So this is something I've been slowly putting together since the season 3 finale. Let me know what you think!
"Zal and Rudabeh," she decided.
"Really?"
"It's a love story. Like Romeo and Juliet, but with a happy ending."
Bellamy nodded. He supposed Octavia identified with Zal, the man cast away when he was born.
"What's your favorite myth, Bell?"
"Persephone."
Octavia snickered. "Of course you'd like the sad one."
"How is it sad?" he cried. "It shows a mother's love for her daughter. It shows how a man who only knows darkness and loneliness can fall in love. And more importantly, how Persephone, rather than living in fear, adapts to her new life. She accepts her duty and rules her kingdom, better than Hades really. She becomes a queen. Goddess of the Underworld."
Octavia rolled her eyes, mouthing neeeeerrrrd. "But...she left Hades. They were in love, and she still went to the surface. Over and over again. And he had to watch her leave."
"Yeah. She keeps leaving him, over and over. But O; you're looking at the glass half empty. The best part, is she keeps coming back."
OoO
The first time he woke, he blacked out again almost immediately, only catching a whiff of human ash.
The second time, he couldn't so much as inhale without his nerves catching fire. He tried to move, idiotically, and fisted his mouth to stifle hoarse screams of pain.
His entire left side and most of his chest had been scorched. He wasn't even sure he had skin anymore. What remained of his jacket stuck to his bleeding, blistered body, and he groaned in frustration at being rendered immobile by his pain.
Clarke.
Where was Clarke?
He spent some time taking in his surroundings, trying to distract from the wild throbbing in his...everywhere. He'd been pushed back into the dense shrubs from the blast—he remembered briefly swatting at himself to put out the flames, stumbling down over the trench—leaving him here in the ditch they'd dug to thwart the attack.
He was in a fucking grave.
He chuckled mirthlessly but immediately regretted the tremors it sent through his body.
Still—even if he was concealed, Clarke would have come looking for him by now, right? Some time had passed, if the festering wounds on his body were any indication. So where were the delinquents? The Grounders?
Was he alone?
Wasn't he always?
Wondering what had happened made him sick to his stomach, and knowing there was nothing he could do about it stung the back of his eyelids.
Come on, Clarke.
He didn't know how long he'd been 'lying dead in a ditch' but he figured enough was enough. He was fucking thirsty and he needed to clean this shit before he had to deal with radioactive infections or super-evolved maggots.
Honestly, nothing could surprise him anymore.
Digging his nails into the soil, he forced himself into a sitting position, pausing to ward off the black dots in his vision. Favoring his right side, he managed a crouch, eyes crushed against the sharp sting of scabbing flesh.
Okay.
He exhaled deeply, and then pushed to his feet.
Fucking shit.
He almost blacked out again, but he pressed on. He was done with moving slowly, with being patient. Easier to get it done quickly. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.
Or more accurately—the top layer of his skin.
The silence of the camp urged him to crawl out of the trench, away from the other dead bodies. No noise. No bustling movement. It meant it was empty. And Clarke was gone.
Which meant she was in trouble.
He bit through his cheek trying to pull himself up, blood trickling down over his chin to join the dirt and raw skin.
He managed to half-limp, half-crawl to the dropship, and he collapsed against the wall for support, eyes hooded with grief.
There was nothing left.
Everything they'd built—destroyed.
Everyone who built it—gone.
Bellamy had suspected as much, but it still served as a slap to the face.
He stumbled forward to get a better look. Empty dropship. Empty smoke canisters. There were footprints crisscrossing over the ash and bones, leading away from Camp.
Bellamy didn't need to be a fucking investigator to figure this one out.
They'd been taken.
He hissed against the pain, and he turned back the way he had come.
First things first.
OoO
When he peeled off his jacket, he didn't realize he was also peeling off his skin.
Only a half an hour later, when he finally managed to tear the last bit of clothing off with a tiny gasp, did he realize just how badly he'd been burned.
Mostly second degree, on his legs and torso. But his left arm, shoulder, and likely half of his face….
They were third degree. Marred. Singed entirely, almost to the bone. A large portion of his hair had been burned off with half an eyebrow, and even his ear was seared to a stub.
He glanced down at his reflection in the water, horrified by what he saw.
He really did look like a monster now—red and warped and burned.
He would never heal right. He would never look the same. He might not even be recognizable.
If Clarke saw him like this...
He shuddered at the thought.
She would never forgive herself. She would break knowing she had shut that door before he and Finn were inside. He knew her, and he knew that every time she looked at him, she would feel that guilty weight in the bottom of her stomach.
She would hurt, constantly, because of him.
It was almost enough to keep him from going after her.
Almost.
He decided that jumping into the water would probably kill him—he'd either die from shock or drown or get eaten by a killer eel. With his luck, probably all three. So he crouched by the river and carefully rinsed his wounds, handful by handful.
He found his mind wandering to Clarke again; found that it fought away the pain, as if she were really here. Funny, how he'd grown to rely on her and her hope. Her strength. He supposed if the 100 had her to lead them, they'd be alright. She would figure out a way to keep them alive.
But where did the Grounders take them?
What kind of retaliation did they have in store?
OoO
He'd been hoping to run into Octavia when he'd limped all the way to Lincoln's, but he knew they were probably miles and miles from the dropship. He just wanted to know if she was okay.
No. She had to be okay. Clarke and the others too.
Everyone was fine.
He didn't know when he'd become the hopeful guy. That was Clarke's job. His role was to question her ideals, then stand by them. That was familiar territory. She was familiar territory.
Stop thinking about Clarke.
The fort was empty, save some dried jerky and a few ointments that Bellamy wasted no time in exploiting.
Once patched up in leaves and seaweed and bandages made from his old clothes, he slumped against the ground, breathing heavily.
He couldn't tear his eyes from his hand.
His knuckles were bare bone. The soft pads of his fingers red and pink and peeling. It looked so…alien.
Would his sister cringe if he tried to hold her with this hand? Would Clarke shy away from him at the sight of his face?
He knew those were shallow thoughts to be thinking when his friends could be fighting for their lives or taking turns being tortured.
But he couldn't push it out of his head.
OoO
Three days later when he could move and function and even fight if need be, he shrugged on Lincoln's wardrobe. Full Grounder apparel. He covered his still-tender hands in fingerless gloves, and armed himself with several knives, mourning the loss of his gun.
On his way out, he eyed the Grounder mask, and after a brief hesitation, he snatched it off its hook.
OoO
Bellamy needed a tracker.
He had no leads. No Finn. Nothing.
He couldn't help but feel every moment that passed was another life lost, another minute closer to Clarke losing hers. He still didn't understand why Clarke's disappearance had rattled him so much, or why his chest ached at the thought of her in trouble. He'd never felt that way about someone other than Octavia.
Was it because without her, he was alone in this? Did it stem from selfishness again? Or was it because he considered her a friend now—a partner—after everything they'd been through?
He wasn't sure. He didn't care. He just had to get her—all of them out as soon as possible.
So he did the most rational thing, and he headed for a Grounder village.
OoO
He tossed the fox furs onto the table.
The woman's eyes rose slowly, measured interest.
"I need information," he said quickly.
She regarded him carefully. "You speak the old language. Where are you from?"
He ignored her, deciding to follow Lincoln's example of brevity.
He flashed the side of his face, the scars just visible beneath his mask. If she knew anything of importance, she would recognize the significance of his wounds.
She lifted her chin. "You survived…" her voice rose with wonder.
"Where did they take the Sky People?" he demanded, losing patience.
"They didn't take them anywhere," she breathed, drawing the furs back towards her. Bellamy slammed his hand over his trade, gaze leveled. He wasn't done.
"What happened to them, then?"
She wrinkled her nose. "The scouts tell me their camp was vacant. Trikru was not responsible."
Bellamy felt his gut plummet and rise simultaneously. The Grounders hadn't sent reinforcements to retrieve his friends. Which was good news. But if they weren't in Grounders' hands, where were they?
The woman eyed him strangely, and bored with his silence, she turned to a new customer.
Bellamy pushed the man aside, ignoring his shout of indignation. "If someone took them, where would they have gone?"
"Why is it of your concern?" she said curtly. Aggravated.
"Why is it yours?" he countered.
She was perturbed at his obstinacy, but she realized he wasn't leaving until she gave him something of substance. "This is just speculation…but it could be the Mountain Men."
Bellamy's brow furrowed. He'd heard that before. From Octavia. These Mountain Men…even the Grounders feared them. But again, where were they?
"You mean…Mount Weather?" he tried.
She shrugged, "It's where our people disappear to. I suppose the Sky People are no exception."
Bellamy wanted to press her further, but the man waiting to trade shoved Bellamy out of his way, and he didn't want to cause a scene. He walked away, wrapped in his thoughts.
So Mount Weather had its own tribe then. A tribe with knock-out gas and acid fog.
Fucking super.
OoO
Clarke stared up groggily at Anya between labored breaths.
She was confused. Just moments before they had worked together to escape Mount Weather.
Now…
Now the Grounder was tying her hands together.
"Wait...my people—" Clarke began, trying to sit up. She did not jump off a cliff and swallow an entire lake just to go back into another cell.
But she didn't get a chance to speak her mind.
Anya stiffened above her, and just as the woman turned her head, a large fist knocked her aside. Clarke braced herself for the Mountain Man's gruff hands—the nightmare of a hazmat suit.
Instead, another Grounder stood before her. Hooded, with a mask composed of animal bones covering his face. She could only make out his eyes. Dark brown hues, like the soil beneath her fingers.
He stared at her, unmoving.
Clarke swallowed. "I…"
Her voice prompted him into action. He crouched beside her and reached for her hands, which she retracted quickly, as if stung.
His calm eyes waited for her permission, and when she realized he wasn't planning on hurting her…yet…she let him approach.
Tentatively, he untied her.
Her gaze fixed on his. There was nothing but softness in those eyes. It was a look she was not accustomed to seeing on a Grounder's face. A vulnerability she hadn't come across since Lincoln.
"Who are you?" she whispered, awed by her rescuer.
He helped her to a standing position, holding her steady, and then he was suddenly ripped from her vision. Clarke spun, gaping at the sight of Anya straddling the Grounder, hands at his throat. He struggled beneath her, but his attempts were futile.
"What's your clan name, traitor?" she hissed, pressing down against his neck. He grimaced against the pressure.
"Anya—" Clarke tried, but the woman ignored her. Clarke huffed, searching the banks for some kind of weapon.
"Answer or die," Anya pushed, fingers taught around his throat. The man choked, feet kicking uselessly.
Clarke's hand curled around a heavy stone, and she knocked it fiercely against the warrior's temple. Anya crumpled. And this time, she stayed down.
The Grounder sucked in oxygen, wincing as he straightened. Clarke could hear shouts from the tunnels of the mountain, and she helped the man up, urging him to hurry. "We need to get out of here," she stressed, unsure why she had decided to trust this stranger.
She would deal with him and his intentions shortly. But she could use his manpower for now.
He nodded, silent, and they made for the trees. They'd reached the line of birch when Clarke glanced back at Anya's still form.
"We can't leave her," she said, slowing. The Grounder looked at her like she was insane. Maybe she was. "They'll just put her back in a cage. You don't know what it's like in there. She doesn't deserve it."
The Grounder seemed to imperceptibly sigh—as if this were typical behavior of her—and she didn't miss the look of fondness in his brown eyes as he trudged back to Anya and hauled her over his shoulders.
Bellamy is so next level.
Next chapter up...relatively soon?