Bellamy felt the weight of it against the outer pocket of his cargo pants all the way back to the dropship. The less he tried to think about it, the more aware of it he was, so that by the time he and the scout team actually made their way through the shamble of wires and tree branches they called a gate, he knew the object would be burnt into his brain forever.

Nine by five inches wide. Maybe an inch thick. Hardcover. Dark blue cover, he thinks, it was hard to tell in the half light of the bunker. The pages that were yellowed and curled with age, but that held a promise so dear he hardly dared to think it.

And a title. Embossed onto the front so that the golden letters glinted despite the dark and the decades of dust that had shielded it from the world for 97 years.

The Aeneid

by Virgil

He hadn't dared stop to inspect the thing properly. The scouting mission had to be fast. Grounders were everywhere, eyes were everywhere. Any moment one of the bastards could drop out of the trees and slaughter them all. Like Mbege. Like Diggs. Like Roma.

Miller had come across the half-rusted door on a hunting trip and had quickly convinced camp it was worth a look. It hadn't taken much. Everyone knew how vital supplies were, and how little they had.

And he guessed that was where his feelings of guilt were coming from, as he saw the others file pass Clarke as she checked them all, adding to their lowly inventory. No one needed a book. He did not need a book. The thick rectangle filling out his pocket was a luxury. If anything, he should offer it up now to help tinder the fires.

Yet, he couldn't. He couldn't do it. In a world that demanded he be logical, unattached, to think of the bigger picture, he was weak. He let sentiment and emotion rule him. He knew he favoured his sister over the others. He knew that it was his fault and his fault alone that those people, his people as Clarke had so forcefully reminded him, had been dumped out of the Ark, with no more thought than unloading heavy cargo on a sinking ship. Those three hundred people's deaths were on him. It was because of him and his stupid fear that they had died. No wonder he had failed Charlotte. He couldn't even slay his own demons.

As he let the flap of his tent fall behind him, he wondered how he could even think he deserved this. He slowly took the book out of his pocket and inspected it again. It was so old. The cover was worn and rounded at the corners. The title was more embossed than embellished, scratches of blue clearly visible through the flaking gold. How many hands had held it before his? How many would hold it after him?

His memory was suddenly flooded with his mom. She and him, before Octavia, curled up on the one cot, as she read from a very old paperback – The first volume of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Most of it had gone straight over his head, the lofty voice his mother used to read more important to him then than the story. Back then, it hadn't been the history that intrigued him, that had come later. It had been the book itself.

"This book is so special, Bell," She had said softly, showing him the worn front page. "This book came straight from Earth. Your great-great-great grandma brought this book on the Ark, back when they first went up to space." His fingers followed hers as they traced over the fading markings.

HAPPY 21st DARLING!

Your mom and I are so proud of you!

Remember us down on the ground when you're racing to the stars!

Much love (and good luck on the exam!)

Mom and Ma

And then lower down in pencil:

If lost please return to Mary Blake

"This book is a great secret. We've kept it safe for years and years and years." They would thumb through it and see how different Blakes' had left their mark. Some people had written it, some had drawn pictures or highlighted or underlined sentences, writing their opinions in the margins. There were torn pages. Scotch Tape. Stains. There were even a few ration crumbs caught in the spine from the last time he and Aurora had read it, sneaking a midnight snack as they read about Diocletian.

"And this one's my mark," he said proudly, pointing to the scribble on page 204. "I did that one."

"You sure did, baby." She was smiling and he had glowed up inside to see it. But she turned serious almost at once. "This is going to be yours one day. You have to hide it. When I die and they come to take my things for redistribution, hide it. So you can pass it on too."

He had nodded solemnly, convinced that this was the biggest secret he'd ever have to keep, and proud to keep it, certain he would. He had been so naïve.

The small smile that had creeped over Bellamy's face fell almost as quickly, the grip on The Aenied tightening. When Shumway had come to him, there had been no time. He had had to follow or lose his sister, maybe forever. He had had to leave it behind. Mary Blake's book, filled with the thoughts and musings of generations of Blake's, was still up there, above him. Orbiting slowly around the Earth, hidden in the hole under the floor of his quarters. Or maybe it wasn't. His blood ran cold as he considered it. Maybe they'd searched his quarters, maybe they'd found it. Maybe it had been returned into redistribution, lost. Or even worse, torn up, or shredded. Repurposed in the worse sense for the word and years of history, his history ripped apart because some other person thought they knew better. He didn't want other people touching it. It didn't belong to them. Not like it belonged to him, or Octavia or his mother.

He turned back to The Aeneid. He had no idea what had happened to The Decline and Fall. For all intents and purposes it was gone. He'd never get it back. But maybe this wasn't the end of the Blake's history. Maybe in a hundred years some other mother would be reading The Aeneid to some other son and say, "Look baby, look, this book belonged to your great-great grandfather. His name was Bellamy Blake. You can see it here on the front page."

Or maybe he'd be dead tomorrow.

That was more likely than not.

But at least he could leave it for Octavia. She'd know what it meant. Maybe she'd even forgive him one day.

He opened the book up with resolve and saw with relief that there was nothing written on the first page. Nothing to indicate this book had ever belonged to anyone but him. Which was stupid, because it had, but he thought back to the inscription in Mary's book and thought about how much harder it would be if there was something like that in there. Hard to restart a family tradition if you're stomping on someone else's. Which again, he knew he was. That this book was in fact not his. But that didn't mean he wanted to be reminded of it.

He grabbed a pencil from his pocket and wrote in slow deliberate letters.

BELLAMY BLAKE

There. Done.

He turned the page with resolve and started to read.