A/N: I don't really even know what to say. This particular piece has been brewing for a while, but the end of season 2 was so... it broke me. It broke my Muses. It has been a long road back from that dark place. But please know how thrilled I am to once again have my internet life-partner, Marina Black, on board for this piece as well as the talented and glorious Persepholily and Lucawindmover. I don't know what I did to deserve these ladies!
A/N2: I have a husband, children, a career... writing fanfiction is a hobby, and like ALL the talented writers on here, I get paid only in feedback. So please take a second or two to let me know what you think! I'd be EVER so grateful.
When she arrived at the main gate to Camp Jaha one night, seemingly blown there by the heaviest of spring storms, it took Bellamy Blake several minutes to recognize her. She was no longer as gaunt, although even that change was almost impossible to ascertain beneath the grime and blood and soot and bruises and sodden layers of ragged, reclaimed clothes. It was her eyes that gave her away. He searched his memory for a name to go with those quick, clever eyes.
"...It's... Echo, isn't it?"
"Belomi kom Skaikru!" She seemed relieved, although again - emotions were as masked as the person herself on a night this dark, under rain this torrential. "Let me in! I have news, and you'll want to hear it."
Bellamy turned to the young man beside him. Miller - Nathan, he corrected himself, but damn it was a tough habit to break despite the months of reminders and the pissed off face Monty made every time – had found a beanie to replace the one taken at Mt Weather. It was more grey than black but he said he felt less naked this way, and Bellamy had to agree it suited him. The two men rarely bothered with words these days; a nod was enough. Nathan yanked the gate latch up, rolling aside the heavy metal barrier just enough to let the Grounder visitor inside. She might have Bellamy's trust, but Nathan was inclined to be suspicious. He saw no reason to give this woman more leeway than was absolutely necessary. The gate slammed closed again as soon as Echo was clear, and he insisted on searching her before permitting any reunions. Bellamy waited, irritated by these formalities but aware of the need to keep up appearances. He must be seen by the Grounders as a "Heda" at all times. Octavia and Lincoln would bitch at him for a week if he let such things slip.
When Nathan was satisfied he had confiscated all Echo's weapons, he escorted her to his leader. The weather was determined to make life difficult: the rain increased, pounded them violently, and Echo stepped close enough that Bellamy could feel the heat given off by her skin. She peered at him.
"I never thought to see you again," she admitted, a shout over the thunder of water pummeling hard-packed earth.
"You and me both," he yelled back. "Let's get you inside." Another quick glance at Nathan, and the orders rang out. Two new guards stepped up to fill their vacant spots as, with a gentle hand on Echo's elbow, Bellamy guided her into the fallen Ark. Nathan followed, barking at those milling around just inside the entrance, getting shit done so Bellamy wouldn't have to. Towels were produced. A small meeting room was vacated, chairs and trusted friends appeared, and all without a single breath wasted by the handsome young man with the sad dark eyes.
Echo smiled.
"I didn't realize," she began, foregoing a seat for now as she ran the towel over her long braids.
"Didn't realize…?" Bellamy prodded. He had settled into a chair on the far side of the room, one with a commanding view of the other occupants and the doorway. Kane slipped in belatedly, but he tucked himself into a shadow near the entrance, an observer only.
"You are Heda here," Echo pointed out. Her eyes widened with new respect. "I thought you were just a soldier. It seems I was mistaken."
"We lead differently," Bellamy said with a diffident shrug, intentionally keeping his answer vague. He himself wasn't always sure how to describe his place in Camp Jaha, but Echo seemed to accept his non-explanation.
"There are rumors," she admitted. "Most don't believe it possible to sustain leadership by committee – but I will tell them I've seen it with my own eyes."
Bellamy took a quick moment to assess the room. Miller – no, Nathan, dammit, and he'd been doing so well too – had pulled together just the right audience for this meeting. Octavia and Lincoln, the former eager, the latter tense (as he always was around other Grounders) hovered just behind Bellamy's right shoulder. Across from him sat Monty, Raven, and Wick. The first two carried themselves with the appropriate gravitas, and Wick… Bellamy knew he should like Kyle Wick, but just couldn't make it happen. Harper had taken the seat near Monty, a seat that, up until three months ago, would have been Jasper's. Kane, the quiet presence in the corner, and Nathan himself, seated to Bellamy's left, made up the rest of the participants.
No need to review who was absent.
"Can we get you anything? Food, water?" Wick asked. Octavia and Lincoln flinched at the engineer's cultural deafness. It was as if he refused to listen on purpose, enjoying the little discomforts these moments created. Raven sighed.
"Your generosity is… respected," Echo told Wick diplomatically. "But warriors would never take food from the mouths of families and children. We can fend for ourselves – and where I come from, to suggest otherwise is an insult." Bellamy refused to glance behind him: he could picture Octavia's haughty "I-told-you-so" expression without needing to see it in action.
"Echo, you said you have news."
"Yes. Your people are in need of help. One named Jaha and another, John Murphy. They're trying to stop the second coming of the end of the world, but they cannot do it alone."
A murmur ran through the gathered audience. Kane slipped away, his absence – like his presence – noted only by Bellamy. No doubt the Councilor was on his way to rouse Abby, to share this unexpected information.
"Excuse me, but how could you possibly know that?" Monty asked.
"Clarke told me. She's the one who sent me here."
There should have been some warning, Bellamy thought as the startled room faded into a haze around him, sounds drowned by the sudden swift beating of a heart he had not realized he'd sheltered away all these months. He had guarded that damn muscle against the sound of her name, the memory of her voice, and this was too abrupt a change in the status quo. Parts of his body – no, if he was honest, his whole body – hurt with the blow of Echo's news.
His chair clattered as it toppled and hit the metal grating of the floor. Someone grabbed his shoulder, and only then did Bellamy realize he was standing. Who held onto him with such a tight grip though? Octavia was strong but nothing like this, an iron claw pulling him back, grounding him, protecting him from himself. He followed the arm to its owner's face. Lincoln stared back, waking Bellamy from his temporary stupor. A silent reminder of the need to maintain their cool façade in front of this guest. Bellamy muttered a quick harmless apology and retrieved the fallen chair, taking advantage of the physical distraction to recover from the past few seconds.
"How did you even get to speak to… her?" Octavia asked, and Bellamy was rocked anew by the revelation that these people, his friends and family, had not said her name around him, once, in all the time since she left.
"She's been gone for months," Raven said, "Plenty of people assumed she was dead. Honestly, why should we believe you?"
"She gave me something, as proof. It's for you, Bellamy." From some inner pocket undiscovered in Nathan's pat down, Echo produced a small book. She handed it over casually, with all the grace of a weapons trade-off and Bellamy felt a blast of irrational anger that there was no dramatic swell of music or ominous bolt of lightning to accompany each new surprise this evening brought.
He ran his fingers over the dark leather spine of Clarke's journal. He was desperate to open it. His hands shook with the effort not to slip off the string holding it shut, his head pounded with the desire to excuse everyone from the room so he could explore the pages endlessly. To lose himself in the first tangible piece of her he had allowed himself since that chilly day a lifetime ago.
"It was a difficult journey to bring this to you," Echo continued, "But now is not the time for my story. Now, we must leave."
"Wait, hold up," Wick interrupted. Bellamy turned toward the man, as did Echo. "Say I believe you, that you've got this message from… from, uh, Clarke," and again there was no mistaking the hesitation, or the worried eyes as they flickered Bellamy's way, "What's your plan? We don't know where Jaha is, we don't know where Clarke is… and anyway, why didn't she just come tell us all this herself?"
Bellamy stood, walked to the doorway. Looking for Abby, he told himself. Behind him, Raven hissed at Wick.
"Kyle, stop!"
"No! I'm sorry, but her people totally screwed us over! For all we know, she killed Clarke and took that book off her body, as some ploy to get into Camp and finish Lexa's plan!"
Without wasting time on thought Bellamy turned and lunged, snagging Echo by the waist before she could reach Wick. He recognized murder in her disappointed snarl.
"Hey. I'm vouching for her," Bellamy warned the engineer. "That's going to have to be good enough for you." He released Echo once he was sure she had no intention of harming Raven's boyfriend, and settled back against the frame of the door to listen. The Grounder woman straightened her clothes and grimaced at Wick before responding.
"When Clarke and I parted, she was on her way to Polis. She said she had something she needed to do before she could return." Echo glanced at Bellamy, clearly worried by his blank face. "I assumed you would know what she meant." Her uncertainty carried into her voice. It was the first time since her arrival that she had seemed anything less than supremely confident of her mission. An awkward silence filled the space left by Echo's words, a silence Bellamy broke when he cleared his throat.
"It's too late to do anything tonight, and the weather is a mess anyway. We'll leave tomorrow. Echo, there's a spare room a few doors down. Harper will take you." Bellamy raised one eyebrow in pre-emptive response to Harper's protest, and she huffed but complied.
With their guest gone, six pairs of eyes turned to watch their leader. He dragged a rough hand over his face. No one dared speak. Not even Wick.
"Okay everyone. Bed."
They did not move, and Bellamy frowned.
"That's an order!"
Their defiant, sympathetic silence was painful. More painful than he could have possibly expected. He struggled to stay upright, to stay in command, to keep Her – the memory of her, the unexpected presence of her, the twisted-up promise of her – at bay long enough to do what had to be done.
"This isn't right." The words came out of Raven a strangled mess. Tears burned in the corners of her eyes. "You know it wasn't supposed to be like this, Bellamy. She was supposed to come home."
He turned and walked out of the room, pushing past a startled Abby, before anyone (Lincoln or Monty or, God forbid, Octavia) could catch his eye.
Tucked into a corner of the space station alone with Clarke's journal, Bellamy hesitated. At first he had been so sure he wanted to open it. At first the discovery of its existence had burned through him, the weight of the book in his hand a painful test of patience. But now there was no excuse and Bellamy Blake was terrified. What would Clarke consider worthy of committing to paper? Would she have chronicled her days since leaving him, or her private thoughts? And if it was the latter, could Bellamy bring himself to read that? It would be the worst kind of assault, letting himself into her private world... even if she had granted him tacit permission, when she passed it on to Echo.
"Dammit, Blake, pull it together," he grumbled to himself, and tugged at a loose end of string. He wrapped it carefully around his wrist, aware of the delay inherent in the act but refusing to rush.
The first page was a sketch, and Bellamy almost laughed at his own stupidity. Of course she would have used the paper for this. Why waste time with words, when an image could do so much more? And what an image: Camp Jaha, at sunset. Even with only charcoal as her medium, Clarke had somehow captured the way the sun's rays gleamed off the metal, the long shadows thrown over the ground, the warmth of those last minutes of daylight. Bellamy smiled and turned the page, and there was the dropship.
It hurt.
It shouldn't have, they'd barely lived there a month, but knowing that Clarke had missed it enough to return to it… And that when she had drawn it, she had elected to show it not as it was now – a dead hunk of charred grey metal sitting on soot-blackened ground – but as it had been, back when it was their home… It stung. Simple lines came to life under Bellamy's trailing fingers, delinquents milling around the yard, and he could almost feel the breeze kicking mildly at the parachute fabric covering the main entrance.
He stayed on this image far longer than the first, dissecting Clarke's style – her use of white space, the different ways she shaded the trees and the ship itself – until some inner voice prodded him: Clarke was not the kind of person to give a gift like this for purely sentimental reasons.
He held the journal up by its spine and shook, hoping something would fall free. One page – one nondescript page toward the middle of the book – shifted. Clarke must have been so careful, Bellamy realized as he flipped the journal open to the right spot, as he noted the way she had cut it almost-but-not-quite wholly free of the bindings, then lined it back up well enough that its presence would go undetected in a cursory examination. Bellamy grinned and bit back a mutinous thought ("That's my good girl, Clarke").
It was a map, bare-boned, hazy on details.
At the end of the route, an acronym: A.L.I.E.
Bellamy frowned, tugged the page free, flipped it over. There had to be more. This was… nothing. This was a road to nowhere; she had left no information about what they'd find when they got there, no clue as to what supplies they'd need or how many people. Was A.L.I.E. a new group of survivors? Were Murphy and Jaha in a Mount Weather situation? There had to be more. She must have sent him more than this.
"...Echo..."
He pushed himself upright and hurried to her, pausing only long enough to knock once before letting himself in to the dimly-lit room.
"Bellamy?" She was lying on top of the thin covers, still dressed in the dry inner layers of her traveling clothes. Always at the ready. Bellamy spared a moment to admire that kind of dedication.
"I need help."
"Of course." Echo swung her legs over the edge of the low cot, making room for him. Bellamy sank down beside her and showed her the map.
"Was there more to your message? Specifics about what we need to bring, what to do when we get to Jaha? Anything?" Bellamy stared at her, desperate. Echo nodded in understanding, but she seemed sad.
"I'm sorry, our conversations were not like that. We were in a group, and she spent most of her time answering the questions of the curious. Clarke is becoming famous among my people. We only had a few moments alone. But I'm sure the book is supposed to tell you everything you need to know."
Bellamy fanned back through the pages – image after beautiful image of the places Clarke had gone, the people she had met – but there was nothing helpful. Frustrated, he stood and threw the book onto the cot beside Echo.
"Well, it's pretty damn obvious I'm not smart enough to find whatever clues she left for me."
Echo did not answer. She picked up the journal, leafing through its pages slowly.
"She is very good, isn't she?"
"Hm."
"But what does this mean?" Echo pointed to a page from the second half of the book. Bellamy pulled closer, leaning over her shoulder to examine a sketch of Raven, one he had not seen before. It was Raven in silhouette, at work: determined, fierce, smiling. Her ponytail trailed over one slim shoulder; curled cleverly into those dark tresses were two sentences, Clarke's tidy handwriting unmistakable: She could have stopped Oppenheimer. Maybe she still can.
Echo looked up at Bellamy, mystified. His eyes were wide with understanding.
"Holy shit. Echo... It's a bomb."