"
Her father bites his lip, considering whether or not he should answer that. But with a look from Clarke, he gives in. "The only way it stops is if your soulmate dies." Clarke's eyes widen. "But trust me, kiddo. You don't want that to happen."
The last thing Clarke wants is for anyone to die, much less the person she's supposed to marry. But out of fear and curiosity she still has to ask. "Why not?"
Her father looks at her with eyes that convey a world of sadness, that he knows exactly what it feels like. "Because it feels much worse."
After this incident, Clarke adjusts to this new way of life. As she grows into her teenage years, the minor aches and pains decrease, only to be replaced by the searing pains like the one from when she turned ten. They are quite rare, never occurring within three months of each other, but they are bad enough that Clarke dreads them nevertheless.
She learns that, true to her father's word, she is not the only one. There are others in her class who suffer the same maladies, though some less than others. Some of them only get tiny imaginary bumps and bruises, while others find themselves in situations more like Clarke's. Having one of her classmates excuse themselves with a pained look on their face becomes an occurrence that they are all familiar with, though it always seems to occur among the same people, Clarke being one of them.
Still, none of Clarke's classmates go through what she does in her fifteenth year. They are in the middle of Earth Studies. Wells is flinging miniature paper planes at the back of her head, scribbling little messages onto them. Clarke passes them back with little comical sketches of their teacher, Pike, and she hears him giggle and snort more than once.
"Something funny back there, Wells?" Pike calls back to them.
Clarke feels Wells straighten in the seat behind her and she has to work hard not to let her grin show. "No, sir."
"Uh-huh," Pike replies skeptically. "Well, if I hear it again I might have to go see for myself."
"Not necessary, sir," Wells assures him.
Pike raises her eyebrows at them and then turns back to the board, continuing his lecture on the process of photosynthesis in plants.
"Nice going," Clarke mutters over her shoulder to Wells.
"It's your fault!" he hisses back. "You're the one making the drawings."
Clarke smirks to herself. "Well," she mutters, "At least I-"
Suddenly, there is a terrible, horrible wrenching in her chest. Clarke suddenly can't breathe. All of her muscles seize. She grips the edge of her desk hard and bends over until her forehead is touching the surface. For several long moments, she is left gasping for air like a fish out of water.
She can't breathe. She can't breathe. She can't breathe.
"Clarke?" Wells' voice sounds far away. "Clarke, are you okay?"
She feels a hand squeezing her shoulder and the pressure on her chest releases just enough that she can suck in a breath, but her head is spinning. It feels as if a hole has been ripped through her chest, but this is nothing like the severe bursts of pain that Clarke gets on occasion. This isn't just an invisible stab to her side. No, this is much, much worse. The only way Clarke can think to describe it is as if the void of space itself has been shoved between her ribs.
"Ms. Griffin!" Pike calls, and Clarke dimly recognizes irritation in his voice. "I will not have you taking a nap in my class."
Clarke can't answer. She can't. So instead, Wells does. "Sir," he says, "I think-"
"Do not be making up excuses, Wells," Pike replies. "Ms. Griffin, you've disrupted my class enough for one day. I think you should-"
Clarke can't sit here listening anymore. Not with this hole in her chest. Without a word, she sweeps her digital pad and pen into her bag and zips it up. She faintly notices that her hands are shaking violently.
"Clarke!" She wants to scream at Pike. "I wasn't finished."
Clarke throws her bag over her shoulder and staggers up from her desk. Almost immediately, her legs give out. Fortunately, Wells already knows what's happening. He's there to catch her. Clarke's vision blurs. Her bag hits the floor as she sags against him.
"Sir-" Wells starts.
"Go," Pike says. His tone softens as he realizes exactly what is going on.
Clarke manages to lift her gaze up from her feet as Wells drags her from the classroom. Everyone is looking at them, some with sympathetic eyes, others confused. Clarke knows the sympathetic ones are the ones who have had to do this before, who have escaped any number of situations in the same way she is now.
But this…they don't know this.
Clarke doesn't go to class for the next three days. It hurts to move, and the hole in her chest won't go away. Her head pounds from how much she's been crying. Her mother can hardly get her to drink, and it's impossible for her to so much as look at food. Despite this, she's thrown up several times. She doesn't sleep, but after a day and a half of sobbing, exhaustion takes over and she's out for three merciful hours.
Even with all of this, it's the feeling in her chest that's worst. It isn't a physical pain, but still, it hurts. It hurts in a way Clarke has never felt before. No matter what she does or tries, nothing helps. So instead, she lays curled up in her bunk, crying nearly the entire time and watching with dull eyes as her bedside caretaker cycles between her mother, father, and Wells.
Finally, Clarke passes out for the second time. When she wakes up, the feeling in her chest has lessened. It isn't gone, but it's better. Not necessarily for lack of pain, but it seems…muted somehow, as if her heart and lungs have gone numb. For the first time in over 48 hours, Clarke can move. She slowly sits up and swings her legs off the side of her bunk.
Her mother emerges from the kitchen. Her eyes widen and she rushes over when she sees her up. "How are you feeling?" she asks immediately, putting a hand to Clarke's forehead. She doesn't give her a chance to answer. "You haven't talked in days, and you wouldn't eat. I was thinking I'd need to take you to the med bay to get anything in you. Do you know how you got sick? If it spreads to your classmates-"
"I wasn't sick, mom." Clarke's voice is gravelly with disuse and fatigue.
It takes a moment, but then understanding pools in her mother's eyes. "What was it this time?"
"My chest." Clarke puts a hand over her heart. "But it wasn't like before."
Her mother's brow creases. "What do you mean?"
Clarke shakes her head. She doesn't know how to describe this feeling to someone else. "It was just…different. It hurt in a different way. It was more internal…emotional, I think."
Her mother nods. "It makes sense. Emotional pain stills counts as pain."
"Yeah." Clarke thinks about that for a moment. "But why? What could happen that would make it this bad?"
Her mother simply shakes her head.
"So how am I supposed to figure it out?" Clarke feels like crying again. "How do I figure out what's wrong when I don't even know who they are?" She looks up at her mother helplessly. "How did you and dad find each other?"
Her mother hesitates for a moment, but then sighs, resigned. "Your father and I aren't soulmates, Clarke."
Clarke gapes at her. "What?"
"Listen." Her mother sits in the chair beside her bunk and takes her hands into her own. "It's very rare that people find their soulmates. Not even everyone has them. People can find their soulmates, but it's rare."
"That's why dad told me it's worse when your soulmate dies," Clarke realizes. "His soulmate died, didn't she?"
Her mother nods grimly. "I was with him when it happened. He never knew who she was, but he felt every moment, and he's never been the same since."
Clarke shakes her head. "It doesn't make sense though," she says. "There's not that many people on the Ark. It shouldn't be hard."
Her mother simply shrugs her shoulders. "I don't know what to tell you, Clarke. It's always been this way. I don't think anything is going to change that."
Grumbling, Clarke stands up on shaky legs. The pain in her chest is still there, but it's fading even now. "Fine," she says. "I need to eat."
Her mother nods and stands. "Yes, you do. Come to the table, I'll fix you something." She disappears into the kitchen.
Once she's gone, Clarke places a hand over her heart. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "Whoever you are, I'm so sorry. I'm going to find you, and when I do, I'm going to help you. I'll be there for you, no matter what."
"I promise."
Lexa has become accustomed to the small pains that arise from her kerymoun. Over the years, she's learned that the moments truly worth her notice are few and far between. Without a doubt, her kerymoun is very far from a warrior. There is no pain from a horrible wound or the beatings that come from training. Lexa assumes that whoever they are, her kerymoun must be a healer or a merchant of some sort. There is no other explanation for how little Lexa feels her.
In fact, it was due to the minimal feedback from her kerymoun that Lexa had no issues giving her all to Costia. It is rare that the Commander finds their kerymoun anyways, and even if they do, the possibility is a danger in itself. Lexa did not quite understand why that was until she found Costia's lifeless eyes staring back at her, until her unrecognizable body was delivered three days later. Lexa could not imagine the pain that she had been in, or how that pain would have crippled Lexa herself for days, if not weeks. Perhaps Azgeda had assumed Costia was her kerymoun, and in a sick way, Lexa is glad she was not. Costia's death had shattered Lexa, but she has seen the haunted look in the eyes of those whose kerymoun have died in battle. She only hopes she will not live long enough to feel the same.
She is in her nineteenth summer when suddenly, things change.
She wakes up one day with a strange knot in her stomach that she quickly dismisses. But the next day, as Lexa is wrapping up a meeting with the Assembly, she feels her chest jolt. Fiery panic rises up her throat. She struggles to keep her voice level as she dismisses them. Minutes later, as the last of the ambassadors file from the room, Lexa's stomach suddenly drops, and her chest caves in all at once.
Lexa's knees nearly give out. She can't help it. She sucks in a breath and collapses into her throne, feeling as if she cannot get in enough air.
"Heda!" Anya is the first to notice. Her voice is urgent as she kneels beside the throne. "Heda, are you alright?"
Lexa shakes her head wordlessly. She hates appearing so weak. She has been kicked and beaten and stabbed, but this is unlike anything she has felt before, second only to finding Costia's decapitated head at the base of her bed. It is agony. Her chest is being ripped open from the inside out.
Titus is at her side in an instant. "Is it poison?"
Lexa glances up to see Gustus standing at the door, ready to charge after the ambassadors and lay down his life in order to get an antidote from them.
"No," Lexa croaks. "No, it isn't poison."
At that, Gustus breaks from the door, towards them. "What is it, then?" Anya asks. She is deeply concerned, perhaps even fearful. Lexa can see it in her eyes.
Another wave of pain makes Lexa grip the arms of her throne and grit her teeth. She knows exactly what it is, but it takes her several moments to answer, "Ai kerymoun."
Confusion clears from the eyes of her three guardians, but their concern does not. She can hardly stand it. She feels weak.
Lexa gets to her feet and strides to the exit, pushing down the pain in her chest. Titus barks a question after her but she ignores him, pushing the doors open and immediately turning right. She moves quickly down the hallway until she reaches the guards posted at the entrance of her room. They swing the doors open for her, but rather than enter, Lexa turns on her heel to look at the individuals following right behind her.
"I do not need to be followed like a lost child," Lexa snaps, and they all stop in their tracks, not quite cringing. "You have your jobs, and they do not include stepping on my heels. Do your duty."
There is a long, tense moment in which the three of them stare her down. Lexa glares back, daring them to utter a word, daring them to defy her. On either side of her, the two guards bearing witness shift uncomfortably.
Anya is the first to give. She looks Lexa up and down, holds her gaze a moment longer, and then nods. She turns and strides back down the hall. Titus glances back to watch her go before locking eyes with Lexa. In that one look, he tells her that she cannot afford to let this make her weak. Then, he follows after Anya, leaving only Gustus standing before her.
"You heard me," Lexa growls to him.
"I did, heda." He is unmoved. "My duty is to protect you."
If Lexa weren't in so much pain, she might smile. Of course Gustus would be the one to take her words to heart. Instead, she just shakes her head. "You cannot protect me from this, Gustus," she says. But rather than dismiss him again, she turns and enters her room, waving for the guards to close the doors behind her. As they do, Lexa glances back to see Gustus settling his form before the entrance, ready to protect her against what little he can.
As soon as the doors close behind her, Lexa's knees buckle. She slumps against the small war table that is tucked into the wall just beside the entrance. Arms shaking, she pushes herself up and stumbles across the room, catching herself on the frame of her bed. Leaning into it, she unclasps her shoulder guard and lets it fall to the floor. Her coat is the next to go, followed by her boots. With nothing else to do, Lexa collapses into the bed. There's a cold draft coming in through the open balcony doors, but Lexa can't bear to get up. She doesn't even bother to pull the fur covers over herself.
Lexa is no stranger to pain, physical or emotional. She has had her fair share of wounds, has too many scars on her skin and too many layers around her heart. She no longer flinches at the swing of the sword or shies away from venomous, hateful words. But her kerymoun has never hurt like this before, and thus, neither has Lexa. Worse still, Lexa cannot lift her chin and school her expression in the face of this pain. She cannot fight this battle, because it is not hers.
As the sun sets, Lexa presses a hand to her collarbone, just above the worst of the pain. "Ste yuj," she murmurs, just as much to herself as her kerymoun. "Ste yuj."
Eight months later and the pain in her chest has faded. It is far from gone, but it is better, replaced instead with something akin to loneliness. Lexa has silently apologized to her kerymoun several times in the time since it began. Is this how her kerymoun felt when she lost Costia? Lexa would wish that devastation on no one. Now she is only getting what she gave.
But then things change again. Lexa is in a meeting with the Rock Line ambassador, discussing the distribution of iron deposits, when suddenly, an incredible headache comes on. She can't help but wince, more from surprise than pain, and he gives her a curious look. By the time they are finished and the ambassador has left, the headache has spread into her neck and upper back. Lexa leans forward to place her forehead on the table and kneads the base of her skull, groaning quietly. Her kerymoun has a concussion, without a doubt. It certainly isn't Lexa.
"Heda."
Lexa resists the urge to groan once more and lifts her head up from the table. "Yes, Titus?"
"Heda," he says. "Are you alright?"
Lexa lets out a small sigh. "My kerymoun," she tells him simply.
The Flamekeeper's gaze flickers. "You do not know who they are?" He's making sure.
Lexa shakes her head. "No." In a way, she is glad. It is safer for them both this way. If nothing else, Costia taught her that.
Titus nods. "Good."
Lexa chooses not to acknowledge that statement. "Is the River Clan ambassador here yet?"
"Yes."
Lexa straightens up in her seat, trying and failing to ignore the headache. "Send him in."
Two days later, the first reports of the Sky People come in.
The next several weeks are a blur. Skaikru bring chaos and bloodshed with them when they fall from the sky. A village burns down, there is an attack, one of Indra's warriors disappears, and the Sky People refuse to back down. Lexa sends an army of trikru warriors with Tristan to help Anya finish this threat to her people. The next thing she knows, hundreds of her warriors are dead and more Sky People have fallen to the ground. Lexa is already on the move with the Coalition army when she hears of the massacre.
She is enraged. War is one thing. Lexa understands war. But the slaughter of eighteen innocents lowers the Sky People to the same level as the Ice Nation in Lexa's mind. She is determined to witness the destruction of those who have hurt her people so much, until she hears about the prisoners. Afterwards, it is only due to the actions of the man named Kane and how he reminds her of Anya that Lexa remembers how she got this far.
Mercy.
She offers it the Sky People, but it is a concept that does not extend to Lexa herself. Even as the sky falls down around her, the connection to her kerymoun only grows stronger. The pains become more common, peppering her skin in a way they never have before. Her heart hurts more often, banging against the inside of her chest as if it's trying to escape the suffering. Yet again, things have changed.
Lexa is not a fool. This all began on the same day. Somehow, in some way, the fall of the Sky People has affected her kerymoun. Lexa thinks that whoever her other may be, she is most likely trikru. If there have been such profound effects on the safety and prosperity of her kerymoun, there is no other explanation. Really, it makes sense. Lexa has learned much about the other clans in her quest to unite the Coalition, but trikru will always remain her birthplace. Now, it is obvious that her kerymoun has the same roots. Lexa keeps this in the back of her mind as she establishes the front against the Sky People on the edge of trikru territory. She delivers her ultimatum – one that protects her people and her kerymoun. She gives skaikru two options: leave or die. The conditions are clear.
But then Lexa meets Clarke, and the moment she sets foot inside Lexa's tent, she plays a wildcard neither of them even knew she had been holding.