"Nothing is more wretched than the mind of a man conscious of guilt." -Plautus

272 days.

272 days had passed since the downfall of Mount Weather. 272 days had passed since Bellamy Blake had pulled the lever that enabled the irradiation of level 5. 272 days had passed since he aided in the massacre of 320 people. 272 days had passed since he had murdered innocents. 272 days had passed since Jasper hadn't looked at Bellamy and Monty without raw hatred in his eyes.

In those 272 days, the last warm rays of summer sunlight had faded. The leaves had turned from green, to orange, to brown, then fell, leaving the trees naked. The nightly noises from the wild animals had disappeared, only to be replaced with the biting cold of winter. It had snowed. And snowed. Then the frosty air had slowly become humid, the snow had melted, and Bellamy could once again see the grass beneath his feet. Flowers had bloomed and the animals had woken from their long months of hibernation.

There had been one constant in the changing of the seasons; a constant that filled Bellamy to the core with loathing and grief, that rendered him unable to cope with the guilt that had consumed him for the past nine months:

272 days had passed since she left.

Bellamy sighed, pushed the thoughts of the past year into the back of his mind, and swam further into the cool river he was bathing in. He could have washed back at Camp Jaha - there was a shower in his recently-built house - but he preferred the solitude of nature, where he could escape the buzz of civilization and try to forget the events of 272 days ago. But, in the end, no amount of soap and scrubbing could remove the blood of the 320 lives he had on his hands.

272 days ago, Bellamy had been welcomed back as a hero by the Arkers. They celebrated him, looked up to him, and were grateful to him because of the people he had saved. The more he was commemorated, the emptier Bellamy felt. Everytime he was called a savior, his conscience only heard murderer.

He had even been given a seat on the Council, much to the delight of the remaining 100. Bellamy was the youngest Councilman in history. But when he heard the words Councilman Blake, all he could think about was how much he would rather have her with him, co-leading like they once had back before they had scorched 300 Grounders with rocket fuel and discovered the men draining innocents of their blood under the mountain.

The people that had fought - the people who had walked the halls alongside him and seen firsthand the hundreds of dead bodies mutilated beyond recognition by radiation - pitied him. Or, in some cases, detested him.

Raven, Monty, Miller, and many others had tried to console him with empty lies.

You did what you had to do.

There was no other option.

We wouldn't have survived without you.

We understand.

That one was the worst, and held the least truth. The only person who could understand the shame and the pain and the self-loathing was her.

And she had abandoned him, like the coward that she was.

Octavia's words were the only ones that were able to occasionally soothe his aching heart, but she had her own post-war problems. And she had Lincoln. Bellamy had no one.

At the sound of a twig snapping, Bellamy was pulled from his thoughts. He turned around in the water, silently hoping a Grounder wasn't in the area. There was no way to clearly define the relationship between the Arkers and the Grounders since Lexa's betrayal. It definitely wasn't peaceful, but it wasn't quite hostile either. Feelings of resentment still lingered among the Arkers, but the last thing they wanted was another war on their hands. The Grounders weren't open to negotiating any treaties, but didn't feel the need to antagonize the Arkers. The two societies just preferred to avoid any interactions at all costs. A sigh of relief escaped Bellamy when he realized the intruder was only a rabbit.

Light was fading, orange and pink streaks in the sky signaling the oncoming sunset. Bellamy's heart tightened, and he thought back to when he had seen his first sunset on earth. It was still shocking to him how much his life had changed since he had been strutting around camp chanting "whatever the hell you want."

Bellamy heaved himself out of the river and dressed quickly, then began jogging back to Camp Jaha. He was focusing on keeping his footfalls silent - he didn't want to make his presence known to any Grounders or wildlife in the area - when his foot caught on something and he fell face first to the ground. Brushing the dirt off of his clothes, he noticed a book lying in the dirt - the object that must have thrown him off-balance. He picked it up, and inspected the weathered brown leather cover. It had no title or name, but there was a small C carved into the lower right corner. The book resembled some sort of journal, similar to the one Lincoln once had, and was tied shut with a frayed twine cord. If it weren't for the the rapidly depleting daylight, Bellamy would have opened it and examined it further, but he needed to keep moving if he wanted to make it back to Camp Jaha before dark. Being alone in the forest at night unarmed was never a great idea. He threw the book into his pack and continued his trek - uncovering the book's secrets would have to wait.

"You busy later tonight?"

Bellamy's head snapped towards the voice, and his eyes landed on the blonde girl who had plopped down at the seat next to him in the bar. What was her name again? Nicole? Lindsey? She was wearing a too-tight shirt - obviously trying to draw attention to her curves - and was smiling at him with what he guessed was attempted seduction.

It wasn't a secret that Bellamy got around. He'd reverted to the habits he had at the dropship campsite, when he used to host a different girl in his bed each night. This was just another coping mechanism - his guilt forgotten, if only for a little while, in the arms of some nameless girl.

Bellamy was just about to say that he was, in fact, not busy, when he remembered the leather book he found in the forest that he still hadn't opened.

"Actually, I'm very busy tonight," Bellamy replied quickly, and shot up out of his chair. He dropped a few dollars - the Arkers had developed currency, similar to America's old currency system - on the counter by his emptied moonshine glass and rushed out of the bar, leaving Nicole (Lindsey?) with a bewildered expression on her face.

The night air was slightly cold, as it was still early in the spring, when Bellamy started walking down the street towards his house. Camp Jaha was now more of a small town than a camp. Houses had been built, along with several stores, and everyone had access to electricity and running water. Being a councilman, Bellamy had been given one of the larger houses in Camp Jaha - not that he needed all the space. He hadn't even furnished most of it.

That was one of the things he hated about being a Councilman - the special treatment. Back on the ark, Bellamy had resented the Council - well, the upper class in general - and blamed them for his life of poverty and splitting up of family. The only reason Bellamy accepted the position was so that he could try and make a difference in the lives of kids who had it rough, just like he did growing up, kids like the remaining 100.

Bellamy quickly unlocked his house, the anticipation of looking in that book building inside of him, and all but sprinted upstairs to his bedroom where he had earlier deposited his pack. Moments later he was sprawled on his bed, the leatherbound book in his hands. Slowly, he undid the twine holding it shut.

The contents of the first page took his breath away.

It was a drawing of the old dropship campsite. The artist had only used a pencil, but they had captured his old home perfectly. He didn't know how a drawing without color could illustrate something so vividly and beautifully - the grass on the ground, the rusted and cracked exterior of the ship, the setting sun in the background.

Bellamy only knew one person who could draw like this, with so much brilliance.

Her.

"Clarke," he whispered, his voice void of emotion. Realizing the journal was hers, he almost decided to throw it out, but his curiosity compelled him to keep looking.

He flipped to the next page, upon which she had illustrated Camp Jaha, with her mother and Kane standing next to the dropship conversing. The detail was, once again, astonishing. The next drawing was of Raven, after she had first landed on earth, still wearing her spacesuit. Then it was Octavia, taking her first step on earth, amazement lighting up her face. Jasper, wearing his goofy goggles, huddled over some plants with Monty. Finn smiling, standing inside of that bunker hidden in the woods. Wells laughing beside a campfire.

The next couple of sketches made Bellamy's heart race and his hands shake.

Tondc after the bombing. Finn tied to a post, shirt soaked with blood. Lincoln, as a reaper, with a feral glint in his eyes. Grounders locked up in rows of cages. Anya, face caked with dirt and blood with a bullet wound in her chest. Dante Wallace being held at gunpoint, fear written all over his face. Jasper weeping while clutching Maya's body, radiation burns covering every inch of her skin.

Each image was so graphic, so real; and he was experiencing each memory all over again.

Then, there was the drawing of Bellamy, 272 days ago.

He was in the control room back at Mount Weather, wearing Lovejoy's uniform, with his hand on that lever, on top of Clarke's gloved one. Everything, from the messy dark curls on his head to the dimple on his chin to the freckles on his nose to the stubble on his jaw was drawn in excruciating detail. But it was Bellamy's eyes, drawn so, so vividly, that made him shiver. The fear in them was evident, yet, she had also been able to capture the pure determination in them. The determination to save his people, to save his friends. The determination that had made him pull the lever.

Bellamy stared at that picture for what felt like hours, until he could no longer bear the onslaught of memories and emotions that attacked his mind. He turned the page.

And there was Lexa, staring back up at him on the paper.

The drawing was done from a birds eye view perspective, of her laying on a bed. Her long, wavy hair was loose and falling away from her face, a lazy smile gracing her lips. The young commander looked so at ease, so carefree; something that Bellamy never thought Lexa was capable of. What surprised him the most, though, was the overflow of emotion in her eyes. It wasn't love, he knew that. It wasn't the way Octavia and Lincoln looked at each other, or the way Jasper used to look at Maya. But there was definitely affection in Lexa's gaze.

Bellamy had heard the rumors, just like everyone else, that Lexa and Clarke had been more than just allies during their time together in the war. He didn't know if they were true, and he didn't give a damn. He hadn't given a damn about anything involving Clarke since she left him to deal with the Mount Weather aftermath on his own. It was obvious she didn't need him like she once claimed to.

But sometimes he wondered...where was she? What was she doing? Who was she with? Was she even alive?

A rush of anger suddenly overcame Bellamy, and he threw her book as hard as he could at the wall opposite him. It landed on the floor with a loud thud.

Clarke Griffin could rot in hell for all Bellamy Blake cared.

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