A/N: This story is based on a prompt suggested by the wonderful meta writer abazethe100. It rolled around in my head for weeks until I finally let it out.
A/N: Many thanks to Nell65 for her usual terrific beta job.
He was in his last year of school the first time he saw her. She'd won the annual essay contest, a seventh-grader beating out all the older students. It was almost unheard of.
"Earth Dreams" was that year's designated subject, and just like always, the whole school had assembled to hear the winner read her essay aloud. But this girl wasn't reading it, she was reciting it from memory. Twelve years old, barely five foot tall, she radiated self-assurance as she rhapsodized about an Earth that Bellamy knew no one in that room would ever get to see.
"I feel the sun on my face, I see the trees all around me, the scent of wildflowers on a breeze. It's so beautiful. A stream flows at my feet and I watch the light bouncing off the water as it ricochets along the faces of the rocks. I am there, I am alone, and the Earth belongs to me once more."
The flat Ark light bounced off nothing at all in that room, not even the shining blond curls of the child standing on the small dais, regaling the audience with the beautiful pictures that sprang from her vivid imagination. Bellamy smiled, enchanted.
Beside him, that jackass Trent guffawed. "Who the fuck wants to listen to this bullshit?" he muttered in Bellamy's direction.
Bellamy sighed. He'd had to put up with this sneaky little asshole all through school, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that graduation was only a few weeks off. Then he'd be done with school and, he fervently hoped, starting in as a cadet in the Guard. He doubted he'd ever have to cross paths with this idiot again.
"Give her a break," he said quietly. "She's just a kid."
"Yeah, but I bet you don't know whose kid she is, do ya?"
"Doesn't matter."
He hissed it out of the side of his mouth, trying not to attract Pike's attention. The teacher had already looked in their direction once, and he knew Pike could be a real hardass if he thought you were being disrespectful. Bellamy had spent his entire school career keeping his grades up and his head down, and he wasn't about to attract negative attention when he was so close to getting out. Besides, he still needed Pike's recommendation for that position with the Guard.
But Trent, who had a brain the size of a pea and had spent most of his schooldays in semi-permanent detention, couldn't seem to let it go.
He nudged Bellamy.
"Look at 'em sittin' up there, so proud of their little princess. Clarke Griffin. Dad's some kinda engineer and Mom's a doc. Bigwigs from Alpha Station. The whole damn contest was rigged," he added with disgust.
Just like he actually cared. But Bellamy knew Trent didn't give a rat's ass about the essay contest. The guy could barely string two sentences together, let alone write an entire essay.
Pike was glancing their way again, and Bellamy wondered how the hell he'd ever gotten stuck sitting next to this moron. Keeping his head faced forward, he slowly moved his arm, reaching over and twisting Trent's thumb in a desperate effort to persuade him to shut the fuck up. The other boy let out a small squeal, shooting looks of outrage at Bellamy, but he nevertheless got the message.
Trent shifted his body away, silent at last.
Bellamy sighed inwardly. He hated hurting people, but he knew Trent was too stupid to see that they'd both been heading for detention. Or maybe - probably - he just didn't care. Bellamy cared. Students who got detentions didn't get into the Guard.
Freed from Trent's unwelcome conversation, Bellamy once more turned his attention to the girl on the stage. Clarke Griffin. He'd heard the name somewhere before, but he was pretty sure he'd never met her. Child or not, Clarke was someone he knew he'd have remembered.
She was all sleek and shiny and clean, from the top of her braided curls to what he would have sworn were new shoes on her feet. Her smile was cheerful and her eyes untroubled. He thought of his sister Octavia, only a little younger than Clarke, and felt a rush of sadness that she would never have the chance to acquire the aura of perfect confidence that cloaked Clarke Griffin like a second skin.
Bellamy supposed he ought to resent Clarke, a girl who had access to everything that Octavia could never have. But he figured it was no more Clarke's fault that she'd been born to the privileged class than it was Octavia's that she'd arrived in the world a forbidden second child, destined to live out her life in hiding.
And besides, Clarke looked and sounded like the kind of girl who might even live up to her privilege. She'd become an engineer like her father or a doctor like her mother, be of service to the Ark. She'd also grow up, fall in love, and marry someone from Alpha Station. Because that's how it worked.
But she'd be happy. Girls like her always were. Strangely, Bellamy found that he didn't begrudge her that future happiness.
Maybe, he thought, years and years from now, he'd be assigned as one of the guards at her wedding. He smiled inwardly at this rare flight of fancy. Bellamy knew it was far more likely that he'd never cross paths with Clarke Griffin again.
XXXXXXXXXX
His mother was dead, his sister locked up, and he himself had been forced to exchange the uniform of a Guard cadet for the coveralls of a janitor. Someone who cleaned up other people's shit. On the Ark, the lowest of the low.
Bellamy's life had already hit the perfect trifecta of misery.
So it never occurred to him that something else might come along that would increase his humiliation on a daily basis, until he showed up at his new job to find that one of his co-workers was his erstwhile schoolmate Trent. When they ran into each other in the janitors' locker room, Trent seemed just as surprised as Bellamy, his shocked face a mixture of sullen wariness and smug satisfaction.
"What the fuck you doin' here, Blake? I thought you were set for some glorious career in the Guard."
The question may have been mere curiosity, and not an attempt to embarrass him, but Bellamy doubted it. He turned away silently with only the barest flicker of recognition.
Mistaking Bellamy's lack of response for permission to continue, maybe even to elaborate, Trent cocked his head toward the newcomer and raised his voice to include the half-dozen other employees also in the room.
"So this guy was a big deal all through school," he declared. "Always knew all the answers." Trent paused, his expression a sly smirk. "Doesn't seem to have any answers today, though."
This last finally elicited a response from Bellamy, just not the one that Trent desired. Or expected. Bellamy's hand swung out and twisted Trent's arm behind his back before the idiot knew what hit him. The next thing out of his mouth was a grunt of pain.
"I'm only gonna say this once, Trent. Nothing about my life is any of your business." Bellamy glanced briefly at the others, huddled together now in stunned silence. "That goes for the rest of you, too. Understand?"
There were small murmurs and smaller nods. The janitorial staff was not generally plucked from the ranks of those well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, and their faces were easy to read. He wanted them to keep their distance? They'd be more than happy to accommodate him.
Bellamy let him go so abruptly that Trent stumbled into the bank of metal lockers.
"Christ, Blake! It was just a simple question!" Outrage pouring out of him as he rubbed at his sore arm.
Bellamy nodded. "And now you won't ask any more." He grabbed his coveralls and shrugged into them, slamming the locker shut and storming out of the room. Could his goddamn life get any worse?
After that, for the most part, Trent Stayed out of his way, only approaching Bellamy when the job required it. The others followed suit. And it all rendered Bellamy as devoid of normal human contact at work as he was in every other aspect of his new life.
He told himself that that was how he wanted it.
About the only person his co-workers seemed to fear more than Bellamy himself was their supervisor, a man most inaptly named Christian. Bellamy understood the Christian religion was based on kindness, patience, and 'turning the other cheek'. But this Christian was a bully. While he'd apparently taken Bellamy's measure early on, and never tried anything with him, most of the others were terrified of the unchristian Christian.
It disgusted Bellamy, but for months he told himself it wasn't his problem. Until the day one of the newer janitors, a girl named Addy who was scarcely older than Octavia, came back from her supervisory 'evaluation' sporting a shiner.
"What happened?" The words dropped out of his mouth without filtering through his brain. The others looked at him in shock, but their surprise could hardly surpass his own.
When the girl looked up at him fearfully, Bellamy sighed. He knew he'd never be able to let it go.
"No one should be hurting you, Addy. Who did this? Was it Christian?"
Her nod was tentative, and for the first time in a long time Bellamy felt the stirrings of a strong emotion. He recognized it immediately. It was rage.
"Is he alone right now?" he asked carefully. When she nodded, he considered, deciding the quickest and the simplest plan might just work.
"Go back in, put on a big smile, and tell him you want to meet him in here at the end of shift." He shook his head at her look of shock and disgust. "No, Addy. It's just a ruse to get him in here. You and the others will be long gone."
"O-okay," she said, running off to bait the trap.
All day long, Bellamy considered how best to accomplish his goal, finally coming up with what he hoped was a workable plan. After shift, while the others quickly removed their coveralls before leaving the room, Bellamy left his on, adding a pair of cloth work gloves. By the time he'd repurposed a trash bag into an impromptu hood, he was ready.
Christian had scarcely walked through the door when Bellamy had the bag over the man's head. His arms were twisted behind his back and tied with a short rope. The supervisor hadn't put up much of a fight, but Bellamy knew that most bullies were cowards at heart.
"Listen, you bastard," Bellamy said, pitching his voice at a rumbling whisper that he hoped wouldn't be recognized, "you're done bullying the people who work here. In fact, you're done, period. You're going to ask for a transfer to some other corner of the Ark, somewhere far from this station. Do you understand?"
When incoherent mutterings issued forth from the bag, Bellamy accepted that he'd have to employ some persuasive tactics. He spun the man around and began pummeling him about the midriff. Soon enough, Christian was coughing and begging him to stop.
Bellamy sighed dramatically. "You finally getting the picture?"
The man gasped. "I have seniority here," he whined. "Somewhere else, I'll have to start from the bottom."
Bellamy wanted to laugh. The bully was worried about seniority?
"What the fuck do I care about that?" he said, in the same low growl, kicking Christian's legs out from under him.
"Stop! Stop! I got it!" The man was now clearly terrified.
"Oh, good." Bellamy's whisper was cheerful. "And if you're even thinking about retaliating against anyone who works here, well...we can always have another one of these little chats."
"No, no," the man began, but by then Bellamy had pulled him up by his scruff, and with one punch he knocked him out cold. It was quick work to untie his hands, remove the bag from his head, and drag him back to his office. A purpling bruise covered his jaw, and a trickle of blood ran from his nose, but other than that, the supervisor seemed undamaged.
When Bellamy returned to the locker room, he found Addy, Trent, and a few of the others waiting.
"I thought I told you all to go home," he muttered, removing his coveralls and peeling off the gloves.
"Let me see those." Addy grabbed the gloves out of his hands before he could stop her.
"There's blood on these," she said. "I'm taking them home to wash."
"That's not necessary." Bellamy's voice was clipped and tight.
"Yes, it is," she nodded, slipping out of the room. The others quickly followed.
The next day they were greeted by a new supervisor. For Bellamy's part, he felt only profound relief that he'd never again have a need to sink to that level of violence.
XXXXXXXXXX
Things were a little different after that, but not much. Although Bellamy did learn that Trent had somehow found out about Octavia
"I'm sorry about your sister," he said out of the blue one day, when it was only the two of them in the locker room.
Bellamy just nodded, assumed the sentiment was kindly meant.
"So is that why they never send you to clean the Skybox?" Trent asked diffidently.
Bellamy shrugged. "We're not supposed to have any contact."
Trent looked thoughtful. "Maybe I could switch with you sometime, if you want, but I can tell you right now that when we go there to clean we never see any of the prisoners anyway."
Bellamy was shocked to receive such an offer. "Would they let you? Switch, I mean?"
Trent shrugged. "Probably not the regular shift. Maybe an overtime gig, but they almost never need extra cleanup there."
Bellamy nodded. Everyone knew he worked a lot of overtime. Special clean-ups that had to be done quickly. Or on the sly. He neither knew nor cared which it was.
The others probably thought he took all that overtime because he needed the extra credits, but that wasn't it. Bellamy required very little in the way of material goods. No, he was just looking for something to occupy himself. His solitary life was so empty that he'd rather clean up other people's shit than suffer his own company.
Of course, there was one leisure activity that was still open to him. Bellamy knew he could always spend his time getting laid.
Finding a willing woman had never been a problem, but he wasn't stupid enough to think that they were interested in him for his mind or his conversation. Or his great career prospects. And they certainly didn't covet the six-by-eight closet he now called home.
But he did have a cracked mirror on the wall of that home, so he understood very well what his assets were. Women had been giving him that look since he'd hit his early teens. Men, too, sometimes, although Bellamy didn't roll that way. At least, not so far.
So there it was. Those were his choices. Either grab some overtime or find someone for a quick fuck. Never the same girl twice, of course. He treated the girls well enough, but they all understood there was no sentiment involved. There was only the momentary physical pleasure afforded by a quick release.
Bellamy had loved two people in his life. One was dead, and the other was locked away beyond his reach.
He knew there would never be a third.
It was several weeks later that Trent approached him at the end of shift, asking if he was still interested in an overtime gig in the Skybox.
"Some big emergency. I told the new supervisor I was busy, that he should ask you, and I dunno, he didn't seem to think you weren't allowed."
Bellamy could feel his heart speeding up. He knew it was stupid. He'd heard the Skybox was huge so there was no chance he'd get to see Octavia. But it was enough that they'd be on the same station, that he'd at least get a glimpse at how she was living. Enough to make him feel closer to the little sister he'd been responsible for since birth.
"Yeah, sure. What...what should I do?"
"Nothin'. Don't seem eager. Let him come to you." Good advice, Bellamy knew.
It wasn't long before the new supervisor made an appearance.
"Blake," he called quietly, nodding at Bellamy, who did his best to seem disinterested.
"Yeah?"
"You're a good worker, Blake. Thorough." He hesitated for just a moment. "Can I also count on you to be discreet?"
Bellamy nodded, curious despite himself. "Sure."
"Good. If you want some overtime work, I've got a job for you, but you can't talk about it. Ever. I don't even know what it's all about myself, just that you need to change to a clean set of coveralls and report to the Skybox. Don't bring any supplies. They'll have everything you need there."
Bellamy nodded, hoping his excitement didn't show on his face.
"Will do," he said, as blandly as he could manage.
XXXXXXXXXX
Everyone who required access to the Skybox - prisoner, visitor, or worker - was filtered through one main processing area. For an awful moment, Bellamy thought the guard was going to take one look at the name stitched into his coverall - Blake - and turn him away. But the man barely glanced at him, merely running his ID badge through the computer system to make sure his face matched up with their data file.
He was clearly expected, another guard attaching himself immediately.
"Did they tell you what we need?" he was asked.
Bellamy shook his head. "Don't think my boss knew."
The guard nodded. "Just as well."
There was no further conversation as he followed the man through the maze of corridors and offices that lined the perimeter of the area that housed the prisoners. Bellamy tried to look around without seeming to do so, but it really didn't matter. Trent had been right. There was nothing to see. No handy group of inmates wandering along, with Octavia Blake conveniently among them.
Not that he'd really expected it. But if nothing else, at least when he now pictured his sister's current situation he'd have some general context to place her in.
Bellamy turned his mind to the task at hand, his curiosity aroused by their sudden need for his services.
"Where we going?" he couldn't stop himself asking.
The guard didn't respond, merely grunting as they made their way further and further into the center of the maze. Just when Bellamy was beginning to wonder if they'd ever reach their destination, they turned another corner to find a second guard standing in front of an unlocked cell.
"Has Prisoner 319 been taken away?" his companion asked the second guard.
The man nodded. "He'll only have a couple of hours to get it done before they'll be bringing her back, though. You need to work fast," he said, directing this last comment toward Bellamy.
"Fast...doing what?" Bellamy asked, still unable to see inside the cell.
"Getting rid of it all," the guard said, finally moving out of the doorway and gesturing inside. "Everything you need is in the corner over there. I hope you're not squeamish cuz I gotta lock you in. Can't have you wandering around the place. You're going to have to move fast, because you've only got two hours and they want it all gone."
But Bellamy wasn't listening anymore. He'd finally entered the cell, and his head was swiveling in every direction at once. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
When he heard the clang of the lock engaging, he sat heavily on the bed, his jaw slack.
His first thought was...holy shit! His second was...are they fucking nuts?
Every square inch of the cell - walls, floor, even the damned ceiling - was covered in drawings. And not just any drawings, but some of the most beautiful artwork Bellamy had ever seen. He wasn't any kind of expert, of course, but he'd studied the old masters in school, knew a little something about art. And this was extraordinary. He'd certainly never seen anything like it on the Ark.
Why the hell would anyone want to get rid of it?
There was little enough of beauty on the Ark. They should be trying to figure out how to preserve it, not erase it.
For uncounted minutes, Bellamy was so entranced that he forgot why he was there. He wandered around the room, examining the details, and the longer he looked the more enraptured he became.
There were portraits - done from memory, no doubt. None of the faces looked familiar to him, but he supposed that wasn't surprising since his circumstances had always forced him to keep pretty much to himself.
The far wall looked like a testament to Old Earth. Before the cataclysm. Buildings and landmarks that had existed a hundred years ago, and were now covered in the ashes of a decaying civilization. These might have been drawn as the artist recalled pictures in the Ark's data files.
And then there were the views from the Ark. A moonrise. The Earth below them. A dozen constellations. Sights he'd seen with his own eyes, so he could attest to the fact that they had all been beautifully - and accurately - rendered.
The last section, taking up one corner of the room, was different still, with drawings of the Earth in all its natural beauty. Trees, wildflowers. A brook sparkling in the sun. It somehow seemed...familiar, like he'd seen it somewhere before. Maybe in a book? Or on a vid? The memory was hovering right at the edge of his mind, but he couldn't seem to bring it front and center.
So why the hell was he being ordered to destroy all this beauty?
For the first time, he began to wonder about the artist. Prisoner 319. A girl, he knew, because the guard had said that they'd be "bringing her back." Who was she, and more importantly what had she done that they'd decided to punish her like this?
Wasn't it enough that she'd been imprisoned? That on her eighteenth birthday, she'd more than likely be floated? Did they really need to persecute her further by obliterating what must have taken her months to create using no more than a piece of charcoal and her own imagination?
A loud noise in the outside corridor made Bellamy jump, and he suddenly remembered that he wasn't meant to be sitting there second-guessing the bigwigs who ran this place, but only doing their bidding. He knew there was little point in refusing, because they'd just send someone else. And he'd probably be out of a job.
Bellamy's position on the Ark was already tenuous. He'd been demoted just about as far down as he could go. And while he often asked himself why he even bothered hanging on at all, the answer was always the same: they might take pity on Octavia and let her out when she reached 18. And then she'd need him. Maybe more than ever.
So he needed to finish this. Keep his job. Stay safe.
With a heavy heart and a sigh of resignation, he grabbed the cleaning supplies and forced himself to study the room from a different perspective. By his reckoning, he'd already wasted at least a half hour. So to finish on time, his destruction of these amazing drawings would need to be extremely efficient. He decided to begin with the ones on the ceiling and work his way down.
He'd worked mindlessly for some time, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing, when the idea came to him quite suddenly.
When he'd moved the bed to access the ceiling above it, he'd noticed that there were no drawings on that wall. The bed was heavy, hard to move, and maybe Prisoner 319 hadn't wanted to bother shifting it. That's what gave him the idea.
He had yet to clear away the scene with the trees and flowers, the one that had seemed so damned familiar. It filled the lower third of the wall on the opposite corner from the bed, spreading onto the adjacent bit of floor, as though the trees sprang right up out of the ground.
His eyes shifted back and forth, back and forth, between that somehow-familiar woodland scene and the bare wall adjacent to the bed. It was his favorite drawing and he'd unconsciously left it's destruction until last. But now he had a different idea, a crazy idea, but one which he nevertheless knew he would act on as soon as it occurred to him.
Before he could think better of it, before he could convince himself it was stupid, and pointless, and maybe even dangerous, he'd dragged the bed across the small cell to the opposite wall. Where it completely obscured the trees, and the flowers, and the sparkling brook.
Bellamy cleaned the wall over the bed, working quickly to ensure that no hint of charcoal peeked out above the sparse bedclothes. Everything behind the bed he left intact.
He finished without a moment to spare, having no sooner returned the cleaning supplies to the cart when he heard the cell door clang open. He had only a quick second to worry that the guard would realize the bed had been moved before he noted that the man wasn't alone. That standing next to him was, most probably, the cell's occupant.
Prisoner 319. Bellamy's glance was fleeting, his mind absorbing a jumble of quick impressions. Shining blond curls tumbling out of her braid. Intelligent blues eyes that darted around her cell in confusion.
But not in horror. She'd clearly known this was going to happen. And while the guard hadn't seemed to notice that the bed had been relocated, the prisoner had.
Don't ask. Bellamy urged her silently inside his head. If you give yourself a moment you'll figure it out.
He had no time or opportunity to explain, of course. Only brief seconds to convey by the flicker of an eye, the tiny nod of his head, what she needed to know. Bellamy saw the exact moment that she understood. Watched her face light up when she grasped she'd been given an unexpected gift. That some of her work had been saved.
She turned her head and looked him square in the eye.
He caught his breath. Was rooted to the spot as his brain finally connected the dots. There in front of him was Clarke Griffin, she of the earth dreams of so many years ago. From a happier time when Bellamy still had his mother and his sister. And hope.
The child Clarke had described the Earth of her imaginings in beautiful word-pictures. But this Clarke was no longer a child. It was a woman who had made those words come to life on the walls of that cell.
The sliver of a smile she gave him then made his pulse race and his heart hammer in a way that he'd never before experienced. They stood there looking at each other, the janitor and the prisoner, and for one tiny moment the rest of the world drifted away.
It was fortunate that the guard noticed nothing except that the janitor had finished and he could finally be released from his one-on-one guard duty.
"Nice job, Blake," he nodded his approval at Bellamy, who was barely aware of the man's presence. Instead, he watched Clarke's mouth open as she mouthed the word "Blake." Rolling it around on her tongue like she was trying it out.
He wanted to tell her his first name. He wanted to say, I'm Bellamy. Think of me. Remember me.
But of course it was impossible.
The guard nudged Bellamy then, and within the shortest second in the history of time Clarke Griffin was locked inside her cell and he was standing out in the corridor trying to figure out what had just happened to him.
As he made his way back through the labyrinthine Skybox, and then across the Ark to his quarters, all Bellamy could seem to focus on was Clarke. Wondering if she'd felt it, too. That sudden connection between them. Wondering if at that very moment she was thinking about him.
It was stupid, he knew. She was locked up in the Skybox, his life was already a shitstorm, and the very last thing he needed was something else that was guaranteed to break his heart. But it didn't seem to matter how many times he warned himself that nothing good could come of his interest in Clarke. Because just saying her name inside his head made his mouth dry, and his breath hitch, and his chest expand with warmth.
Waking or sleeping, Bellamy was so consumed by his memory of those few moments with a girl he'd probably never see again that he would have bet that nothing could move him from his sudden obsession with Clarke Griffin.
But as it turned out, he was wrong.
Three days after his visit to the Skybox, Bellamy opened the door to his quarters to find that an unexpected and unwanted visitor had made himself comfortable on the one chair that had been allotted for Bellamy's use. The visitor was someone he knew. Someone he didn't like at all.
"What are you doing in here?" he demanded, equal parts confused and outraged.
"Sit down, Blake. We have something to discuss."
"I've got nothing to say to you."
"That's where you're wrong," Commander Shumway told him. "You're going to want to hear this."
XXXXXXXXXX
He'd shot a man. Bellamy was astonished he'd actually been able to pull the trigger, felt sick every time he thought about it. And yet...he knew he'd do it again if it meant there was the smallest chance that by doing so he could keep Octavia safe.
And now here he was on the ground. The ground, for fuck's sake! He could hardly believe it.
Maybe it was all for nothing. Maybe they'd all be dead as soon as they stepped outside. Bellamy figured it was pointless to delay. They couldn't stay in the drop ship forever.
The kids milled around, disoriented, and Bellamy took advantage of their confusion and indecision to take command of the situation. He made his way to the outside door, and his fingers were grasping at the handle, when he heard someone running down from the upper level.
"Stop!" she commanded, frantic. "The air could be toxic."
Bellamy turned, opened his mouth to say that in the end it wouldn't matter, but the words remained unspoken as all the air left his lungs.
It was Clarke. She was here. But of course she was. How could he have been so stupid? His only excuse was that his conversation with Shumway, and all that had followed, had pushed everything else right out of his head.
He could see the flicker of recognition in her eyes. And then, of course, the confusion. Bellamy forced himself to breathe, forced himself remain in control. There was still Octavia to think about. That hadn't changed.
He could deal with his feelings about Clarke Griffin later.
"If the air's toxic, we're all dead anyway," he said firmly.
And then Octavia spotted him and threw herself into his arms.
In that one moment, in that one brief hug with the beloved little sister he hadn't seen in more than a year, it all became worth it. Even if they all died the second he opened the door.
But they didn't die. Octavia stepped out into the sunshine and twirled about, all of a sudden freer than she'd ever been in her life. And he was very, very glad to be here to make sure that that didn't change. Bellamy buried his guilt and told himself that nothing was more important than Octavia's safety and happiness.
Soon all those youthful former prisoners were following his sister's lead, leaping about on the ground like they'd discovered the lost Eden. Which, he supposed, they had. Bellamy squeezed Octavia's shoulder and she smiled, then ran off to make more exciting discoveries about their new home.
"It's beautiful."
Bellamy heard her voice behind him and turned quickly.
"Very much like you described in your essay," he said, smiling.
Clarke's jaw dropped. "You were there?"
"I was," he nodded. "Just like everyone else I was in awe of the kid whose essay had beat out all us older kids. Then when I saw the drawings on the walls of your cell, well, it took me a while but I finally made the connection."
They weren't alone, there were others all around them, but no one within earshot.
"Bellamy...that's your first name, right?" Clarke's question was a little hesitant. "I heard her call you that. Your...your sister."
Bellamy nodded. The longer he gazed at her the more difficulty he seemed to have making his brain work.
"What I don't understand is...how can you be here?"
Bellamy sighed. He certainly hadn't counted on having to explain his presence to Clarke Griffin.
"I don't think you'll like me much when you hear about it, so maybe we can just put that conversation off for a while."
"Whenever you're ready," she agreed, "but it really won't matter."
"No?" He cocked his head inquiringly, sure that couldn't possibly be true.
Clarke shook her head, her lips turning up in a soft smile. "You gave me such a beautiful gift. After they took my charcoal away, looking at that hidden wall was all I had, the only thing that took my head out of that cell. That kept me sane."
"I'm glad," he said, smiling softly.
They were silent for a while, but it was a companionable silence. One that said we will speak again when we have something else to say.
She broke it finally. "I think I'll have to change the ending of the Earth Dreams essay."
"Oh?" he said, surprised.
"Yes. What I wrote was-", the timbre of her voice changed as she began to recite, "I am there, I am alone, and the Earth belongs to me once more."
"I remember," he nodded. "It sounded...a little sad."
"Yeah," she said, "but that's where the change comes in."
When Clarke reached over and grabbed his hand, Bellamy felt the contact down to his toes.
Her voice was soft but firm, her eyes happy as she looked up at him. "Because I'm not alone."
"No," Bellamy agreed, lacing their fingers together and holding on tight. "You're not alone."