Nothing left(Bellamy Blake x Reader) Part 13 Season 2
Y/n pov:
Nothing was looking up for us as the army Clarke had left us for us to fight *I turned to Bellamy as I had tears roll down my cheeks as he pulled me into a hug* "We will make it through I promise I promise I won't let anything bad happened to you"Bellamy said softly
*Seeing a door me and the others walked up to it before opening it and we saw Clarke and Octavia standing there I ran over to Clarke as I hugged her tightly* "We need to get maya up to level five"Jasper said to which we all agreed for Octavia and Jasper to take her
"Danta helped us before maybe he can help again"I told them "going straight in there is risky we all know this"Clarke said "And that's something I am willing to make"I said "I am coming with you Clarke and Monty needs to stay here"Bellamy said to which we nodded
*entering inside the room we saw Dante turn to us with a anger expression on his face* "Please tell your son to stop all of this"I said with a begging tone "why would help you when you could have killed my people today"He said with digested at us "we had to do it we had to do if for our people"I said "And I'll do what is right for mine"He said "fine then Bellamy take him by force"I said to which he only nodded
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*Getting back to the controls room with Dante we saw everyone in the room I looked at the screen to see Kane and Abby as Raven screamed out in pain* "Give me the radio"I said "Are you sure?"Clarke asked "now"I said
*After getting the road I breath in before pressing the on button* "Give Cage your radio now"I said with demanding in my tone "why should I do that?"The guard asked "Because I said so"I said with that the guard only rolled his eyes before handing Cage his radio
"Who is this?"Cage asked "You know who this let's make a deal shall we?"I asked "And what deal is that?"Cage asked "You let my go and your father live"I said "How do I know you have my father?"Cage asked
*walking up to dante I held the radio up* "Son don't let them win son do what is best for our people"Dante said to which cage side went quiet "Last chance Cage let our people and your father walks freely please don't make me do this"I said as tears ran down my cheeks "I have no choice"Cage said
*Grabbing my gun out I shot Dante in the head as I press off the button on my radio as I broke into tears as Bellamy held me so I didn't hit the floor*
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"Put Abby on the table now"Cage said emotions in his voice everything was a mess now and Monty kept coding into he finally stopped "what is it what's wrong?"I asked "Nothing is the lever is ready all you guys need to do is pull it"Monty said I knew my sister wasn't going to be able to do it
*Looking at the screen I sniffled as I walked to the lever as I placed my hand ontop of It as Bellamy and Clarke joined me as I made eye contact with Bellamy* "Together"He said *I nodded* "together"I said before we pulled it
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*walking next to Bellamy I sniffled as I let my tears run down my eyes as we made it outside of the ark's gate I hugged everyone before turning to Bellamy* "I need a drink after everything care to join me inside?"He asked "I'm not going inside"I said "what are you talking about?"He asked "I can't forget what I did today"I said "You did It for our people"Bellamy said "And if I look at our people then It will remind me on how I got them back I am sorry bell"I said softy "where will you go?"He asked "I don't know but I can't stay here"I said "May we meet again"He said as tears roll down his cheeks as mine did the same "we will"I promised him
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Happy bfsn yâall! Iâm super excited for tonightâs episode and for the finale to finally get here so we can finally see the scene Bob and Eliza keep mentioning! Anyways I hope yâll enjoy!
Tagging: @bellamybbâ
 The battle for Eden is over, and Clarke begins to search for Bellamy.
read on ao3
When the chaos stops and the dust finally settles, she searches for him first.
Madi is by her side, dredging through the ruins of their home. Through the blood and the bodies, and those left barely alive.
She doesnât even look at Miller as she shoves past him towards Octavia, sitting on her thrown of rubble and death. She should be reveling in their victory, but even Blodreina knows that this is nothing to celebrate.
Clarke marches up to her, demands to see him, to know where he is. She had seen both Indra and Gaia and they had been a promise amidst the fighting that he was still alive.
Octavia narrows her eyes. Her brother had been too keen on stopping the war. Too much of a risk to bring on the march. âHe was an enemy of Wonkru,â she spits, âhe never left the bunker.â
As Clarke walks away, the thrumming in her ears is louder than the gunshots and screams ever could have been.
She knows what she has to do.
She pulls Madi into a cave where they find her mother and Kane, slumped together in exhaustion, but still glad to see them. They all embrace and she knows her mother is crying, though she canât quite hear her over the call she hears, beckoning her away from her family and the green of the valley, down deeper, back into the darkness of the earth.
She places a hand on her mother and one on her found daughter and as she holds them she knows there is only one other person who could truly break her.
âTake care of each other,â she says, brushing their cheeks. âIâll be back soon.â
She makes her way across the sands, her only company the gentle growling of the engine until sheâs back in the ruins, out of the rover, beginning her descent. Willingly lighting her own pyre, her own soulâs escort into hell, never once looking back.
The single light from where the first rescue took place shines down on her, bathing her in golden light. She steps out of it, the light dimming as she travels deeper.
Like defeating a mountain, or a tower, or intelligence itself, she does not do it alone.
She can feel him, calling to her so loudly her ears might burst. She is pulled in a way only mirrored hearts can be, his hand reaching from a distance into her chest and around her heart, blood dripping as itâs ripped apart. And yet, she feels at fault. Inside of her, away from him.
The calling continues to drum in her ears, circling around her bleeding heart until she floats up to the lockup door.
She opens it, and seeing him, she is suddenly shifted back into reality. Her feet land firmly on the ground, the wind knocked out of her.
Bellamy is a crumpled figure, barely sitting up against the far side of the room. She runs to him, feet echoing off the concrete walls.
Heâs pale and thin, eyes closed and unmoving. Her whole body buckles, and she lands beside him on her knees. Hesitant, she reaches out to him, afraid of the answers she may find. Cold skin meets her fingertips as she strokes his cheek.
The world goes blurry as her hands start to shake.
âBellamy, please.â It's a sob, short and strangled.
She grabs at his shirt and lays her head against his chest, letting the tears and the panic and the sadness cover her in an encompassing numbness. The least she can do is let a little piece of herself rest here, with him.
She looses track of how long she lays there, becoming one with the dead. When she speaks again, her heart is still beating in her ears. âIâm so sorry,â she whispers into him.
The beating in her ears continues to thrum, quietly, resiliently, as she feels a hand move with great effort to her back. Slowly it stops, warmer than it should be, resting right above her heart.
/6/ then the ice runs through her vein
summary: The Ice Nation takes Bellamy hostage in an effort to learn Clarkeâs secrets. Or â Azgeda tries to get at Wanheda through her greatest weakness, but Clarkeâs not about to just let the Ice Queen send her Bellamyâs head in a box. Diverges during {3.04}.
the general context is: after her fight with Roan, Lexa doesnât kill Nia, and shit hits the proverbial fan
Ao3
FF
Clarke had always pictured Azgeda as some cold, desolate place.
But as sheâs hauled forward by her bound wrists, the goosebumps running up and down her arms have less to do with the chill in the air and more to do with the adrenaline pumping through her veins, the icy pit of anxiety making her legs feel like lead and her head cloudy with panic. With the bruising force of Prince Roanâs grip on her upper arm. She shivers as she runs through all of the options at her disposal; she doesnât know the Prince well enough to understand what makes him tick, to persuade him to undo her bonds and let her go.
But she has to try. âI thought you dishonored your people when you lost to the Commander. Do you really think this will make them take you back?â
Roan doesnât bother to respondâjust quickens his pace so that she has to struggle to keep up.
She was supposed to be safe in Polis (under Lexaâs protectionâwhich hasnât meant much in the past, but Clarke only has so many options), so she wasnât expecting it when a cloth soaked in some sort of sedative woke her in the middle of the night. When she opened her eyes again and found herself in a barren prison cell, stone floors covered in faded stains and distant wails saturating the stillness in the air. Sheâd screamed herself hoarse, everything an uncomfortable reminder of the quarantine ward at Mt. Weather.
It was only when she heard footsteps outside her cell bars, launched herself and her handmade shiv at the door and was summarily disarmed by a smirking Prince of Azgeda (âup to the same tricks, i seeâ) that she realized exactly where she was (just how much danger she was in).
Now, sheâs being led down what she assumes is a hallway, the coarse bag thrown over her head just as suffocating as it was when she was in this exact situation barely a week ago (except, this time, she knows that the first face that greets her when she can see again will be far less sympathetic). She shuffles after Roan in silence for a couple more minutes. Like before, sheâs no match for him physically, and goading him into freeing her certainly didnât seem to work, so she settles on appealing to the same humanity that spared Bellamy (sort of) what seems like forever ago.
Sheâs about to give it a shot when Roan is suddenly yanking her to a stop. He removes the sack from over her head and, for a moment, Clarke is blinded as her eyes adjust to the light. But then her vision is dissolving into cracked tiled floors, austere white walls (so different from the muted browns of Polis), furred tapestries hanging next to ensconced torches. And in the center of it all is someone she hoped sheâd never have to see again.
The Ice Queen.
The serene look on her face is a shock when, last Clarke remembers, the Queen was storming away after Lexaâs trial by combat, vowing retribution in such a brazen way that her words alone wouldâve gotten her floated on the Ark. She laces her fingers together in front of her and takes a step farther into the light.
âHello, Wanheda,â she says.
(Clarke can feel it deep in her bones.)
âHave you been enjoying my hospitality?â
âWhy am I here?â Clarke snaps.
âNot one for small talk, are you?â
Clarke pulls herself up taller. âLexa wonât stand for this. You canât just kidnap a political ambassador.â
Nia raises an eyebrow. âOh? But I just did. Besides, the way I see it, youâre no more an ambassador than you are the martyr you pretend to be. Lexa will bend over backward to give in to Skaikru, no matter how much it alienates the rest of the Coalition.â
Clarke knows that sheâs rightâshe hasnât been involved with Camp Jaha (noâitâs Arkadia now) for months, doesnât understand the intricacies of their tenuous alliance or what they really need. The other envoys have been nothing but antagonistic toward her, their shared animosity chasing her every step, and the unpredictability of the forests sheâs called home since she left her people behind is starting to seem safer than the political intrigue of Polis. But, most of all, even though Lexaâs reaffirmed her powerbase (for now), no matter what she promises, Clarke trusts her about as much as she trusts Murphy on a good day.
But sheâs not about to tell the Ice Queen that.
âShe spared your son. Doesnât that mean anything to you?â
âShe shouldnât have. Itâs why sheâs weakâwhyâs she always been weak.â
âI appreciate the concern,â Roan says.
Clarke ignores him and suffuses her glare with all the disdain she can muster. âIf thatâs what you call weak, then youâre a coward.â
Nia cocks her head. âSemantics. Now letâs get to why I really brought you here.â She unsheathes the sword at her hip and runs a finger idly along its edge, tilting it so it catches the light just so, and Clarke can see that itâs mottled with fresh blood.
Ice begins to creep through her, stiffening her limbs and clogging her throat until her breath feels shallow and all she can taste is the metallic tang of fearâshe doesnât want to know where the Queenâs just been, who just met with the other end of her blade. Why the Queen hasnât cleaned it yet. Intimidation, Clarke tells herself. Nothing more.
Clarkeâs never thought of herself as prey, but the Ice Queen is like no other predator sheâs ever encountered. Thereâs something vile in the lazy smile playing across her lips that Clarke has never seen before (not even when Cage strapped her Mother to that table, when Lincoln was half-mad with bloodlust or when Emerson left Camp Jaha with nothing but a ripped suit and hate-filled eyes). And it absolutely terrifies her.
But she wonât begâshe wonât show how frightened she is. She wonât.
The Queenâs fingers still when she finally looks up at Clarke. âOur legends say that whoever cuts down one who holds great power receives great power in return⌠But lately, Iâve been wonderingâwouldnât it make more sense to keep you alive? At my side, striking fear into all who would defy me?â
Clarkeâs glare doesnât waver. âIâll never help you.â
Nia sighs. âShame. But hardly a surprise. Which is why Iâve decided to provide you with a little incentive. We have someone here I think youâll be happy to see. I have to warn youâweâve had to keep him entertained, so he might be a little worse for wear.â At that, the pit of unease works its way further into Clarkeâs gut, simmers there as she watches Nia clap her hands and turn to look at an archway at the far end of the room.
The Queenâs Second parades in, head held high (Clarke struggles to remember her name until it comes to her in a rash of memoriesâblack blood and a poisoned blade and a deadly ultimatumâOntari). A figure stumbles in behind her, legs unsteady, an indistinct mass of ripped clothes covered in matted blood. Clarke canât make out his features as Ontari shoves him forward, and by the time sheâs wrenching him to a stop in front of the Ice Queen and taking up sentinel behind her, Clarke isnât sure she wants to. She stares desperately at his bare feet, the tattered material of his pants, as a horrible voice starts hissing in her ear, taunting her with images and truths that she wishes she could just will away.
As Nia grabs his collar and thrusts him forward, Clarke sees that his hands are shackled in front of him, bloodied nail beds reminiscent of that day they found a delirious Murphy roaming outside of camp. She rakes her gaze from his wrists to his chest, the length of it decorated with a map of crisscrossing lacerations and grisly welts. Her eyes follow the rough lines of them, creeping upward until they stutter to a stop and linger at the bruises coiling around his neck.
Everything about him is familiar, and she doesnât want to look up at his face, doesnât want recognition to knock the wind from her because she knows that the sight of him is going to break her. She knows that itâs selfish of her (that sheâs the one who antagonized the Queen, who set this entire series of events into motion), but she wants to avoid the wreckage sheâs left in her wake at any cost. With a mounting dread, she finally drags her eyes upward, and when they alight on black curls and dark skin and freckles (indistinguishable from smatterings of blood, so much bloodâ), she goes cold all over.
Bellamy.
âNo,â she breathes.
Niaâs answering smile drips with condescension. âYes.â
And then all rationality flees Clarke.
She sees red, yanks against her bonds and struggles to loose herself from Roan, lurching forward and twisting her arms and jerking from side to side. But the Princeâs hold on her is firm, and she finds that all sheâs managed to do is add another layer to the grin on Niaâs face. The cruelty in it almost doesnât seem possible, like sheâs some caricature of a person, a villain Clarkeâs only read about in stories. But this isnât some nightmare, some horrible dream that Clarke can just wake up from. Itâs real. All too real.
âYou bitch! What did you do to him!?â
Nia only laughs. âGuess.â
And then Bellamy is moaning and lifting his head, and the blankness in his expression is like a blow to the gut. His eyes are glazed over and unseeing, and a bolt of pure panic is shooting down Clarkeâs spine until she feels almost as unsteady as he must. But then heâs blinking back his grogginess and his lips are moving around the shape of her name, once, twice, until itâs filling the chamber, its edges hoarse, ragged.
âClarke?â
His face is covered in bruises and sallow skin, features gaunt, dried blood caked into his hairline. His entire body is quaking, as fragile as sheâs ever seen him, and it looks like itâs taking all of his energy to not crumble into a heap on the floor. Itâs as if heâs a hastily drawn sketch of himself, blurred at the edges, lines jagged, no care taken in his making (unmaking). And that terrifies her. Bellamy has always been the strong one, stalwart and unbreakable in the face of all that theyâve fought against, all that theyâve done (when sheâs done nothing but run away). To see him reduced to this, to what looks like days of torture at the hands of someone as sadistic as the Ice Queen, is making her sick to her stomach, nausea winding through her and a coil of fury coursing through her veins.
Niaâs mocking voice pierces through the rushing in Clarkeâs ears, sets her blood boiling. âMy son told me all about your weakness. And when we found this one roaming our territory dressed as one of our warriors⌠Well, you can figure out the rest.â
Clarke snarls, positively feral.
Nia cocks her head, the smile on her face hiding none of the depravity behind her mask. âYou know, your precious little Lexa once stood in the same spot youâre standing now. Because of her own weakness. What was her name again?â
Ontari speaks up from over her shoulder. âCostia, my Queen.â
Niaâs smile morphs into a sneer. âIf you say. But it doesnât really matter now, does it?â
And then she kicks Bellamy in the back of the knee, shoves him down until heâs kneeling on the cold ground, hands braced against the floor. Bellamy grits his teeth, but when he tries to rise up through his pain (he looks like heâs in so much of it that Clarke can feel it like itâs her own), Nia brandishes her sword, lowering it until it rests on the back of his neck. And in that moment, Clarke imagines it swinging down just a little faster, cleaving into his skin and spraying the floor in red and noâ
Nia angles the blade until it catches the light. âI always hate this part. They never begâtoo much pride.â She fixes Clarke with a malicious grin. âBut youâre different, arenât you? Skaikru is weak. Thatâs why theyâre so easy to kill.â
Clarke surges forward again, jerking to a stop only when Roan reins her back in. âPlease⌠please! Iâll do anything!â she cries. âIâm begging youâtake me.â
Bellamyâs head snaps up (Clarke can see blood dribble its way to the ground as skin meets blade). âClarke, no!â He looks frantic, a mirror of herself, his eyes wild and pleading in a way sheâs never seen before. Sheâs never seen him so unhinged, so distraught, and she wonders how many times heâs looked exactly like this in the past few days (while the Queen beat him, tortured himâ) before she slams the door on that line of thinking.
Despite the gravity of the situation, she distantly wonders what sort of luck they must have for them to be reenacting the same roles they played in a cave not so long ago. (noâplease! please donât! iâll do anything! iâll stop fighting, just please donât kill him.) When he brushed her hair back from her face and it was like she was home again, and that smile, that smileâ
But then Nia is shoving his head down, and Clarke can only catch a flash of gritted teeth before all she sees is black curls and matted blood and all-consuming terror again. Nia barks out a laugh. âWhat happened to that golden tongue of yours? Donât know how to talk your way out of this one?â
Now tears are sliding down Clarkeâs face in a way that they havenât since she hardened herself all those months ago. She rarely ever lets anyone see her this weak, this vulnerable, but she doesnât care because itâs Bellamy. âPlease, just⌠just donât. Iâm the one you want,â she sobs.
But itâs like Nia is only feeding off of her hysteria, letting it fuel her until Clarke sees nothing of this woman besides her unfettered hubris. âYouâre more use to me alive than dead. The great Wanheda. Subdued and mine to command at last,â she purrs. âHis death will serve as your motivation. You will not cross me. Because there are plenty more where he came from.â
âNo, Iâif you kill him, Iâll never do what you want. Never.â
The Queen appraises her and Clarke thinks that maybe sheâs getting through to her, maybe sheâll let Bellamy goâ But then Nia is sighing in annoyance. âI guess weâll see, wonât we? Enough of this.â She fists a hand in Bellamyâs hair and yanks his head up, shifting her sword to his throat. âAny last words, boy?â
His eyes are closed (in pain or acceptance, Clarke canât tell), and she canât help but think that thatâs what theyâll be like when heâs gone for good, when heâll never open them again. She wants to beg for that to never become a reality, to get down on her hands and knees and grovel at the Ice Queenâs feet. But Roanâs hands on her wrists and the image of the sword at Bellamyâs neck are freezing her in place, clogging her throat and narrowing her field of vision until all she can see is a man who means more to her than anything else. A man she owes so much to.
A man she canât live without.
Bellamy opens his eyes and lowers his gaze from the ceiling until it settles on Clarke. And for that one furtive moment, it no longer looks panicked, frightened. Instead, it looks resolute. When his voice (full of one last desperate plea) finally rings out and Clarke hears what he has to say, her heart stops beating and plummets to the floor.
âRun.â
And then he jerks out of Niaâs grip, the metal edge of her blade digging into his skin, cutting a slit across his throat (that looks entirely too deep). He sways and nearly collapses, but he manages to just scramble out of the way when her sword chases his movement.
âNoâŚ!â Clarke screams.
This time, when she lurches forward through the chaos, itâs surprisingly easy to escape Roanâs grip. As she staggers forward, she doesnât have time to wonder why her hands are suddenly unbound before a blur of dark hair and palpable rage is intercepting her. Ontari tackles her to the ground, a solid weight preventing Clarke from tearing into the Queen and saving the one person who matters mostâ
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Nia rear her leg back and kick Bellamy in the head, sees him hack red onto the tile. When he tries to push himself up through his daze, she traps his chest under the heel of her boot and raises her blade above her head, about to plunge it downward. Clarke wants to cry outâshe can see the next moments play out like a silent film, grim and terrifying, leeching all color from her surroundings. But she canât because Ontariâs hands are at her throat, digging into her windpipe, blurring her vision in and out. Clarke claws at her arms, bucks her hips, but Ontari is a trained warrior and sheâs been fighting since she was a child and Clarke knows that she has no chance against her andâ
And suddenly, Clarke hears the sound of metal clanging against tile. Ontariâs grip loosens and Clarke thinks that maybe she hears her shriek in outrage, but sheâs not paying attention because when she finds the strength to turn her head and drag her eyes up from the ground and the instrument that wouldâve been Bellamyâs death, she sees an arrow protruding from Niaâs shoulder. The look on her face is murderous, but Clarke doesnât have time to cower away because sheâs focused on the Queenâs sword, lying useless at Bellamyâs side (heâs not moving, oh god heâs not movingâ).
Clarke doesnât care how it happened. Sheâs about to run to him, to do whatever it takes to keep him breathing, when out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ontari lunge for her again. But then the Queen is biting back a scream as another arrow finds its way into her thigh. Clarke turns to look at its source, and a wave of confusion barrels through her when she finds Roan still standing where she escaped him only moments ago, this time with a bow and arrow in hand and disgust marring his features.
âMove an inch, and I put one through her eye,â he tells Ontari.
âYou wouldnât dare,â Nia hisses.
âDonât think I wonât, Mother.â
He cocks his arrow and the three of them stare each other down, an eddy of tension whipping around the room and coiling Clarkeâs nerves into an even more tightly wound ball. She spares their standstill one more second, waits to see if any more arrows will go flying, and then her attention is snapping back to Bellamy. She doesnât wait for Roanâs okay; she scrambles to her feet and barrels forward, stumbling over herself, frantic. (the distance between them suddenly seems staggering, and for every step she takes, Bellamyâs crumpled form seems that much farther away.) She finally skids to a stop on her knees beside him, pushing her hands into the bloody mess of his neck, blanching at all of the red that coats her fingers.
But when Bellamy groans, when she blinks back the haze of panic, she sees that itâs not as deep as it looks, thank god. His eyes are fluttering open and darting up and down, back and forth, until they finally settle on her face and soften. Thereâs pressure at her elbow, Bellamyâs trembling fingers flitting across her skin, and heâs scanning her face, her arms, her shoulders. And it just kills her because heâs checking to see if sheâs injured while heâs covered in bruises and lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor.
The sudden urge to laugh (in a deranged sort of way) wars with all of her worry and lingering terror, all of her frustration because why does he have to be so goddamn selfless all the timeâ
Everything else falls away until itâs just the two of them, dumbstruck with relief, his name a breathless sob on her lips. He tries to return the favor, but blood only bubbles up from beneath her hands; he gags until Clarke snaps out of her reverie, turns his head while rivulets of crimson wind their way toward the floor. She rips off the end of her shirt (she doesnât have time to worry if itâs sterile or not) and threads it under his neck, knotting it at the side. Blood immediately begins to dot the makeshift bandageâs surface, but itâll have to make do for now.
She lifts a shaking hand and brushes the curls from his forehead, runs soothing circles over his temple with the pad of her thumb until his breathing steadies and heâs turning back to look at her. When his eyes meet hers, she laces her next words with a courage she hasnât felt in monthsâbecause nothing has felt quite so important, so fundamentally right, in months.
âIâm going to get you out of here, Bellamy. I promise.â
Bellamyâs bound hands find her knee and squeeze, and the look on his face reminds her so much of that day they first opened up to each other, when he called himself a monster: raw and vulnerable and lost. In need of a lifeline. Some hope. Her. As she watches the awe wash away the hopelessness, she stares in awe right back. She hopes he knows just how much she needs him, because as many times as sheâs told him, shown him, she doesnât think he believes it.
Roanâs gruff voice cuts through the calm. âTime to go, Wanheda.â
Clarke takes one more second to bask in the rightness (amidst all the wrong) of this moment, and then she nods. She leverages an arm under Bellamy and tries to readjust when he hisses in pain, but itâs like no matter where she touches him, it hurts. She throws all of her strength into lifting him up, doing her best to shoulder his weight as they slowly struggle to standing (sheâs trying, but she can tell that heâs still doing most of the work). When they finally make it to wobbly legs, he slumps into her side and chokes down heaving breaths, skin slick with sweat and body shaking like a leaf.
Each tremor sends a new wave of determination coursing through Clarke, sharpening her dread and uncertainty into a steely resolve until her willpower alone is dragging Bellamy farther and farther from the Queen and her bloody blade, from Ontari and her bared teeth. They stumble to Roanâs side and the refuge afforded by his still nocked arrow, and only have a secondâs rest before Roan is shuffling backward and ushering them behind him.
âTraitor,â Ontari spits.
Roan doesnât slow his retreat. âIf thatâs what you want to call it.â
âLexa was right to banish you,â Nia sneers. âYou are no longer my son.â
âCanât say Iâm too broken up about it.â (but Clarke can see the way his jaw tightens.)
She thinks that Nia snarls something else, but she barely registers it because as soon as they clear the room, Roan is veering sharply to the right, leading them down a narrow corridor. As they rush ahead, Clarke hears shouts coming from the throne room behind them, and itâs like they canât move fast enough. They make another right and come to a dead end and Clarke wants to scream at Roan because isnât this his palace? doesnât he see that Bellamy canât go back thereâ?
But then Roan is yanking aside a faded tapestry, revealing a hidden passageway carved into the stone of the wall. He pushes them through, and out of the corner of her eye, Clarke sees him set something on the ground. But she doesnât have time to examine it because heâs suddenly shoving them down and folding himself over them. Thereâs a loud boom, and dust and chunks of debris rain down around them, caking her in a thick layer of soot and confusion.
All Clarke can hear is a ringing in her ears, and everything is blurry, out of focus (everything hurts). The only thing tethering her to reality is her arm around Bellamyâs back, his face turned into the crook of her neck. She doesnât move until she feels him stir, his harsh breaths fanning across her skin, and then she fists a shaky hand in his shirt and drags herself to sitting.
When Roan shifts away, Clarke sees the entryway behind him, now blocked by piles of blackened stone and a cloud of heavy smoke. He catches his breath and readjusts his armor. âThat should slow them down.â
âWhere did you get a bomb?â
âUnder the Mountain. The other clans wouldnât touch any of the technology they left behind, but my Motherâs never been one to play fair.â
âNeither were they,â Bellamy groans.
Clarkeâs attention whips back to him. âBellamy! Are you all right?â (she knows that itâs a stupid question, because of course heâs not.) Her fingers run frantically up and down his arms, over his chest, and she finds herself wishing that her touch alone could heal him, wash away the blood and clean up the cuts and bruises until heâs as fresh-faced as he was that first day at the Dropship. When they were all so naĂŻve. When the only casualty of her weakness was her Father (instead of the hundreds that litter the graveyards of her conscience now).
Bellamy lifts his still bound hands and wraps them gently around one of her own, stilling its frenzied movements. âIâm fine,â he whispers.
(sheâs never heard a bigger lie in her life.)
Sheâs about to tell him as much, but then Roan is shouldering her out of the way. âYou can fuss over him later.â He unsheathes a blade at his belt and cuts through the ropes binding Bellamyâs wrists together. Sheâs grateful, because why didnât she think of that, but she canât help but blanch at the mangled skin they leave in their wake.
Roan leans forward and slings an arm under Bellamyâs torso, grunting as he hauls him to his feet, and wastes no time in hurrying farther into the passageway. When Clarke stands to follow, it takes a second to get used to the sensation of no longer having Bellamyâs weight at her side (the sudden loss of contact is like a phantom limb; itâs been three months and she doesnât want to stop touching him nowâ), but then sheâs gaining her bearings and hastening after them.
As they make their way forward, she keeps one eye on the path ahead and the other on Bellamyâs hunched form, the arsenal of weapons strapped to Roanâs back. She distantly wonders how he can see so well when the only light comes from the occasional grate in the ceiling. âI spent a lot of time down here as a child,â he explains when he notices her stare. âThese tunnels are a labyrinthâshe wonât catch our trail until weâre long gone.â
âNot to sound ungrateful,â Bellamy says, voice so gravelly Clarke has to strain to understand him, âbut if it was always your plan to escape down here⌠why did you wait so long?â
âYou were always too heavily guarded. And then when they brought her inââhe shoots a look at ClarkeââI figured Iâd kill two birds with one stone. Fewer chances to get caught.â
âBut how did you know Nia wouldnât have guards swarming the place?â Clarke asks.
âMy Motherâs always been arrogant. I knew sheâd eventually try somethingâslip up and think she could handle you by herself.â
Clarke grits her teeth. âIâve been underestimated by more than my fair share of people.â
âIf I hadnât been there, you wouldnât have made it out,â Roan says, matter-of-fact. âFor someone whoâs supposed to command death, you really arenât all that dangerous.â
Clarke feels a pang shoot through her chest as she remembers just how useless she was (when it mattered most, when it was more than her life on the line, when Bellamy mightâveâ). She mulls over his words, and even though theyâre meant as an insult, she finds that they donât bother her much at all. âNot in the traditional sense, no,â she sighs.
Roan glances at her out of the corner of his eye, expression rife with understanding and something else she canât quite place, and then he picks up the pace and doesnât say anything else. They make the rest of their way in silence, turning down crumbling corridors and dodging curtains of cobwebs until the darkness slowly fades into light and the sounds of a forest replace Bellamyâs choking wheezes and her rapidly pounding heart. They make one last turn, and then theyâre outside, a single thought coursing through her and leaving a bout of renewed energy in its wake.
(freefreefree)
As soon as their feet hit packed earth and frozen grass, Roan eases Bellamy off of his shoulder and helps position him around Clarke: her hand wrapped around his waist, his arm thrown across her shoulders, sides pressed up against one another. Heâs leaning heavily against her, muscles tense beneath her fingers, and heâs shivering so violently that itâs all she can do to keep hold of him.
âMy Mother doesnât know about this exit,â Roan says. âYouâre in the clear for now.â
Clarke angles toward him. âWhy? You mustâve been the one who told her about us in the first place.â
âI shouldnât have done that. I wanted to get back in her good graces. I didnât know sheâd have occasion to actually do anything about it.â
âBut she did. And she wonât stop trying.â
Roan appraises her for a moment, studying the blood trickling down the length of Bellamyâs torso and onto the hand she has wrapped around it. And as she follows the path of his gaze, the furrow of his brow and the stark line of his mouth, Clarke knows that he means it. Sheâs not easily inclined toward trust, but she recognizes something in his expression that screams sincerity.
âI havenât agreed with my Mother in a long time. Thereâs no honor in thisâitâs barbaric,â he says. âYou and I have a lot more in common than we originally thought, Wanheda. Youâre not the only one whoâs lost someone you care about to my Motherâs schemes.â
Clarke is about to ask who he means, but then Bellamy is suddenly stiffening at her side. She jerks her head toward him, assuming the worst. But sheâs only greeted with the sickly sheen of his skin, the gauntness of his cheeks, and sheâs drowning in a new swell of guilt because she knows that standing around is only making his condition worse.
âWe need to leave. Now.â
Roan nods. âHere.â He unlaces a pouch from his belt and loops it over her neck. âMedical supplies. Figured youâd need them after I helped you escape.â
âWhere are we going?â
âThereâs a cave not too far from hereâhead due east and youâll hit a wall of ivy. Itâs hidden behind. I donât imagine youâll make it much farther than that.â He shoots Bellamy a knowing look when another shudder wracks his body.
Clarke narrows her eyes. âWhat about you?â
âIâll meet you in a couple of hours. I need to wrap up a few loose ends before we leave.â
Clarke searches his expression, trying to find any hint of a lie (that this is some elaborate ruse, that heâs planning to drag them back to the Queen to string them both up this timeâ). But then she remembers the pain in his words (someone you care about), and the last of her suspicion leaves her. She musters all of her gratitude, all of her joy at Bellamy being alive, and looks up at Roan. âThank you.â
He simply nods and unsheathes the blade at his back. âDonât thank me yet.â And then he turns on his heel and disappears into the black.
For a moment, she watches him ago, already missing the blanket of his protection and his cool-headed certainty. But then Bellamy groans. Heâs barely consciousâhead lolling onto his chest, eyelids fluttering open and closed. Clarke shuts out the incessant voice telling her that this is all her fault (even though it is, dammit) and instead focuses on the fact that, right now, Bellamy needs her. Because even when heâs angry with her, doesnât agree with her, heâs always been there for her when she needed him most (when Daxâs body lay at their feet, standing in the shadow of Finnâs funeral pyre, in Danteâs control room, even after she abandoned him at the gatesâ), and itâs finally her chance to be there for him.
So she shoves aside her guilt, her insecurity and fatigue, and puts one foot in front of the other: left, right, left right. She focuses on Bellamyâs harsh breaths, the weight of his arm across her shoulders. The fact that heâs right here. That sheâs never letting him go again.
âIâm getting you out of here, Bellamy. Iâm not going to let her touch you again.â
âUs...â he mumbles.
Clarke furrows her brow. âWhat?â
âYouâre getting us out of here,â he says. âBecause if someone finds us⌠and you try to pull some self-sacrificial crap? Iâm not leaving you⌠and then weâre both dead.â His words are halting, labored, but his intensity comes through all the same.
Warmth spreads through Clarkeâs chest despite it all. âYouâre starting to sound delirious.â
Bellamy makes a noise, and Clarkeâs not positive, but it almost sounds like a laugh. âIâm still not sure if Iâve lost it⌠and this is all a dream.â And his voice is so quiet, sheâs not sure if he meant for her to hear him at all.
They make their way east through the dawning light of the forest for a while, Clarke mumbling meaningless words of encouragement as Bellamyâs hold on her grows weaker and weaker, his faltering steps slower and slower. She finally spots a copse of ivy, the sight of it cutting through her exhaustion. They stumble through the vines and are greeted by a small cave, mossy walls lit by a natural skylight above their heads. When they clear the entrance, all of Clarkeâs adrenaline leaves her and she deflates right along with it, both of them collapsing to the dirt in a tangle of heaving chests and tired limbs.
As soon as they hit the ground, Bellamy hisses in pain and curls into a ball, arms wrapped tightly around his torso and teeth drawing new blood from his cracked lips.
Clarke is immediately chastising herself and her useless limbs and her stupid fatigue and how could she be so carelessâ She darts forward until sheâs hovering over him, hands just shy of landing. âShit. Iâm sorry, Iâlet me seeââ
âJust gimme⌠a sec,â he moans.
He lies there, trembling and trying to bite back the pain, looking more vulnerable than he ever has before. She places a hand over one of his and squeezes, lending him all the strength she wishes she felt. When the tension finally leaves his body, he rolls onto his back and Clarke scoots forward so that his head lands in her lap. His eyes drift to Clarkeâs, and they stare at each other in disbelief, a burgeoning sense of relief overriding all of Clarkeâs anxiety and her single-minded drive to escape.
They drink this moment in until Bellamy raises a hand to the blood on his neck. âItâs funnyâŚâ
Clarke frowns. âWhat is?â
âJasper.â
âWhat?â
âA few weeks ago, Ice Nation slit Jasperâs throat too.â
Clarke stares at him, incredulous. And then her mouth betrays her, quirking up at a corner. âIâve never met anybody with such a morbid sense of humor.â
Bellamyâs answering chuckle dissolves into a fit of coughing and culminates in a â⌠fuck, that hurts.â
âShhâshhhh. Stop talking, Bellamy,â she chides. âI need to take a look at your neck. Itâs not that deep, but Niaââ
At that, he suddenly lifts his arm until heâs squeezing her elbow, grip tight in spite of how unsteady he is. His eyes dart frantically between her face and the mouth of the cave, and he looks as panicked as sheâs ever seen him. âNoâno. You need to get out of here. Before she finds us.â
Clarke flinches in surprise. âWhat?â
âShe canâtâI canât⌠god⌠What if she takes it out on you andââ
(Clarke knows that the blood loss is starting to disorient him, and in his eyes she can see what remains of the hopelessness heâs been fighting for who knows how many days.)
âBellamy, noââ
âYou need to leave. Iâll be fine on my own. I always am, soââ
Clarke lays a palm firmly on his cheek, willing him to calm down. âBellamy. If you think thatâs even an option, you really are delirious.â And she expects it to be a battleâfor him to tear his eyes from hers while he works out an argument, to challenge her on this like he always does. But he doesnât. He just stares at her in a distant sort of way that confuses her because she canât quite tell what it means (because if thereâs one thing she knows about the two of them, itâs that theyâve never needed words to communicate). His sudden hysteria is leaving him, his features softening, and when he speaks, his voice is almost as unguarded as his expression is.
â⌠I wonder about that myself sometimes.â
He holds her gaze, and for a moment, it looks like heâs going to say more (like he wants her to understand). But then he sighs and shuts his eyes, his breathing leveling off as exhaustion finally wins and he succumbs to sleep.
Clarke knows that itâs just the shock winding through him thatâs causing the rapid swings in his emotions, that heâs not really making sense and probably wonât remember a thing heâs said since they escaped. But, sometimes, she thinks about the things sheâd do (has done) for this man, and she canât help but wonder the same thing.
For a moment, she revels in the steady rise and fall of Bellamyâs chest, and then she steels her nerves and channels all the medical training sheâs avoided since she slid a knife in between Finnâs ribs. She needs to remove the tattered remains of his shirt because thatâs where the worst of it will be, but sheâs afraid to wake him up from what might be his most restful sleep in days (afraid to see all the damage that lies beneath). So, instead, Clarke turns to his most recent injury. She removes the pouch from around her neck, rifling through it for supplies. When she finds what she needs, she gingerly removes the fraying cloth from around his throat and sets about re-cleaning the cut, wiping away the drying blood and packing it with some sort of medicinal herb. It really isnât as deep as it seemed, but as she takes in the state of the rest of his body, she knows that itâs too soon to be thankful.
Once sheâs done, she starts on the rest of his visible woundsâon the mangled skin of his wrists, the cuts littering his face, the open sores of his bloodied nail beds. With each dab of her medicine-soaked cloth, each layering of gauze, she dives deeper and deeper into her own guiltânow that sheâs no longer running on anything but adrenaline, now that theyâre safe (for now), it all comes crashing back over her, dragging her down into its depths until itâs all she can taste, hear, feel.
The last three months have done nothing to dampen it, the burden of so much death, so many lives extinguished by her hand (i am become death, destroyer of worlds). Ever since she pulled that lever all those months ago, incinerated an entire army of Grounders, sheâs been the linchpin of so much destruction and suffering that âWanhedaâ seems less like a stranger and more like an old friend. Sheâs like a ticking time bomb: wherever she goes, she detonates, decimating the people around her and leaving only rubble in her wake. Bellamy is only the latest victim to be buried under the consequences of her good (selfish) intentions, but somehow, seeing what sheâs done to him hurts worse than anything else has.
Clarke brushes the curls from his forehead and tries to find the man beneath all of the blood and bruises, tries to focus on the constellations of freckles that paint his cheeks, the chronic downturn of his brow, the scar on his upper lip. If she pictures it hard enough, itâs almost as if she can see through all the marks the war(s) carved into his skin, the unwanted burdens this world has dumped on his shoulders. And it takes her back to a simpler time, when Mt. Weather was nothing but an abstract idea, when whatever the hell we want was their greatest enemy. But then she remembers what she told him then (we donât decide who lives and diesânot down here), and she canât help but sneer at the irony of what sheâs become. Sheâs not sure if she wants to go back to that time or if she wishes they had never made it to the ground in the first place.
She blinks back the sudden wetness in her eyes and is surprised to find Bellamy staring back at her.
âHey,â he breathes.
Clarke tries to smile down at him, but all she can manage is a slightly less severe frown. âHey.â
âI fell asleep?â
âNot too long ago.â
Bellamy swallows. âAre weâŚ?â
âSafe as we can be. Roan said heâd meet us here in a few hours.â
Bellamy cocks an eyebrow. âAnd you trust him?â
âRight now, heâs the only option weâve got.â
Bellamy looks like he maybe wants to argue (Clarke distinctly remembers when Roan was the one holding a sword to his throat barely a week ago), but then heâs nodding his head and struggling to a sitting position.
âEasy,â Clarke mumbles, laying a hand on his shoulder for support, the clinical part of her cataloguing how his muscles twitch and shudder, which parts of him seem to hurt the worst. She bites down on everything she wants to say to him in an attempt to appear rational, level-headed. Bellamy doesnât need a sniveling mess of tears and apologiesâhe needs a doctor, and right now, sheâs as close as heâs going to get.
âIâve already taken a look at your face and arms, but I need to see what else they did.â She swallows the dread coating her throat. âCan you lift your shirt up?â
Without meeting her eyes, he starts to raise his arms, but then he winces and jerks to a stop. When he tries again, he makes it only half as far before he shrinks back again and grits his teeth in frustration. âI donât think I⌠fuckââ
Clarke digs her fingers into her thighs, tries to redirect all of her anger at the monsters who did this to him. But if the concern in his expression is any indication, itâs not working.
So she releases her tension on an exhale. âHere. Let me.â She rises to her knees and grabs the back of his shirt, slowly draws it over his head and down the length of his arms. When she finally tugs it off and casts it aside, comprehends the full extent of his torture, all her attempts at rationality desert her and she can barely contain the bile that rises in her throat.
Bruises of various shapes and sizes mar his skin, painting him in a macabre array of purples, blues, and blacks. There are lacerations scabbing over with dried blood, sores and masses of ruined skin where it looks like heâs been burned (blistered and oozing like the bodies in Mt. Weather, and she doesnât even want to know howâ). Over top of it all is a maze of gashes and whip marks that bleed into one another until she canât tell where his injuries begin and end. She tries to concentrate on what little of him remains untouched, but the patches of clear, tan skin are so few and far between that she canât help but remember that day she slid a knife into Atomâs broken body a lifetime agoâexcept, this time, her role is not one of mercy, but of fault (she may as well have slit Bellamyâs throat herself).
She knows that what she sees is only a snapshot of the agony Bellamy must have felt (must be feeling), and it sickens her, sends nausea roiling down to her very core. She wants to do nothing more than rush out of the cave and suck in mouthfuls of fresh air, bury her face in her hands and scream at the sky about how unfair it all is (about how he doesnât deserve this and how it shouldâve been herâwhy couldnât it have been her?).
But that wonât solve anything.
So she raises an unsteady hand and lets it hover just shy of a burn on his abdomen, tracing the space above it with her fingers.
âHow are you not dead?â
âStrong-willed,â he grunts.
âI need to clean this before it gets infected.â Clarke clenches her hand into a fist. âItâs going to hurt.â
Bellamy just shrugs and breaks eye contact, shifting his body so that she has easier access.
But Clarke is still riding the wave of emotion threatening to overtake her. Even though she knows that he needs her to keep it together (that sheâs failing, miserably), she doesnât want to hear his groans, the sounds he mustâve made while the Queen laid into him. She doesnât want her hands to be yet another architect of his destruction. And maybe thatâs selfish of her, but she canât cause him any more painâbecause she knows that, ever since she sent him into the Mountain all those months ago, watched his face fall and his gaze harden, thatâs all sheâs done.
(iwasbeingweak
itâsworththerisk
ibearitsotheydonâthaveto
maywemeetagain
iâmsorry)
âIâm serious, Bellamy. IâI donât want to hurt you any more than you already have been.â She starts rummaging through Roanâs medicine bag at her side. âMaybe thereâs something in here that can knock you out for a few hours. At least then you wonât be awake while Iââ
Bellamy catches her wrist in his fingers and lowers it between them. âClarke,â he breathes. âItâs not the same.â
Shame wells up inside of her and radiates outward until it feels as tangible as the air around them. âI may not have wielded the blade, but itâs me they were after.â He canât argue with her, because they both know itâs true.
But Bellamy only tightens his grip on her and runs a thumb over the erratic beat of her pulse. âPlease donât blame yourself.â
Clarke hears the lifeline in his words, hears how badly he wants her to just grab hold and believe him (how much it reminds her of a quiet homecoming, of the shadow of the Ark over their heads, of a quavering voice and a heartfelt pleaâplease come inside). But she also hears the hoarseness in his voice, scraped raw from god knows how many days of screams. She hears the sound his body made when Nia slit his throat and he crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.
She hears her silent screams when she thought he was dead.
She knows that she doesnât deserve his forgiveness, not when she threw it away so easily last time; not when, were it not for her, heâd be whole and safe and leading his people far away in Arkadia. Where he belongs. Where he thrives. Not bleeding out in a cave in the middle of nowhere. She fixes her gaze pointedly on the fingers he has wrapped around her wrist. âI should get started so you have time to rest before Roan gets back.â
Bellamy shoots her one last wary look, but then he sighs, releases her and lets his arms drop to his sides. She leans forward until sheâs in the circle of his bent knees and gets to work. She dabs at his injuries, disinfecting them, wiping off the dried blood covering his chest, cutting away the dead skin and prodding his bruises for broken ribs. With every touch, he flinches away from her, but he stays mercifully silent. It kills her that itâs partly for her sake, and she wants to scold him for holding back, for pretending that heâs alright. But then she reminds herself that this is probably as in control as heâs felt in days, and she knows that she canât take that away from him.
So she simply pulls out a suture kit when sheâs finished cleaning away the worst of it and begins to stitch him back together. This time, he canât muffle his winces or the way his breathing has picked up again, coming out in fits and bursts, a harsh staccato made worse by how feverish his body feels, how his skin throbs beneath her touch. She works her way down his torso until her needle lingers on a particularly grisly cut, lined with jagged edges and spanning the width of his stomach. She thinks that it mustâve taken a while to make.
âMy guards got bored pretty quickly,â Bellamy says, voice so quiet she has to strain to hear him. âMoved from one⌠method to the next, but nothing ever lasted long.â
Clarke grinds her teeth. âWhat were you doing in Azgeda territory in the first place?â she asks, trying to distract him (both of them) from both the memories and the steady rhythm of her needle through flesh.
âGot intel that they had you.â
âYou think it was a trap?â
Bellamy nods.
âAnd you didnât take anybody with you?â
âNo time. I was by myself when I found out.â
Clarke frowns. âReckless.â
âAlways have been.â
Unbidden, a corner of her mouth quirks up, but she quashes it down as soon as it comes and gets back to work.
For a while, only their breathing penetrates the heavy silence in the air, harsh and unsteady in tandem. When she finishes with his front, she crawls out from between his knees, studiously avoiding his gaze, and sidles behind him. And when she sees what awaits her, she gasps.
âBellamy, your backâŚâ she whispers.
Bellamy hunches his shoulders and scoffs. âThey said they didnât want to attack a man who had his back turned. That it was dishonorable.â
Clarke takes in the smooth expanse of skin, the only signs of his ordeal a fine sheen of sweat and stray smudges of dirt. She canât reconcile how undamaged it is from the rest of him, how if he doesnât turn around, she can almost pretend that thereâs nothing wrong.
The harsh juxtaposition is what finally breaks her. She places a trembling palm in between his shoulder blades and sucks in a shaky breath that causes everything sheâs been holding back to mutiny, rebel against her crumbling defenses. The words come tumbling from her mouth, shattered and miserable and rife with every emotion sheâs been battling since it all began but hasnât been able to voice until now.
âIâm sorry this happened to you, Bellamy. Iâm so, so sorry.â And she feels like sheâs suffocating on it.
âClarkeâŚâ Bellamy starts.
But she just shudders. Feels the shame down to her very core, clawing its way through her and taking root. Grounding her to a reality she wants nothing more than to be free of. Bellamy must sense the storm of her emotions because heâs suddenly softening his posture and leaning into her touch, the bitterness in his voice smoothing away its sharp edges.
âItâs nothing I canât handle. Iâve already been through thisâat Mt. Weather.â
Clarke is reminded of another time she sent Bellamy to his suffering. âIâm sorry about that too,â she whispers.
âNo, Clarke⌠I didnât meanââ He huffs out a harsh breath. âStop apologizing all the time!â
She grits her teeth. âI told you you wouldnât be by yourself, but IâI sent you into the Mountain to die. You came here because you were looking for me. How can you ever forgive me?â
But Bellamy just shakes his head. âThat wasnât your fault, and neither was this. I made my own decisions. I told you, Iââ He cuts off, swallows and tries again, this time an undercurrent of levity in his words. âI told you beforeâI donât take orders from you.â
But that just makes Clarke angrier. âBellamy, stop. Stop trying to downplay this, itâsââ (why does he insist on trivializing his pain, why canât he just be selfish sometimes?)
âItâs not that Iâm downplaying it, Clarke,â he says quietly. âItâs just that⌠talking about it will just make it more real.â He takes a deep breath. âYouâre the only thing Iâve wanted to be real for days.â
From her vantage point behind him, she can see the outline of his jaw as it twitches in that way that it does when heâs angry with himself, unsure. Heâs clenching his fists to stop them from shaking, and itâs slowly hollowing her out where her heart should be, carving into her chest cavity and filling it with such dread, such knowing, that she starts shaking as well. She knows what heâs going to say next with the kind of certainty that comes when youâre free falling and you can see your end racing to meet you, the kind sheâs become all too familiar with since they landed on the ground and we are apogee became weâre not alone.
When Bellamy finally speaks again, his voice comes out a tattered version of itself. âThey said that theyâd had you for days. That what they were doing to me was nothing compared to what theyâd already done to you. That theyâthat they liked how you screamed.â
Clarke lets out a half-sob. She knows how heâs feeling (has been feeling the same since Ontari paraded him into the throne room and her imagination ran wild). The thought of someone hurting him instead of her, in front of her, is too much to handle, and she can barely contain the revulsion that threatens to overtake her.
She wants nothing more than to hold him and soothe it all away. To remind him that sheâs still here. That she hasnât been hurt in the way he has. To tether him to the physicality of her, of them together, both still breathing. Living.
So she does.
She threads her arms under his and wraps them over his chest where she knows heâs fairly uninjured, resting her cheek on his shoulder. He stiffens in pain, but when she makes to pull away, he stops her with a hand on top of one of her own.
âDonât,â he breathes.
(his voice is gravelly, and it rumbles in her chest, centering and unmooring her all at once.)
âIâm sorry.â Her lips whisper along his neck. âI shouldnât have stayed in Polis. If I had just gone back with youâŚâ
But Bellamy just shakes his head. âNoâyou donât understand, Clarke. You left meâeveryoneâand for the longest time, I resented you for that.â
Clarke lets out a watery exhale.
âBut, if you had stayed, Iâm not sure you really wouldâve been there anyway. So I understand why you had to leave. I get that. But that didnât stop the fear. Every time I looked out the gates, I imagined you out there alone. Cold. In danger⌠And these past few days, when they told me they had you⌠it was like it had all come true. Strung up while those bastardsââ His shoulders start to shudder. âI canâtâfuckâŚâ
And when his voice cracks, whatâs left of her composure cracks right along with it. Tears slide down her face as her lips start to tremble, as her arms tighten their hold on him.
âI donât want to lose you. Thinking about it made me realize⌠it doesnât matter why you left. Why you stayed in Polis. I donât care. All that matters is youâre all right.â
Clarke doesnât have time to let that sink in before sheâs suddenly releasing her hold on him. Bellamy grunts in protest, but then sheâs crawling back in front of him until sheâs sitting in between his bent knees and enveloping his clenched fists in her hands, catching his gaze so they canât hide from each other anymore. His features are arranged in such anguish that the hole where her heart was is suddenly mending itself back together and shattering into pieces again all at once, buoyed on a cloud of grief and gratitude and regret and, most of all, Bellamy.
She leans forward until their foreheads are touching (slowly, so slowly), and waits for him to pull away, to maintain the undefinable distance thatâs always been between them. When he doesnât, she relaxes and breathes him in.
âYou wonât lose me, Bellamy. Iâm right here.â
He blinks at her, eyelashes fluttering like they do when he doesnât believe her, when she tries to tell him just how much he means to her (ineedyouâcanâtloseyouâknewyouwould). He looks so much like he did that day outside of Camp Jaha. When he asked her where you gonna go? and the desperation in his eyes nearly convinced her to stay.
âIt was the same for me, never knowing if you were okay. Pulling that lever⌠if it tormented you as much as it did me.â
Bellamy disentangles one of his hands from hers and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering at her cheek. âI wasnât okay. Nothing was okay. You leaving? That killed me. It felt like⌠like I was missing a part of myself. I know weâve only been on the ground for a few months now, that we led entirely separate lives on the Ark⌠but I feel like Iâve known you my whole life.â
Clarke nods her assent and lays a palm over the one he has on her cheek, needing to feel the warmth of him against her, wanting him as close as possible.
âYou always say how much you need me, but⌠I donât think youâve ever realized how much I need you too,â he says.
Sheâs surprised when thereâs no niggling feelings of doubt. When she sees the certainty, the weaknesslove, in the set of his features. Sometime over their time at the Dropship, her self-imposed isolation, the nightmare of the past few hours, what i did to get them here has truly become what we did. And while the guilt and grief will never entirely go away, she looks at Bellamy and she knows that she doesnât have to bear the weight by herself anymore.
âI wasnât ready to face my demons before,â she says. âI was scared that you would all look at me and only see a monster. That Iâd look in the mirror and not know who I was anymore.â
âClarkeâŚâ Bellamy says, âI know who you are.â (and his voice is soft, so soft.)
Clarke smiles. âI know you do.â
âYou donât have to do this alone.â
And instead of the response that used to come so easily (i bear it so they donât have to), she leans deeper into the curve of their bodies and vows, âNeither do you. No more running away. Whatever happens next, we face it. Together.â
He nods. âTogether.â
With that promise, Clarke thinks she could sit like this for hours, basking in their faith in each other, the knowledge that theyâre both safe and here and real. Marveling at just how much she missed this. Them. Because for the first time since she escaped the Mountain and ran into his arms, she feels pure joy.
Bellamyâs voice is what finally breaks the spell.
âI guess this makes up for Roan stabbing me in the leg.â
Clarke lets out a half-sniffle, half-laugh. She reluctantly lowers his hand from her face, pulls back and wipes away the lingering tears (but she leaves her fingers clasped over hisâshe doesnât want to stop touching him. she canât, not when she was so close to losing him). âBut heâs also the reason we were even there in the first place.â
âTrue. But itâs not like we can be picky right now.â He sighs. âSo what now?â
âNow, we wait.â Clarke shrugs. âYou can tell me what I missed. How everyone is doing.â
Bellamy fingers a lock of her hair, still pink with fading red. âWhy donât you tell me about this first?â
âI think Iâm making up for skipping over my teenage angst phase.â
âPrincess with a rebellious streakâall you need now is a tattoo. What will your mother think?â
Clarke snorts. âNothing good.â
Bellamy winces as he chuckles, but the pang of guilt she expects is instead a pang of relief. She takes in his battered body, but instead of focusing on the pain carved into his skin, she focuses on the smile playing at his lips, the feel of his hands in hers, the steadiness in his gaze. Theyâre both broken, damaged in different ways. But no matter how many times they shatter, lose the pieces of who they used to be, she knows that theyâll always be there to glue each other back together. Instead of running away from their pasts and the responsibility chasing their every step, theyâll face it. Because you donât ease painâyou overcome it.
Together.
For the first time in a long time, Clarke feels free. Centered. And as she looks into Bellamyâs eyes, she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt: Nia was wrong. Her friendsâBellamyâarenât her weakness. Theyâre her strength.
And sheâs not planning on leaving them ever again.
Clarke takes a yoga class. Bellamy is the instructor. Her flexibility needs work.
Clarke is no stranger to yoga practice. The heavy breathing, the stifling heat, the sometimes overpowering odours, she can block them all out easily and just focus on the stretch of her own muscles, the count of her own breath, the pinpoint focus of drishti. She comes, finds her rhythm on her mat and works at her practice with minimal intervention. That is until the new teacher arrives.
She hears about him before she sees him, the regular yoga bunnies all a flutter with how thorough he is, which leads to choked giggles as they sip their coconut waters.
âIâve never gone that deep before,â one claims, which makes the others keen loudly, so she already knows heâs probably young and decent looking. They never get this excited about any other guest teacher.
So sheâs somewhat prepared when she rolls up for her first class, but sheâs not about to let it distract her. She knows what sheâs about and getting excited about a hard body and an acceptable face is really not in the yoga spirit. Sheâs here to learn, to grow, to holy shit. Sheâs momentarily thrown by dark curls, freckles and a jaw that she could cut herself on, tries to shake it off, but is forced to let her eyes rest on him again because he is fucking breathtaking.
She finds her mat and closes her eyes, tries to let the opening mantra clear her mind and find her centre, but itâs fucking impossible because as soon as she opens her eyes heâs right there, and her eyes flicker over the flex of his muscle as he helps another student deeper into pagangusthana. She finds her breathing and starts on her sun salutations, stubbornly focusing her eyes on her fingertips, on her navel, on her nose like sheâs been taught, but sheâs losing her rhythm already, breathing into downward dog far longer than sheâs supposed to.
Before she can come up, she feels warm hands on her hips, pushing her backwards and she forgets to breathe in as he fits his body flush against her, stretching her hips and lungs apart with thick fingers.
âBreathe,â he murmurs and dear god sheâs trying, but heâs burning hot against her and the way heâs rocking her back to increase the stretch in her hamstrings doesnât feel like the regular kind of yoga instruction when her cunt throbs like that. âEngage your bandha.â
She tries, she clenches up and in and hopes it will ease some of the pressure building inside her but instead she feels like sheâs missing something to clench down on. Like his fingers. Or his cock. Fuck.
He lets up eventually, and her next inhale is shaky as hell. She hopes he doesnât notice, but turns out he is the engaged kind of yoga teacher, and over the next hour heâs constantly on her, correcting almost every position, pushing her deeper into every asana.
*Getting to the cage room we got inside as Bellamy walked to a women's cage* "We need you guys to help us out but we need you guys to fight"Bellamy told the women to which she nodded before telling the grounders to shut up and explain to them the plan before cage came on speaking to the people of the mountain trying to get them to turn on our people
"Bellamy we need to go now"I said to which he nodded before we quickly took off from there
---------
Everything was turning into a mess as the guards found the other 100 nothing was looking up for us anymore we only had Maya and Jasper to fight with us
"Now what do we do?"I asked Bellamy "I don't know shit we need to regroup and think"Bellamy said
-----Really short chapter I know but the ending of season 2 is coming soon! also to be continued-----
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Personality - She was raised with over protective brothers who wanted to keep the supernatural world away from her but she was too stubborn to stay away from it she was a good fighter and would fight for her brothers
Sam Winchester
Name- Sam Winchester
Age-24
Siblings - Y/n and Dean
Love interested-Ruby
Personality - He was the softer one out of Dean he always made sure y/n didn't feel upset over something that wasn't her fault he was also known as the law boy of the group
Dean Winchester
Name- Dean Winchester
Age-30
Siblings- Sam and Y/n
Love interested-Raven
Personality - He was the mental lover of the group but also the strictest when it came to his family he was the very over protective one especially around y/n and Sam
Bellamy Blake
Name- Bellamy Blake
Age-23
Love interested-Y/n
Personality - he was willing to do whatever it takes to protect his sister not just his sister but y/n as well but he had some challenges with her brothers
Octavia blake
Name- Octavia Blake
Age-21
Love interested- Lincoln
Personality - she was willing to fight for what's is right as she joins the big group to help them take on the world her bestfriend is y/n as they met in school
Raven Reyes
Name- Raven rayes
Age-21
Love interested-Dean
Personality - she is bestfriends with the two girls but she also have some misunderstanding with Dean as she trys to hide her feelings for him she is also known as the tech person of the group
Hey yaâll!! This is just a the beginning of this post-6 years and seven days later amnesia AU Iâve been working on for a while now, so I wanted to share some with you all. I also need some motivation to finish the damn thing lol.Â
They drive east. Though the ashes of what the earth had once been, the dry deserts and dead landscapes stretching out infinitely beyond their reach. It seems to curl around them, a consuming vastness, and there is nowhere to escape. Â Nowhere, save the sky. But that's where he came from. There's no going back now.
And so east he goes, riding in the passenger seat of a car he has never seen next to a woman he has never met.
As they drive she tells him that in three days, they'll be home. He's not sure if he knows what the word means anymore.
--
Bellamy slips in and out of consciousness. Reality, filled with barren wasteland and strangers who know him, is even stranger than his dreams, with blurs of stars and the feeling of falling from the sky. Â It occurs to him that he never asked where home was, if there was more to earth than the settled dust he could see from the rover's window.
As the woman drives, she glances over at him, and he wants to say something, anything, to relieve the pain etched into her face.
Instead he turns away. Â
When he does, she quietly clears her throat. "I really shouldn't be letting you sleep so much. You probably have a concussion."
Bellamy nods, his gaze still outside the window.
The girl in the backseat speaks then, "I bet you'll remember things once you head heals. And then you can tell us about space, and when everyone else coming," she's excited, and he can feel her leaning forward in her seat. "I always knew you would come back."
The girl reminds him of a young Octavia, and her memory is a comfort amidst the desolation.
The woman had promised they would find her, that she would bring him to his sister. He lets himself believe her.
He glances at her then, a sad smile ghosting across her lips. It's achingly familiar, despite being on the face of a stranger.
Bellamy keeps himself awake for the rest of the day, making lists of what he remembers. He tells himself he only listens because she's right.
--
The list goes something like this: he remembers the dropship, confidently letting himself on while his heart beat erratically in his chest. He remembers landing, and being on the verge of opening the door. He has a vague recollection of the Ark's prisoners not being alone on earth. The rest is just out of reach, an illusory reflection dancing across water's surface, running through his fingers before it is ever truly in his grasp.
The woman, Clarke, she had told him to call her, was nowhere in his memories, though he supposes he would have liked to know her. Her blonde hair is short for what he assumes is convenience, but it suits her all the same, adding to the intense look permeating from her bright blue eyes. They only seem to soften when she looks at the girl, and for a brief moment before realizing she was a stranger to him, when she looked at Bellamy. Â
He must have known her once, from the parts of Earth he can't remember. She had told him as much between his bouts of concussed slumber, her gentle admittance that they had been waiting for him was nearly drown by the girl's excited questions about a life he can't recall.
The child in the backseat is long asleep before either of them speak again.
"You had to leave me behind."
Bellamy says nothing.
"Do you remember at all?"
"No, I don't. I'm sorry," he means it. Â
She shifts her grip on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening with her tightening fists.
"After five years, it was safe to come back. It's been six, and you're alone." Her voice is steady, but there's a pain in her whisper that makes him wring his hands. "What happened?"
"I told you don't know."
The rover tosses up sand as it moves through the dry landscape, a cloud billowing behind them. There is no sound but the steady growl of the engine, the only disturbance for miles on an abandoned earth.
"A lot happened here, before you left" she starts slowly, softly. "We were going back to space to avoid the radiation. Everyone - you, Monty, Raven, Harper, Â Emori, Murphy, Echo - made it back to the ark," she took a shaky breath, "I never doubted that. You all made it, except me. I thought I was going to die, but the nightblood saved me. And I've been here, while you've been in space. That means nothing to you?"
He must be letting them down, whoever they are, whatever they meant to him. Stuck in space waiting for a message from a broken radio, from a man who has no recollection of what he's supposed to say.
"I don't," Bellamy shakes his head and turns his attention back to the barren world outside his window. "I wish I did, but I don't."
--
 He had asked about his sister as soon as he was back on earth, too disoriented from the impact of landing to push for more than the simple we'll see her soon Clarke had offered.
That night around the fire, more coherent and desperate for a scrap of familiarity, he asks again. "Where's Octavia?"
Clarke hesitates before responding, poking at the fire with a long piece of wood before throwing it into the flame, and it's enough to make him worry. "She's waiting for us."
The area is still desolate, and their only protection comes from the rover. Â They would easily be spotted from miles away from the glow of the fire. It's a type of openness that would have never existed on the ark, and Bellamy's unsure if he has ever felt more exposed. He clears his throat and scans the empty horizon. Â
"So you've said. If you've been waiting for me all this time, why isn't she with you now?" the panic he had been suppressing begins to bubble in his chest, and he turns his gaze toward her, trying to read her expression. "Is she okay?"
Clarke looks away from him, carefully taking in their surroundings. The quick motions of her eyes make it seem like more of a habit than a true precaution. Her eyes return to his, and for the first time since he landed, she seems nervous.
"Madi, how about you go get some more fire wood from the rover." the suggestion is more of a command.
They wait until the treading of small feet fades and only the crackling of the dying fire remains.
"What happened to my sister, Clarke?"
"She's safe." the fire has drawn her attention, it's flickering easier than meeting his gaze. "The only reason I survived the radiation was my nightblood. Madi and I, we're the only two left. Everyone else went underground, in a bunker from before the world ended the first time."
He watches her watching the fire, and he can tell she's keeping something from him. "So that's where we're going? That bunker?"
She reaches behind her for a piece of metal, which she uses to poke at the flames. "The bunker, it's sealed. They were supposed to be able to come out after five years." She stops her motions, steeling herself before looking him in the eye. "But we haven't made contact since before you left for the Ark." Her words hang there, and he suddenly understands why she sent Madi away.
A wave of nausea washes over him, and he places his hands on his knees. It's been six years, six years since he's seen her and he doesnât have a damn clue about any of it, doesnât even know if she was okay in the months before he left her alone under the earth. Â
"So you're saying she could be dead."
"I'm saying that I don't know." Clarke looks as if she's about to reach out and touch him, but then thinks better of it. "I'm sorry."
"Then take me there so we can find out."
"We can't get to them. Not without tools and man power. Once everyone else comes back down we might be able to figure something out, but for nowâŚ"
"She's stuck." Or dead. He shakes his head, runs a hand across the back of his neck.
The crease between her brows deepens as their eyes meet through the haze of the fading flame. "Bellamy, I'm sure she's fine-"
"It's been six years. You don't know anything. And I don't know you."
She looks as if she's about to retort, but Madi's return stops her, and Bellamy takes it as an opportunity to stand, turning away from the fire.
"I'm going to bed." he says, looking towards the rover.
Madi, already seated by Clarke, calls out to him, "You're not going to stay? Clarke always tells me stories about before you left by the fire." She reminds him so much of a younger Octavia, begging for stories of a world she would never see. Maybe if he listens, he'll remember that world, Clarke and his friends and why they haven't returned.
But he can't remember, he's not even sure if he wants to if it means remembering leaving his sister to die on an irradiated planet. Nothing Clarke has told him makes any sense, leaving his friends and his sister, a second Armageddon ending the world. He doesn't want to believe any of it.
Post 4x04 from Bellamyâs POV because the Bellamy Blake Bottom Lip Tremble⢠wonât leave me alone
When the heart breaks it doesnât make a sound. There is no rip of flesh, no jarring moan, no heavy thud. There is just silence. Emptiness. Like the universe itself couldnât come up with a sound to encompass such profound devastation.Â
The screams that tore his throat to shreds die down but his heart keeps breaking in silence. With every heartbeat the tear in his heart grows, one side weighed down with grief. His sister. The other weighed down with guilt. His responsibility. Every breath he takes is a protest against his ribcage, wrestling for space against the pain.  Â
The chains tug at his wrists, carving deep grooves into his skin, but he doesnât feel it. He is pulled over rocks and fallen trees, and sometimes he falls, but he doesnât feel stone breaking his skin, doesnât flinch against the crack of bone. Angry commands are growled in trigedasleng, but he doesnât turn towards it or away from it. He feels heavy eyes on him, but he doesnât look up at them. He keeps going, not hearing, not seeing, not feeling, just breaking.Â
He should probably care that there is the sharp tip of a spear digging into his back between his shoulder blades, that the spear is pushing him towards a battle that shouldnât happen, that once again they are at the brink of war and destruction. Instead he feels numb, unaffected, since the reason to care about these things has been taken from him.  Â
A warrior does not mourn those she's lost until after the battle is won. Â Â
Sheâd said that to him a long time ago, and sheâd lived by those words since, but they ring hollow to him. The world could incinerate right at this moment and he wouldnât bat an eyelid. Azgeda is marching on the only home he knows, ready to kill every single one of his friends, and there is no fight left in him. Keeping his sister alive had been the real battle of his life. And heâd lost. So what is there left to fight for?
Heâs forced to this knees by heavy hands, a sharp knuckle tearing into his cheek when he isnât quick enough to react. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth and he feels a slow trickle of blood run down his face but there is no pain, no sound escaping his lips, just silence. Soon there is darkness too, a hood or something having been shoved over his head and more shackles around his legs. He accepts the blackout, he puts up no fight. They canât do anything worse to him than they already have.Â
He is dragged, pushed, jostled, he is blinded and restrained, but with every thud of his boots against the ground his heart pounds and aches and tears. Gone gone gone. Even if he had started to lose her piece by piece since they landed, knowing she was alive had always kept hope floating that one day sheâd come back to him. Dead. There is a finality to death that feels so severe, like a period in the middle of a sentence cutting the meaning in half. Now there is no hope of repairing what had broke between them. She died hating him. Â
When the hood is eventually ripped off him, the daylight is blinding and painful and he barely has the energy to tilt his head up and take in the scene before him. Heâs surrounded by the Azgeda army, a sword resting lightly on his chest as a threat or precaution, itâs hard to tell which. Kane is on his knees in the mud next to him, Roan and Echo on their horses behind him. He catches a flash of Echoâs steely eyes on him - heâs felt them on him the entire trek.Â
Iâm going to kill you.
He saves the anger for another day, if there is another day. Itâll keep.Â
Clarke is there, facing the entire army on her own and he isnât even surprised. She always thinks she can fix everything. For her sake, for their sake, he hopes she can, but it doesnât seem like itâs his business anymore. None of this matters. People are going to die. Most of the people here will be gone in two months, one way or another, so it barely matters if it all ends right here, right now.  Â
Clarke and Roan talk in clipped tones, Kane interjects, angry voices rise behind him and the walkie in Clarkeâs hand buzzes and crackles. He doesnât really pay attention, his mind drifts, jumping over old memories. Some are painful, most are happy, but even those feel jagged and raw like they have been tainted by death.  Â
Suddenly there is a blade to his throat, hands gripping his hair and pulling his head back to expose his neck. Echo. She issues some kind of ultimatum and Clarkeâs face falls in that way he hates. Her eyes flicker and then steady, and he can tell sheâs made some sort of decision. Her jaw is tight and ticking and, fuck no, not this. She doesnât get to choose him over others, not again. Never again.  Â
Echoâs sword digs deeper into his skin, nicking it slightly and he glances down at the metal. There are fresh bloodstains on the blade, no more than a day or two old and his heart stops beating entirely. Octavia. He stops hearing the voices around him, he only hears the blood thumping in his ears and those words that ended his world. It was a good death.Â
He pushes forward, leaning into the blade, letting it pierce his skin. The hand in his hair pulls back, fights him, but he keeps pushing. Warm blood pours out and he keeps going, against the muffled shouts and the pull at his scalp. Finally Echo looses her balance, letting go of his hair and letting the blade fall to the ground as she stumbles forward, calling her bluff. He huffs at the irony, that after everything she has done to him she still canât bring herself to actually kill him.  Â
Around him the world descends into chaos, gunshots ring and voices scream and hands grab him, but before he can figure out who they belong to there is a sharp blow to his head and the world goes still again. He leans into the darkness.  Â
He wakes up back in Arkadia, head throbbing and heart in pieces. He finds himself disappointed that heâs alive, sighs deeply with the realisation that there will be no easy way out for him. He shouldâve guessed. No lucky breaks.
There is a hand in his hair still, but it feels different, lighter and softer, not demanding anything from him. When he flickers his eyes open heâs not surprised that itâs Clarke watching him wake up. He doesnât know when she stopped surprising him, when everything she does started to seem inevitable to him.  Â
âHey,â she says, eyes weary but not urgent. She must have found a way to fix it after all. He wishes there was some way she could fix this too.  Â
âHi,â he breathes, closing his eyes again, hiding from her scrutiny.  Â
âWhat was all that about?â she asks, carefully, fingers running lightly over the unbandaged parts of his throat.  Â
He doesnât answer, there is no words to explain how his heart is still tearing apart, or how impossible it is to keep breathing when every breath he takes hurts.  Â
âKane told me,â she says after a while, voice soft and solemn, her fingers still running slowly through his hair. âAbout...âÂ
She stops herself and heâs grateful. Heâs not ready to talk about it, about how his life holds no meaning without his sister, about the cold that has started to settle in his bones. He stays silent because it is the only thing he can still hold on to.  Â
âIâm sorry,â is all she says, and her voice cracks a little.  Â
She sits by his side in quiet solidarity, running her fingers through his hair over and over until her touch makes his eyes leak. Fat, warm tears stream down his cheeks through the closed curtain of lashes, staining his skin. He stays quiet, he doesnât wail or scream like he did the first day, when all his pain was on the outside, sharp and raw. Streams of tears wet his face but he breathes slowly, feeling the dull pain that has settled in his chest expand and contract.Â
She leans her forehead against his, and he can feel her own silent, heavy drops land on his face. He scrambles blindly for her hand, for an anchor and finds it, warm and reassuring. She feels his pain as acutely as she does her own, itâs what drew them together in the first place, this wordless understanding of each otherâs agony.  Â
So without a word, in complete silence, she holds him steady, carries him through as his heart finally rips apart, the pieces falling soundlessly like a feather.  Â