Four months with not a single sign of her. Four months of agonizing over letting her walk away. Four months of nightmares and hellish decisions; of his solitary voice to pierce and quiet the din of fear and uncertainty. Four months without Clarke.
Bellamy sat on the edge of his pallet in a tent made of deteriorating parachute sections. The rest of the camp had moved into the sanctuary of the ship's wreckage or had begun building real shelters, but he couldn't bring himself to be amongst them. To have a place amongst the people of the Ark was to admit he belonged with them, and that was not something Bellamy Blake was prepared to acknowledge. Not after what he had done. "After what we did, together," he thought for the millionth time. Clarke had run because she couldn't bear to face her people, the survivors. Clarke, who had remained so strong for the 100, had finally broken. And in leaving, she had forced Bellamy to stay. Forced him to confront every terrible thing he had done. Her absence had taken away his choice. The remaining 44 couldn't lose both leaders and still survive. Not after all they'd been through.
Now, it was just him: a failed assassin ironically taking on a governing role similar to that of the man he had set out to kill so many months before. Such irony had to be the atonement for every unthinkable thing he had done on the ground. So, he did what he had to each day to keep them all safe and alive. Clarke had said she bore the burden so the Ark survivors wouldn't have to, but really, she had left the burden to him.
With a sigh, Bellamy stood and began to dress. On the early morning hours when the nightmares were too vivid or sleep evaded him entirely, he made a point to reconcile those thoughts by taking action. Tonight, he'd walk the perimeter of camp and reassess the wall for weaknesses. After all, the leader of the guard only had one purpose: the protection of his people.