She wishes she had eyes on the back of her head. Or for her hair to be made out of snakes, so they could hiss and bite and inform her of what was happening behind her back. It's how Mom always characterised Medusa, building her up from the weak victim she supposedly was at the hands of Athena and Poseidon, and had turned her into a warrior who used her curse as a weapon against all who sought to harm her.
She's down by the water, washing her hands and arms, splashing her collarbone in the hope of ridding herself of the sweat and grime that coats her. It's all she can do as they wait for Luna to appear, whether it be in the sky as the moon or the true Grounder leader Lincoln had painted her to be. It's all she can do to be away from them. Bellamy and Clarke linger around one another, and though her brother stands on her peripherals, watching her as he always has, she feels on edge.
Forgiveness is something she can find underneath any floorboard, and though Octavia feels anger every time she looks at her brother, she thinks she's beginning to understand the reason for such a harsh reaction. Looking down at the water, she makes sure to summon ripples with her hands, disturbing the surface so she doesn't have to stare at her own reflection.
Each time she stops and the water stills, she grows angrier at the person she sees peering up at her. That anger grows more intense than it ever has when she looks at Bellamy, seeing his pity and sympathy and even his own anger at himself reflected back in his expression and his exhausted and broken tones.
Hearing a voice, she stiffens. Peering up quickly toward the ground near the stones, she sees movement. Watching carefully, Octavia begins to slowly rise until she realises who it is.
Bolting from the water's edge, she runs hard and fast against the ground. Uncaring of how her weapons hit her and how heavy her jacket is against her shoulders, she runs toward Lincoln. She doesn't stop when she gets closer to him, skidding to the ground and pummelling into him. Wrapping her arms fiercely around his neck, she buries her head into his shoulder.
Pulling back, she shoves him hard on the shoulder. "Idiot." Shoving his shoulder again, she doesn't wipe at her wet face, ignoring how her voice is thick with it. "Oso throu daun ogeda.Not alone. You promised."
The corners of his mouth tighten as the shove comes. Where Lincoln expected anger, there is Octavia's typical reminder. They were meant to fight together. But he doesn't know that she would have lived. Pike needed to kill him to make a statement. Killing Octavia would have shown that he would do anything to advance his people's purpose, even in the face of someone like Bellamy. Lincoln couldn't risk it.
"Not all fights are good ones. Or wise ones." There's a pause, as a thought occurs to him. Lincoln smiles after a moment, but like all of his smiles, it's subtle and barely visible. It doesn't reach his eyes, but there's something to it that says it might soon enough. "I believe I've learned that, too."
He never thought he'd see her again. His people have various beliefs about what happens after a person dies, but most of those beliefs lie slowly with the Commander. He is no one, and so he expected to be no one. No matter how much he had relied upon the idea of himself as a symbol, he has no delusions about that now.
Lincoln's arm, stiff from lack of use, rises up so that the back of his fingers can brush over her cheek. The movement is gentle, yet swift, as it clears up some of the tear tracks down her face.
"I'm sorry." Lincoln is not the type of person to say much of anything without meaning it. That's especially true now. Where his smile didn't reach his eyes, his apology does.
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She's down by the water, washing her hands and arms, splashing her collarbone in the hope of ridding herself of the sweat and grime that coats her. It's all she can do as they wait for Luna to appear, whether it be in the sky as the moon or the true Grounder leader Lincoln had painted her to be. It's all she can do to be away from them. Bellamy and Clarke linger around one another, and though her brother stands on her peripherals, watching her as he always has, she feels on edge.
Forgiveness is something she can find underneath any floorboard, and though Octavia feels anger every time she looks at her brother, she thinks she's beginning to understand the reason for such a harsh reaction. Looking down at the water, she makes sure to summon ripples with her hands, disturbing the surface so she doesn't have to stare at her own reflection.
Each time she stops and the water stills, she grows angrier at the person she sees peering up at her. That anger grows more intense than it ever has when she looks at Bellamy, seeing his pity and sympathy and even his own anger at himself reflected back in his expression and his exhausted and broken tones.
Hearing a voice, she stiffens. Peering up quickly toward the ground near the stones, she sees movement. Watching carefully, Octavia begins to slowly rise until she realises who it is.
Bolting from the water's edge, she runs hard and fast against the ground. Uncaring of how her weapons hit her and how heavy her jacket is against her shoulders, she runs toward Lincoln. She doesn't stop when she gets closer to him, skidding to the ground and pummelling into him. Wrapping her arms fiercely around his neck, she buries her head into his shoulder.
Pulling back, she shoves him hard on the shoulder. "Idiot." Shoving his shoulder again, she doesn't wipe at her wet face, ignoring how her voice is thick with it. "Oso throu daun ogeda. Not alone. You promised."
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"Not all fights are good ones. Or wise ones." There's a pause, as a thought occurs to him. Lincoln smiles after a moment, but like all of his smiles, it's subtle and barely visible. It doesn't reach his eyes, but there's something to it that says it might soon enough. "I believe I've learned that, too."
He never thought he'd see her again. His people have various beliefs about what happens after a person dies, but most of those beliefs lie slowly with the Commander. He is no one, and so he expected to be no one. No matter how much he had relied upon the idea of himself as a symbol, he has no delusions about that now.
Lincoln's arm, stiff from lack of use, rises up so that the back of his fingers can brush over her cheek. The movement is gentle, yet swift, as it clears up some of the tear tracks down her face.
"I'm sorry." Lincoln is not the type of person to say much of anything without meaning it. That's especially true now. Where his smile didn't reach his eyes, his apology does.