"The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him." G.K. Chesterton
Air blew in from the cracked window, and Clarke set down her paintbrush. As she looked outside, she again wondered why her mother and her father's Lieutenant, Viceroy Jaha felt it a good idea to keep her sequestered away in this tower. If she really wanted to cause harm to herself, couldn't she just break the leaded pane, leap out of the tower and into the grassy bailey below? It would be all too simple. The glass wasn't barred and more than wide enough for a slender girl like herself to slip through. Not that Clarke wanted to hurt herself. Not anymore. That's what she kept trying to tell her mother now that she was speaking again. Months had passed since her father died, and Clarke knew the guard she'd attacked was healed now—aside from the scars. She was certain the "it's for your own safety" Queen Abby kept spouting really meant "it's for our safety." She hardly saw the point in keeping the 'Killer Princess' locked up anymore.
She turned back to the easel, looking at the landscape she had created practically without thinking. It was a riverbank in the woods where her father had taken her adventuring when she was ten. Clarke reached her fingers out, as if she could again find the injured rabbit, and nurse it back to health with the help of her mother. Looking back at it, she could almost imagine her father was still here, about to take her on another adventure...
"My lady?" A knock at the door.
"Come in, Glass," Clarke sighed, setting down her paintbrush in a jar of water. She smoothed her skirts and moved an errant strand of hair behind her ear. No matter what, she had to keep on her best behavior. Every servant reported back to the Queen.
Glass entered the room like a dormouse, small, brown, and piteously quiet. Clarke had the sneaking suspicion they assigned her introverted servants in the hope that maybe the Princess herself would become more timid.
"My lady, I just came to announce your mother. Queen Abby wishes to speak with you," Glass said, brown eyes to the floor.
Clarke would rather do anything in the world than talk with the Queen, but she couldn't say that. Her mother hadn't deigned to see her more than once or twice during her entire incarceration. Maybe today was the day she would be let out. Or hanged for her crimes. Did they hang princesses? Was assaulting a Guard grounds for being hanged? Clarke didn't know. Regardless, there was only one correct answer.
"Bring her in, please, Glass," Clarke said. Glass nodded and began to back out of the room, but not before she looked up and parted the curtain of muddy hair in front of her pale face.
"My lady, if I may be so bold?" she said.
"Please, speak freely," Clarke said. She hated that her maids felt to need to be scared of her.
Glass looked as if she was about to crack a smile, and said. "Before the Queen enters, you may wish to wipe away the streak of red paint on your cheek, my lady."
Clarke laughed and found her facecloth. "Thank you, Glass. I may be crazy, but I certainly hope I don't look it."
This time, the small girl did smile. "Never, my lady."
The door shut this time and Clarke looked in her mirror to wipe the red paint on her cheek. She hardly remembered using red, let alone getting so messy with it. Once she was certain she looked presentable for the Queen, she folded the cloth neatly and placed it next to the washbasin.
A knock sounded at the door, but the Queen didn't wait to be acknowledged. Queen Abigail Griffin looked as she always did: hair thrown back into a hasty braid, but face clear and dress immaculate. She had just gotten back from the healers. Abby's high cheekbones were flushed and Clarke could smell the lemongrass her mother chewed while helping the sick. When she wasn't too busy with politics, the Queen enjoyed working in the infirmary.
"Clarke," Queen Abby said, and swept her daughter into a bone-crushing hug. "How are you?"
"Locked in a tower," Clarke responded, returning the hug as little as could be counted as "hugging back".
Abby's full mouth turned down into a frown. "Well, I have news on that front, Clarke."
Clarke and Abby sat on opposite ends of Clarke's cushioned settee. The Queen reached for Clarke's hand, and she had a hard time not drawing away. This was the woman who had locked her in a tower after all. "What is it?"
"I was talking with Viceroy Jaha and Commander Kane and we've decided that you're okay to move back into the keep. The maids have said you've been nothing but calm, I mean, look at all the painting you've gotten done," the Queen said with a wide smile. Clarke took a moment to glance around the room, hardly remembering doing so many. Memories from her past were arrayed against the stones. The throne room for her coming out ball, walls arrayed in blue, green, and gold. A small girl she had met in the slums with the most gorgeous golden eyes. Wells and her playing next to a small pond. They were all there. Good memories and bad. The familiar scenes helped when she awoke screaming and recognized nothing in the small circular room which held none of her things, only a canopied bed, a small settee, and a writing desk. Her easel had been brought up later. The paintings brought her some kind of solace, albeit small.
"There's not much else to do, mother, unless one enjoys throwing themselves out of windows," Clarke said, twisting up her fingers in the fabric of her skirts.
"Clarke," her mother scolded, voice dropping.
"Kidding, mother. I'm only joking with you," Clarke said, unclenching her fingers and forcing a smile at the Queen.
Abby sighed and nodded. "Yes, well. Please try to not 'kid' like that around Commander Kane. He took some convincing to let you out this early at all."
"If I promise, does that mean I can go back to my own rooms?" Clarke said, hating how yearning and hopeful her voice sounded. Clarke was stronger than this. She needed no one but herself. Not her mother, not her father, and especially not Wells. Not after what he did.
"You don't even need to promise, you're free to go," Queen Abby said, standing and gesturing to the door. Without another word, Clarke was running down the spiral staircase, not even caring about slipping.
"I'll have your paintings sent to your chambers," the Queen called after her. It had been four months since she had left that small tower room, and she was excited to be free. Guardsmen stared as she moved quickly through the halls, she paused every so often, smiling and nodding at some. She didn't hate guards. Didn't even hate the one she hurt, and she didn't want to get that kind of reputation. Clarke was a healer, not a fighter.
When Clarke threw open the door at the bottom of the tower and entered the inner bailey she had to shield her eyes. The sun was high in the sky, alighting on the green grass and the dirt where the guardsmen trained. A dozen or so trained with bows and arrows three hundred yards from her, but she left them be. She was so happy to be free she was nearly crying, and having a confrontation with the guards wouldn't help. Everything smelled fresh and clean compared to the musty air of the tower, and Clarke was nearly skipping as she made her way to the doors of the main keep.
She had just closed her eyes and taken a deep breath when she felt someone grab her arm.
"Princess Clarke," A deep voice said stoically. She looked up into the lined face of Commander Marcus Kane.
"Commander Kane," Clarke said, feeling the need to curtsy despite her higher status. "How lovely to see you."
"And the same to you, Princess. I see Queen Abby has already gotten to you," he said, back straight, arms crossed behind his back, uniform crisp and creased in all the right places. "Lovely" didn't seem to be a word in his vocabulary.
"I suppose thanks are in order for that, Commander," Clarke said smiling. She wanted to be off, not dawdling talking to a man she didn't even like. But societal expectations still stood.
"Yes, well," He looked down his nose at her. "Don't let me think it was a mistake."
Clarke pretended she hadn't taken that as an offense. "Of course. Where are you off to?"
"There's a newly sworn group of Cadets with whom I need to talk. I must be going. We'll talk later, Princess, about what you've done." he said, gave a half bow, and walked quickly toward the gate and the outer bailey.
Commander Kane was still the brusque, no-nonsense man he'd always been. Kane always went with the letter of the law, leaving Viceroy Jaha and King Jake to try and pull the humanity out of him. Clarke sighed and opened the door into the inner keep.
The ceilings were high, cavernous even, and the air smelled of floral perfume and baking bread. Tapestries with the royal seal donned the walls at evenly spaced increments, interspersed with unlit torches that burned throughout the nights. Clarke passed door after door while making her way to the royal quarters. Even here, the guards posted at every corner still wouldn't make eye contact with her. Frankly, it was getting ridiculous now. She was just a girl, and weren't they the ones supposed to be protecting her?
Just as she was making the final turn that would lead to her chambers, she ran smack into a young guardsman. A young, attractive guardsman. The guard was a little taller than herself, with wavy brown hair that was only a touch too long for regulation and laughing brown eyes. He filled out the uniform nicely, navy velvet doublet overtop brown woolen breeches with a surcoat emblazoned with the Griffin family coat-of-arms, sword strapped around his narrow waist.
"Sorry, m'lady, didn't mean to run into you there," His every syllable flirted, mischievous smile across his face.
"It is quite alright. I should've been paying more attention, Guard?"
"Collins. Finn Collins, m'lady," He said with a smile. "I mean, my princess."
"Well, thank you for catching me before I fell, Guard Collins," Clarke said. "But you don't need to stay. The Killer Princess is on the loose."
She thought she heard his say, "She is, isn't she?" but Clarke was later certain she'd imagined it. "It is all in a day's work, my princess. Would you like me to see you to your chambers?"
"I'll be fine. Have a nice evening," Clarke said. Finn bowed loosely and continued along the hallway.
It was nice to know not every guard was afraid of touching her. But she needed to put the cute guardsman out of her mind. She had other things to do.
With a few more steps, she was back in her room. The bed covers were folded back, new flower arrangement on her vanity. But Clarke didn't pause to admire them, this was only a stop on the way. The tower had been a pleasant prison, but a prison nonetheless. There was nothing more she wanted to do than to rid herself of the feeling of being kept and to get out into the world and see her people. Clarke grabbed her cloak, pulled out the pins from her chignon and moved toward the kitchens. A trip into the heart of Coeur d'Arc was long overdue.
The first stop was the kitchens, where she greeted the chef, who was as stern yet cordial as he'd always been. Apparently he hadn't heard about her outburst, or had and didn't care. Regardless, he freely gave the few loaves of bread, round of cheese and apples she'd asked for. Clarke wished she could carry more. She had been gone a long time, and Clarke knew there was more she wished to do, but she had days and days. Best to get out there now instead of spending time gathering supplies. Chef gave her a knowing smile and ushered her out the door. She nodded her thanks, flashing him a grin. Once the door closed in the kitchens, Clarke twisted and turned through a few other halls before she snuck behind a dusty old tapestry and into the tunnel it hid.
Hours passed as Clarke snuck through the slums of Coeur d'Arc. She loved nothing more than this, not even painting. Here, she wasn't Princess Clarke, with all the responsibilities that came with the title, she was just the kindly Giver, who was there to help those who needed it, no questions asked. Clarke savored every moment of it.
No one there knew who she really was, she made sure of that. Clarke wasn't stupid, and she knew if anyone in the slums found out that the Giver was really Princess Clarke, she'd be held for ransom faster than you could say "Killer Princess." She didn't blame them for that. Everyone wanted safety and full bellies, and money could buy them that. Clarke just didn't enjoy the thought of being ransomed. So she donned a cloak, let her hair down, rubbed dirt into her dresses
She passed out the bread, cheese, and apples, smiling all the while. The youngest children were always happy to see her, their malnourished bellies all they were really worried about. Their eyes were still bright, then, full of hope. When they saw her, they would jump up and give hugs. Clarke didn't mind the sour smell of their unwashed bodies or the dirt they got in her hair. How could you be angry with a laughing child in your arms?
The older kids were harder. The light in their eyes had long since gone out. Some wouldn't even accept handouts, their pride stronger than the ache in their stomachs. Most of the adults were too drunk to eve know they needed help. These were the ones who made her saddest. Clarke saw more injuries than she cared to admit. Cuts from knife fights that had festered and oozed yellow pus and bruises, broken noses, and split lips were all too common. The flu had also broken out and many homes were covered in vomit and diarrhea. One small boy, named Fillmore, Filly for short, had fallen off a wall and had broken his leg. The bone poked through the skin and Clarke knew this was beyond her expertise. She toyed with the idea of sneaking him into the castle infirmary, but wasn't sure of what she could really do.
When Clarke finally looked to the sky, she saw the sun had sunk low. Her mother would be expecting her back. Tomorrow, she swore, she'd be back with bandages and poultices, real medicine, things she could help the sick with. Bread and cheese alone did not a healthy life make. Her supplies were gone too soon, but she knew she needed to be sneaking back to the castle. Despite her newfound freedom, the Queen would be looking for her, if only to discuss what had happened to King Jake, and what she as a Princess needed to do in the wake of the disaster. Basically, everything Clarke wanted to avoid.
Clarke stole through the town, slipping through back alleyways until she got to the entrance of the tunnel she regularly used, a trapdoor in the floor of a blacksmith's shop called Little Bird, run by a slim girl with the soul of a lion called Raven. Raven didn't acknowledge Clarke except for a smile and a knowing nod while she distracted the patrons up front. The Princess was thankful Raven still was in on their deal despite Clarke's weeks locked away. Sneaking in and out would be much harder without her help.
The tunnel Clarke used to sneak back in was much dirtier in the one she used to sneak out. But at this hour, servants would be rushing back and forth through that hallway, and getting caught the first time had been enough for Clarke. It was only later she had found this lesser used tunnel. It was dank and nearly black as pitch, but Clarke knew her way well enough that she was able to avoid most of the holes and puddles in the floor. It led up into the inner keep's prison and was far enough out of the way that she'd never been caught. Water dripped from the ceiling when Clarke knew she was crossing underneath the moat and before long, she was cracking the gate at the end of the tunnel and peeking her head out into the prison. The posted guard was drunk as usual, snoozing soundly in the far corner, head tilted back and drool dripping from his chin. She knew from experience that his sleep was deeper than the dead. Clarke had long since lost her fear that he was going to catch her one of these days. She flipped back her hood and stepped quickly across the dirty rushes on the floor, ignoring calls for help from the cells. The keening for a reprieve, of a "please m'lady, I didn't do it," was near constant. Prisoners might recognize the princess, but more often than not, they assumed an unshackled woman in the prison was just a passing maiden fair, someone who might be paid off to help. The last cell, furthest from the guard, was silent. This strange silence was enough to give Clarke pause. Much to her chagrin, the cells were always at capacity, and no one wanted a rotting corpse beneath the castle.
But the inhabitant of the cell wasn't a corpse, it was a girl. She was perhaps sixteen, seventeen maybe, with long dark hair that hung lankly down her back. Her wide brown eyes seemed at once both scared and defiant, and she curled in on herself in a way that seemed nearly innate, as if she'd been used to keeping herself small her entire life. Without thinking, Clarke acted on a whim.
"What's your name?" Clarke said, stepping up to the bars.
The girl opened her mouth, then shut it, as if deciding it wouldn't be a good idea.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Clarke said. "Please, just tell me your name."
She swallowed. "Octavia. My name is Octavia Blake."
"Well Octavia," Clarke said, "What are you in here for?"
Octavia looked over at the guard as if he was listening. The other prisoners had kept up their racket though, and he was still dead asleep.
"You're not going to get in more trouble, I promise." Clarke crouched, trying to make herself as non-threatening as possible. The people from the slums of Coeur d'Arc were often mistrustful by nature.
"Stealing," Octavia said after a few more moments. "I stole some bread and medicine for some other kids. They were starving, and I just—"
"Wanted to help, I understand." Clarke stood and brushed some straw from her knees. Maybe there was something to talk to her mother about after all. Normally only murderers and rapists were kept in the cells beneath the keep. Detaining children, petty thieves no less, down here was just plain wrong. Lesser criminals were kept in cells closer to the heart of the city, in wooden cells with regular meals and cleaner floors. It still was no holiday, but it was far more humane than this. "It was nice meeting you, Octavia. Hopefully I'll see you again."
"Doubt it," Octavia said, voice filled with the despair.
Clarke didn't respond, just dug in her cloak seeing if she could find anything left from her visit to the slums. She found a single apple and set it on a cleaner section of Octavia's cell. Before Octavia could say anything, Clarke gave a wobbly smile and continued to her room. Queen Abby and Viceroy Jaha were going to get an earful from her after all, and she'd be damned if she didn't look like a Princess while she did it.
Bellamy Blake was damned if he was going to let his little sister rot in that hellhole any longer than need be. It had already been a week since she'd been caught stealing from the fattest, most repugnant of the merchants in the town square and Bellamy was itching to punch the bastard...again. He didn't need to call the Guard on her. Most wouldn't. But this idiot was so aghast that a 'slum rat' would steal from him that he called down the Provost and had her sent to the keep. Bellamy had served him his due. The children in the slums around Bellamy were a little fatter than before, and the merchant himself had gained a more than a few new scrapes. What wonders a cloak and a well-placed punch could do.
But that justice didn't get his sister out of the keep's cells, so here he was at the crack of dawn with a bunch of do-gooding idiots after joining the castle guard just so he could sneak in and get his sister. A hundred or so men and teenaged boys stood in loose lines in the outer bailey of the Castle. It was the first they'd been let in the walls at all. The barracks were across the shit-filled moat and the track they would train on was outside the outer bailey. They weren't worthy to be in front of the keep in the inner bailey. Not yet at least. They were merely cadets, not guardsmen and only guardsmen had access to the keep—and the prison.
Some privileged, pompous toad stood on a box at the front rattling on to them about duties and training and oaths they swore to the crown. Bellamy tried to drown him out. He was just so damned tired. Couldn't they at least sleep until the sun was up? Someone had told him to be happy to be up this early. In the afternoons, the wind would waft the scent of the moat over to them. Apparently all Cadets ended up smelling of human shit and rotten food. There was nothing good to focus on here, least of all his oath or the "duties of the job" the rich guy was talking about. Bellamy may have said the oath with everyone else, but no way in hell would he be serving the crown. He would serve himself and his sister. Everyone else could do whatever the hell they wanted.
After much too long a time, the idiot finally stepped down and let himself through the gate and into the inner bailey.
"Can you believe it? That was Commander Kane. He actually talked to us," one of the younger guys said beside Bellamy, voice filled with awe. Bellamy didn't even deign to respond, just followed the herd for more training. This whole ordeal might be the worst thing he'd ever suffered through, but if it got him and Octavia out of here for good, and gave him more to deal with the world that only wanted to hurt them, he would do it.
After running nearly ten miles, Bellamy felt like collapsing. Lungs still heaving, he wiped at his forehead with a gritty hand looking up at the high outer curtain wall. The sun was setting quickly and he hoped that meant they would be able to go back to the barracks on the other side of the moat and sleep. He never wished to be that familiar with the track just outside the bailey ever again. Sweat soaked every article of clothing making them chafe under his arms and between his legs, and his shoes were rubbing his toes raw. He blinked rapidly, trying to get the sting of the salt to go away, but he felt too tired doing even that. Hell, his legs shook even trying to stand. Bellamy thought he was strong, stronger than most anyway, despite him giving up most of his food to Octavia whenever she was hungry. He'd never been proven so wrong in his life. When he joined the Guard, he thought it would take him a few days at most to slip away into the keep and break his sister out, but so far, he hadn't even had the opportunity to take a breather, let alone the hours he would need to do that kind of sneaking around. From dawn until dusk, they ran, did strength exercises, trained with swords, bows, daggers, and spears just outside the castle walls. Bellamy had thought they'd be let into the inner bailey by now, after nearly a week, but he hadn't even gotten a glimpse of the inner curtain wall. He heard from one of the trainers that further on, you could go on to tactics classes within the keep if they thought you were good enough, maybe even be promoted to a Captain.
"Why would anyone want to do that kind of extra work?" Bellamy said, mostly to himself.
The trainer had looked at Bellamy and pointed at him with the spear he had been demonstrating a move with. "With hard work comes reward, boy. That's what we're trying to teach you here. When you're a Captain, you're not just put up in the castle, your whole family could stay. The crown pays loyal servants well."
Bellamy perked up at that thought. While he mistrusted anything even having to do with the King or Queen—just the Queen now, and the Viceroy, since the King died, no Princess to deal with either since she went crazy—the thought of having Octavia safe within the walls of the castle warmed him to the core. He would do what it took to be Captain, then, suffer through all of the training it took. Breaking Octavia out of prison for a life on the run was one thing, but getting her a permanent place in the castle? Being a captain meant having a spot where he could have power to change things. Maybe if he was captain, he could get the monarchs to realize how they treated their own people like shit. Few across Coeur d'Arc though highly of the King and Queen, and he'd heard more than one group of drunks talking of a coux. If he was on top, he could either change things for the good, or help the drunks with what they wanted. Bellamy could hardly contain his excitement as he neatly impaled the straw-stuffed dummy in front of him.
A/N: Hopefully you guys enjoyed this first chapter! This story is going to be a slow burn (but hopefully worth it) but don't worry, it is most assuredly Bellarke. Please let me know what you thought, as I found finding Bellamy's voice was especially hard. Thanks to my beta Fish Wishes for looking over this!
I should be updating this once a week (I already have the first three chapters written) and I have everything already plotted out.
Thanks for reading!
Bliss