Every Mile 'till Home
He's counting heads and checking off faces; marking time as they scurry by.
Connor, six. Jones, seven.
They're all moving far too slowly.
Fox, nine. Monroe, ten.
Why are they always running out of time?
The line thins and weaves after the twelfth passes by, and his anxiety intensifies. Stragglers are wounded and exhausted, their injuries worsening with every step. He thrusts his water flask at a young boy's beseeching hands, pressing him onwards when he tries to rest. They cannot afford the mercy of a break. Not today.
Octavia, twenty-three. Clarke, twenty-four. The final pair.
They emerge through the trees and he strides to meet them. Octavia is struggling doggedly forward, her arms locked around Clarke's waist; drawing the older girl onwards by sheer force of will. Clarke herself is barely conscious, her footsteps heavy and erratic as his heartbeat.
When did she get so bad?
His blood chills at the sight. A limp was all she'd shown when they first fled their makeshift battlefield. A favoured leg, a gritted jaw. He'd asked in passing, and she'd dismissed him without hesitation. He could slap himself now for believing her. Of course she'd hide her own suffering in such a situation. Medical attention required delay, and delay could very well mean death for all of them. All of them... He returns his gaze to his sister. She cannot remain back here, it's too vulnerable.
'Octavia.'
Piercing green eyes snap towards him, full of fierceness and alert to threat; but he knows her too well to miss the fraying edges of despair. She watches him approach, and the shadows in her gaze deepen. She reads him, as easily as he reads her, and he sees the realisation grow: that they cannot continue on like this. That Clarke cannot continue.
'Go to the front of the line.'
'Piss off, Bellamy,' her voice is low and hissing with challenge.
Stepping into their path he grasps Clarke's shoulder and steadies her to a halt. She doesn't even look up, just leans her weight into his hand, and this, more than anything else today, frightens him. Focus. Focus. Octavia first.
'O. She can't keep up.'
'I said back off.'
'Come on, let go.'
Their hands scrabble at Clarke's swaying body, Bellamy forcibly prying off his sister's grasp while Octavia drowns out his repeated warnings in a tirade of screams.
'Octavia-'
'Get away from us!'
'Just calm-'
'Let her go!'
Let her go. Let her go. Let her go.
With a final furious twist, Bellamy loosens Octavia's hold and Clarke collapses between them. Her cry of pain is like a gunshot in a rioting crowd; all heads turn, despite the uproar.
'Now look what you've done!' Octavia's voice is as sharp as her fists, smashing into her brother's chest.
Bellamy ignores her, his eyes fixed on Clarke as she uncurls on the ground below him. The princess's pale curls are damp and clinging with sweat, forming a low crown across her temples. Slowly she raises her torso on visibly trembling arms and tilts her gaze upwards. Her eyes are red-rimmed, the pupils alarmingly dilated as she slowly drags herself backwards across the ground, one leg stretched painfully out in front of her, until her back is pressed against the nearest tree. She heaves a ragged breath and gestures wryly at the siblings.
'Oh, please don't stop on my account.' Her voice is a hoarse echo of its usual self.
Octavia circles Bellamy to stand between them, shifting threateningly on the balls of her feet, reading to fling herself upon him at the slightest provocation.
'Just get back to the others Bell; I'm not letting you kill her. I don't care how slow she walks!'
He starts forward impulsively and she's there in an instant, slamming him back.
'Jesus Christ, is that… I'm not going to kill her!'
His sister tilts her head suspiciously.
'Then why the hell do you want me to go to the front of the group, hmmm?'
'Because it's not safe back here! We're being chased by Grounders, Octavia. The ones at the back will be the first to be picked off. I need to know you're at the front.' He tries to grasp her shoulder but she shakes him off. 'Please.'
'No,' she crosses her arms resolutely. 'No, I'm not leaving her alone with you.'
He throws his head back in sheer frustration. 'Are you kidding me?'
She stares him down, and he both understands and hates her for her stubbornness.
'Drake!' His lieutenant-of-sorts is waiting further up the path. At Bellamy's call he jogs to join them, his own exhaustion all too evident in the unevenness of his stride. Bellamy just hopes he's up to the task. Jerking his head at Octavia, he gives the order.
'Get her moving. Up the front with the others.'
She gets in more than one good slap before Drake hauls her off and drags her down the path. Her voice echoes long after she's been wrestled from sight.
'Bell! Don't you leave her! Don't you dare leave her!'
…
Bellamy rubs his jaw and sighs at the fading volume of Octavia's screams. If there had ever been any doubt in the Grounders' minds as to which path they'd taken, there could be no confusion now.
'She's fierce.'
Clarke.
He turns towards her slowly, almost doesn't want to look. To witness her in such a state of vulnerability feels unbalancing, and deeply wrong.
'Stubborn, more like.'
'Hmmm,' she laughs softly. 'I wonder where she learned that from.'
He's frustrated and desperate, his mind torn between a dozen different fears, but at the hitching of her laughter he forces himself to be gentler than instinct dictates.
He nudges his toe against her boot.
'What's the deal, Princess? You weren't this bad when we started back.'
She rolls her eyes at his tone. Apparently that didn't come out sounding as gentle as he'd hoped.
'I'm having a little trouble with my leg,' her voice is tight with false lightness. He detests it. Waits silently for her to elaborate, or show him the wound… anything. But all she does is tilt back her head and close her eyes.
'Clarke.'
Softly, eyes still closed, she starts to hum. His skin crawls as he recognises the tune, and he wants to slap her, and he wants to kiss her. Atom.
'We don't have time for this,' he snaps.
The wordless sound rises, as if to block him out, and he curses as he crouches in the leaves beside her. Curses the callousness of the Ark for abandoning them down here. Curses the treachery of this new planet. Curses the Grounders, and the impossibility of survival, and the colour of her hair... But most of all he curses his heart. Because it will not let him leave her.
Hooking two fingers into either edge of her pant hem, he cautiously draws the fabric back, realising immediately and with a growing sickness that the wetness of the fabric is not muddy water, but an excess of blood. As he nears her knee, the humming stutters. His fingers shake with the delicacy of their movements, peeling back the fabric like petals on an impossibly fragile flower.
What remains of an arrow is embedded just above her knee. She's broken off the tail of the shaft, leaving the rest in place; to restrict blood loss he supposes. But with the strain of constant movement the saving-effect has been minimal. Her pant leg is soaked and dripping. He wonders distantly if such loss can even be reversed without medical transfusion. Clarke would know. Is that why she sings? He studies her, considering the courage it must have taken to snap that wood away. To walk near two miles with half an arrow in her thigh.
Brave princess.
The taunt was never so apt.
Running a trembling hand over his face he draws back, settling onto his knees as he struggles to regain some order in his chaotic mind. All he finds is fear however, and that he transforms, by instinct, into anger.
'God damn it, Clarke. I asked if you were hurt before. You said it was nothing!'
She shifts, slowly drawing her back straighter against the tree.
'And what would you have done if I'd told you?' She sounds so calm, like she's speaking of someone else's life. 'Built a stretcher? Asked the Grounders to give us a minute? There was no point.'
'We could have thought of something! Back when it would actually have made a difference.'
'With twenty pissed off Grounders on our tail? You would have made time? I don't think so. Weakness is death. You're always saying that.'
Silence stretches as he chokes on the poison of his own words. Until finally, he must ask the only question that matters.
'Can you walk?'
She watches him, and those serious eyes see everything. Every thought he battles, every fear, and decision, and consequence that loops endlessly through his tired mind. She pierces ruthlessly towards the truth. That they are running out of time. That they cannot afford to wait. And she does not flinch away.
'No.'
His eyelids slam shut with the finality of it. He feels her fingers brush his knee and shrinks away.
'All of the medical supplies I've collected are stored in the drop ship. Sara knows where I keep them, find her when you return.'
'Clarke…'
'There's willow bark for pain, make sure you brew it strongly, most of the group will need it before they sleep. I've compiled a supply of makeshift bandages - they're all sterilised. Rafe's arm will need a sling; I saw him fall... And make sure the others get their wounds properly cleaned and bound. You won't be able to handle a mass infection.'
'Clarke, stop-'
'Listen to me! This is important. I need-' her voice cracks, and suddenly she's not so fearless. 'I need you to remember.'
She pinches the bride of her nose, hard. Her eyelashes glint gold against the bloodlessness of her cheeks, and Bellamy wonders if despair has ever worn such a gentle face. Wonders what he would do, if it was anyone but her.
'I've collected other plants with antibiotic and healing properties. Monty knows which ones. He can explain them-'
With an explosion of leaves Bellamy springs to his feet.
Clarke's voice rises in indignation. 'What are you doing? I haven't finished-'
'Why are you telling me this?'
'Because it's important! This is all on you now, you need to get it right.'
'Oh yeah? Well that's not good enough.'
He un-slings his rifle and she flinches back reflexively.
'Why does no one believe that I'm not going to kill you?' he mutters, thrusting the weapon at her chest.
She catches it awkwardly with one arm, eyes wide as he kneels again, beside her this time.
'What are you doing?'
He ignores her, attempting to wind his right arm beneath her legs, wary of the remaining arrow… and she slaps him. Straight across the cheek.
'What the hell, Clarke?! I'm trying to save you!'
'Don't you dare.' Her expression is appalled as she shoves his arms away. 'Don't you dare be so reckless with their lives! They are trusting you up there to lead them out of this.'
He stares at her, mouth agape. 'You're even crazier than I thought.'
'You're the crazy one if you think I'm going to let you endanger everyone in this group. You can't carry me all the way to camp, you'll never outrun the Grounders if you do. Think of the others, please. Get them out of here. They need someone leading at the front.'
He turns his head and meets her gaze across the dwindling space of a single breath. His entire life has been defined by choices in which the fate of one individual has outweighed the fortunes of many. Why should today be any different?
'We'll both be leading them. Just like usual.'
Wrapping an arm around her back, he rolls her against his chest, gritting his teeth against her outraged hiss of pain.
'This is Earth, Princess,' he mutters darkly, as he staggers to his feet. 'We don't decide who dies down here. Some self-important royal told me that.'
…
They move quickly, despite her continued arguing in his ear. Past the stragglers; past the wounded and the dying. He can feel Clarke's resistance as they leave the limpers behind, but he silences her protests. 'Wait.'
Because it turns out that with her in his arms, he can't let them die either.
'Hey!' His voice carves ahead to the leaders of their little pack; the strongest ones, who should survive and rule the world. Or so he used to think.
'Everyone in front of me is to double back. We've got injured people spread out over half a mile back there and Grounders closing in with every hour.'
They turn, one by one, and stare. Fear is sharp and pitiless in their eyes, he recognises it, would know it anywhere, and they do not want to go. He holds Clarke tighter and stands his ground. At the corner of his vision her profile tilts, chin rising, and he knows that she is staring them down with equal determination.
'I want two of you to every sick and injured person. If you have to carry them between you, do so. We don't have time to spare. And we're not leaving anyone behind.'
Swearing shallowly, they begin to backtrack, hurried on by the heat of both their leaders' watchful gazes. Octavia and Drake are the last to pass. She pauses at her brother's side and presses her forehead to his shoulder - touches Clarke's knee briefly - before striding on. Bellamy snags the sleeve of Drake's shirt awkwardly with two free fingers.
'Pair her with the least injured,' he murmurs.
Drake ghosts the back of his hand across a row of bloody scratches on his cheek and winces.
'I'll try.'
…
Bellamy moves on slowly as they wait for the others to catch up. Against his chest Clarke is fading fast, her head sinking inexorably towards his shoulder as she accepts her fate. He jolts her in his arms.
'Hey. Eyes open, Princess. I'm not doing all the work here. If Grounders come, I won't be the one shooting that gun.'
He feels the weight of her gaze, like fingertips across his face.
'I thought you were an advocate for hard decisions,' she remarks dryly.
'Believe me, this wasn't easy.'
Her head nods, stiffly.
'Thank you.'
'We can't lose our only medic.'
She laughs sharply, as if she sees right through him.
'I'm not sorry I slapped you.'
Her hands shift on the rifle, and she angles her head to watch the surrounding forest with all the energy that remains to her; applying her natural seriousness to his earlier jest. Such responsibility… such determination to protect. He knows in that moment, unquestionably, that there was no other decision for him to make.
…
She isn't insubstantial. Already he senses the strain in his muscles; a soft burning that will only enrage with distance and time. Yet he leads the group at a merciless pace. He tells himself he is not tired. For stubbornness is a chemical that runs thickly in the Blake bloodstream; and as he feels Clarke's breath, warm as sunshine across his neck, he knows that he will carry her every mile 'till home.