Bloodsport
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Somehow, she can't remember for the life of her, they made it in. Once word of Bellamy's capture from Lincoln spread, that thing, that weakness that convinced her to send him in the first place, came creeping out to guilt her very existence.
"They took him to harvest. We've got to move fast." Lincoln warmed as soon as he made contact with her.
Harvest. She knew what that word meant. She'd seen what it was, what it did. But somehow, when searching in the back of her mind for those god awful memories of grounders caged and hung upside down, endless wires taking their measurements and tubes extracting their blood, she couldn't picture him there.
She couldn't picture that once frown tough expression he held so perfectly on his face just motionlessly hanging there. It wasn't something that came natural.
The guilt nearly eats her alive, feeding at the pit of her soul. He shouldn't have listened to Her. She was upset about Finn, stressed about the alliance, sleep deprived for days. She was wrong. She messed up. She wasn't thinking clearly. Her head was wrapped up in the thought of love, something she once wore so proudly upon her chest, being something that debilitated her.
She thought her ability to express compassion was a weakness and in doing so she let Bellamy go, hoping it would make her stronger. And when he left, took with him the emotion that bonded them, in fear it would be used as a weapon against her.
And as she stood there now her eyes trailing over the figure of his limp body, she came to the conclusion that the love for her people, for the remaining 100, for Finn, for Bellamy, was what really gave her strength. And that taking it away was what made her weak.
"Bellamy." She spoke rushing to him as shock rippled through her state. "Bellamy wake up!" She nearly shouted carefully disconnecting the tubes out from his body before turning to the machine attempting to figure out how to get him down.
Once on the floor, he began to stir as she tried to help him. "Clarke." His voice was so faint so broken it nearly pained her to hear it. And it was as if another side of him came out with every syllable he spoke.
"It's me. It's Clarke. Come on we got to get you out of here before they find us..." Clarke trails off, aimlessly trying to get him to stand, noticing his lack of coherency. He's lost so much blood he had no more strength to but to prop himself on his knees, resting his weight on the length of his arms.
She sat before him trying not to let her emotions get the best of her as he panted for air. And without warning, her arms wrap around the curve of his back, hands searching as he falls into her warmth as his head fell into the crook of her shoulder for support.
"I'm so sorry." She lets out. "I was wrong, okay? I was wrong." She mumbled into his matted hair.
"It wasn't worth the risk."
Bellamy remained silent for a moment attempting to regain his brings and not look so vulnerable in her eyes. And as she pulled away he shot her a small smirk of a smile. "I couldn't let you have all the fun, Princess."
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Inspired by the song Bloodsport by Raleigh Ritchie.
