disclaimer: i don't own the 100.

notes: this takes place across the end of the season one finale and through the season two premiere because everything hurts and i need them to reunite asap but i also want to explore how they feel without each other. spoilers for 2x01 if you haven't seen it.

We are warriors.

It's a drumbeat, a tattoo, a weapon crafted of fire-molten hearts and aching loss, a way to keep him sane in the days when all he can see around him is endless trees and ashen skies. He runs and he runs and he runs, and he reminds himself that he is fighting for something. He is fighting for everything. He is fighting for everyone.

They are not grounders but they are not of the Ark, not anymore. They are Earth-forged and tragedy-built, they were meant for more than the skies and more than the mountains. They are only children, but they are his people. And Bellamy runs and he thinks about all the things he wouldn't do for the eighty-two left, and the list comes up starkly empty. He runs and he prays to a god he stopped believing in long ago and he runs.

We are warriors.

And he is nothing if not their leader.

-:-

The walls are white. The ceiling is white. Her clothes are white.

Everything is white, white, white, blinding and terrible and miserable, and she closes her eyes and remembers the forest, and suddenly her world is filled with colors. Green in the trees that stretch to the skies around her, blue in the waters they explored, black and red and purple, blood and bruises and death, and gold – gold – gold like love. It's almost as blinding as the whiteness, but with the gold, she wants to soak herself in it and never re-emerge.

But she opens her eyes anyway. Love isn't a subject she can allow herself to dwell on any more than she already does. She thinks about other things, other colors; Raven's red jacket, Finn's dark hair, Octavia's purple shirt. She thinks about Monty's smile and Jasper's laugh, thinks about Wells and the unfailing kindness of his brown eyes, thinks about Lincoln and his sketchbook, thinks about Anya and the waves of her hair. She thinks a lot, those days she spends waiting for salvation.

Ten more minutes, the girl – Maya – whoever, had started to say, furious and seething, but Clarke thinks she doesn't much matter, this girl or her ten minutes.

Ten more minutes, but she still wouldn't have been free.

-:-

There's a moment, just one, where he collapses to the ground in a heap of blood-splattered skin and bones and painfully human flesh, his back against a tree and the sky spiraling lights in violets and golds above him, and he lets himself think about her.

It's like breaking a dam. Suddenly, he is not a warrior, he is nobody's leader, he is a boy who is lost and broken and alone, and all he can think of is a girl and her smile and the way her hair looks when it catches sunlight within its golden curls. He wants to kick himself. He wants to run.

You need rest, he can hear her voice, clear and steady and impossible to argue with. She's right. Of course she's right. He might be the leader, hero of a group of savage warriors, but she has always been their light, their inspiration, their princess. If he had her, he thinks, he might not be quite so lost right now, in more ways than one. She's his compass, she's their compass, and if they are warriors, if he is a warrior, she is the drumbeat in his heart.

He struggles to his feet, aching and lonely and lost, and looks up at the sky. He is a leader without an army, but she points him north without even being there, and so he continues running.

He wishes she were here.

-:-

If Bellamy were here, she thinks, curled up in her new bed in a new world with unfamiliar sounds and lights and people, he would agree with her. He would be with her, every step of the way. She would look at him, and he would look back, and they would know what to do. She trusts him, still, even though there might not be anybody left to trust, but she hopes and she dreams and she thinks about how he would believe her, he out of all of them, he would know the truth of her instincts.

We're safe now, Clarke.

Not all of us.

A thousand different times she has imagined a thousand different deaths, by fire and ash, by wind and water, by nature and by men, and every time she rolls over in bed and awakens with a start, she prays to every god she has ever heard of that none of her dreams come true. He has to be alive. She needs him alive. If he's not alive, what's left to anchor her to this world, a world where her friends are lost in the cold luxuries of this unfamiliar mountain, a world where they left Raven behind, left Finn behind, left Octavia behind, left him behind?

What's left for her without something to fight for, someone to fight for, some hope to carry around in her heart that things will get better? If this is the best her friends, her family, her people have settled for, what's left for her? All these years, she's been dreaming of the Earth, and now she's here but nothing is the way it was when her biggest worry was whether or not she was going to kill Bellamy Blake or let him get killed by his own stupidity.

She laughs into her pillow, trying not cry. Please don't be dead.

She doesn't sleep very well these days.

-:-

We are warriors.

He sees her in her mother's eyes, the slope of her cheeks, her gentle healer's hands –

We are warriors.

She sketches out a map for herself, black ink and battle plans and practicality, but at night she draws him as she remembers him –

We are warriors.

He stares at his chains, thinking only of how dearly he would have loved for her to tell Kane to fuck off, he's one of hers, he's one of them, they don't play by Ark rules anymore –

We are warriors.

She imagines him golden, alive and breathing, dreams him whole again, draws him back into existence so he can't fade from their memories –

We are the one hundred.

a/n: if you've read this far, please leave me a review to let me know what you think, i'd really appreciate it!