So... Yeah, I have no idea where this came from. I should be studying for my midterms (which I am going to get back to right now).

This is my first 100 fanfic (though I am in the process of writing another one, also Bellarke-much more obvious than in here), so please, do tell me how I did. This is about something that's been bugging me since the Winter finale, and I just really need someone to say this, okay?

Also, in the end, you'll find a small sneak peek for the other story, which is almost finished (it's a monster, it's at 6000+ words already and I still need to add three more (big) scenes), and also a Bellarke oneshot. Lemme know what you think about that one too, please!

This is unedited and unbeta'd and was written in less than fifteen minutes, so I apologize for the mistakes and such. I'll find time to pick them out and edit them later.

For now, I must bid thee adieu!

May we meet again (preferably in the form of reviews ;))

Love, Annaelle

Letting Go

"In the long run, we shape our lives, and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility."
—Eleanor Roosevelt

Of all the people that could've cornered her to 'talk some sense into her', Octavia Blake really had been the last person on the entire planet that she expected. Not that she doesn't like the younger Blake—she does, very much so, even admires the younger girl's strength at times—but it's not like they are actually friends.

Clarke had always considered herself to be closer to Bellamy—they were co-leaders, after all—so it's a huge surprise when she hears the tent flap ruffle and turns, halfway through telling either Bellamy or her mother to piss off, when she realizes it's Octavia.

"Oh," she stutters, a little caught off guard, "it's you. I thought it might be—"she cuts off there, suddenly painfully aware that other than her mother and Bellamy, no one has actively tried to seek her out since she… Since Finn died. She doesn't blame them—the Arkers are still too soft for Earth, and she knows that they have yet to learn the price of surviving.

"I know," Octavia smiles, "I was just hoping you'd want to join me—I'm going to see Lincoln at his village. Nyko said he'd be glad to host for you as well. Bell told me that people are being pretty stupid about everything here—I thought you might like a break."

Clarke stares at her for a moment, at a loss for words—because Octavia is acting perfectly normal. She's talking to her like it's just another day trip, like Clarke isn't responsible for Finn's death, for Raven being so angry and hurt that she's still lashing out at everyone who dares approach her (especially Wick, who refuses to back down).

"I—" she struggles with her words for a moment, shaking her head to clear her thoughts—and God, it's so hard to think of anything but Finn's whispered 'Thanks, Princess' when she slid the knife between his ribs and felt his warm blood drip onto her fingers—, "I'm not sure if that's such a good idea, Octavia. Thanks for the offer though," she adds, before shooting her a quick, tight smile as she turns around, back to her sketchbook.

She expects Octavia to sigh, to shake her head and then leave—it's what her mom usually does, and it's what Bellamy does when she kicks him out in the morning (she's not strong enough to do it at night, because damn him, but she needs him, and she needs the confirmation that he's still there when she wakes up from another nightmare; she needs to touch him and feel him and kiss him and just make sure)—but the younger Blake surprises her once again.

"Oh no," Octavia declares, "I am not treating you with kid gloves—" she grabs Clarke's arm and forces her to turn around again, glaring at the blonde. "Snap out of it, Clarke." Clarke's so startled by Octavia's sudden mood change that she just lets the brunette manhandle her onto the small bed, staring up at her in astonishment—what the hell?

"What the hell, Octavia?" She hisses angrily, rubbing her hand over the sore spot on her arm where Octavia had grabbed her.

"Oh, you heard me," Octavia crosses her arms over her chest and raises an eyebrow at her and Clarke has no clue what is going on. "Snap out of it," Octavia enunciates slowly, "I get that you're sad, hell, I even get that you feel a little guilty—but what happened to Finn was not your fault."

Something rises from deep within Clarke, a hidden kind of darkness that protests vehemently against the mere idea that she's not to fault for Finn's fate—not only had she been his executioner, he went on a killing spree because of her.

He'd even told her so.

Even Lexa had agreed that Finn's death was Clarke's burden to bear.

"He did it because of me," she protests, though it sounds weak, even to her own ears, "It's my fault. I killed him, Octavia—he died for me."

Before she's even done talking, Octavia is shaking her head, grabbing Clarke's shoulders and shaking her a little. "Finn did what he did for himself, Clarke. You're not anymore responsible for his actions than I was for what Bellamy did for the Chancellor up on the Ark." Octavia's voice is strong and determined, and for the first time, the words really sink in—but there's still that small voice in the back of her head (that sounds suspiciously like Finn) that insists it's on her because he loved her and he killed them in the name of that love.

"But he did it for me," she whispers brokenly, feeling the same nausea she felt when she'd seen what Finn had done in Lincoln's village well up in the pit of her stomach, tears burning in the corners of her eyes, "He said he did it because he loved me and needed to find me."

"Bullshit," Octavia states so matter-of-factly, it shocks Clarke to the core.

"What?"

"Bullshit," Octavia repeats, "If Bellamy shooting Jaha on the Ark for me isn't my fault, then Finn shooting all those people isn't your fault either. They're their own people, and they are responsible for their own actions. Finn killed eighteen women and children in cold blood—he paid for it."

"But he loved me," Clarke whispers pathetically, because if she dismisses that, what does everything even mean anymore? If she dismisses that he did it for her, even if she never asked for him to do it, won't he have died for nothing?

"And Bellamy loves me," Octavia replies without missing a beat, "But I am not letting him shove off the responsibility of something he did on me. And you shouldn't let Finn either—love or not."

"But—" Clarke chokes, unsure of what to say, what to do, what to think, "he—it's different…"

"Really?" Octavia raises an eyebrow, "You really think Finn loved you—whom he met two weeks ago—more than Bellamy loves me? Or that I somehow love the brother who's taken care of me my entire life less than you cared about Finn? Is that what you think—because if it is, please… Get the hell over yourself. You might be pretty cool, but you're not that special."

Clarke stares at Octavia openmouthed, every idea she'd forced herself to believe after Finn died lying shattered at her feet, curtsey of one very smug Octavia Blake.

"No," she finally whispers, "No, I don't think that. I just…"

"I know, Clarke," Octavia sighs, sinking to her knees before Clarke, taking her hands in hers, "And I get it. I do—but you need to let go of the idea that you were somehow the one to convince Finn to pull that trigger. No one but him killed those villagers—no one but him decided to pull the trigger. No one but Finn is responsible for their death's—including his own. You saved him from a horrible death, Clarke—you showed him mercy."

Tears are freely running down Clarke's cheeks now, and she feels like she's drowning because she knows that what Octavia is saying is true, but it hurts.

It hurts having to let go of the perfect image she'd had of Finn.

It had just been so much easier to take the blame on herself—everyone else seemed to think it was her fault anyway (except those damn Blake siblings, of course—she both loves and hates them for believing in her so much—though she might just stick to love when it comes to the elder Blake).

"That's it," Octavia smiles sadly when Clarke starts sobbing in earnest, wrapping her in a gentle, warm hug, "That's it. Let it out, Clarke—trust me, you'll feel loads better later. I bet you'll feel good enough to actually let Bellamy stay the night this time, instead of kicking him out every time."

Clarke snorts a laugh and hugs Octavia back tightly. "Thank you, O," she whispers into Octavia's shoulder, rubbing her fingers over her forehead—she hates the headache that comes along with crying so violently—, "So much."

"You're welcome," Octavia grins widely, "I'll go get my brother so you can cry all over him—I'm pretty sure he won't mind so much, since it's you."

Clarke smiles weakly and nods, watching Octavia practically skip out of her tent—smug little…—, as she reconsiders their conversation. It feels sickening and like she's betraying Finn by thinking it—but Octavia's right.

She's not Finn's keeper.

She's not responsible for the stupid things he did.

And maybe, she considers when Bellamy walks into her tent, maybe she doesn't need to punish herself at all—maybe she's allowed to move on and enjoy her life.

"Hey," Bellamy smiles uncertainly, "O said you needed me."

"Yeah," she nods, an invisible weight falling from her shoulders as she gets up and moves towards him, tiptoeing to wrap her arms around him, "I do."

And then she kisses him.

End.

And then the small sneak peek into the upcoming oneshot, which will be called 'A New England'.

He wonders how he got here all the time.

How did his—their—life get to this point at all?

He used to be detached from everything and everyone, except Octavia and his mom, and he had liked it that way. He'd liked that he had no one but his little three-person-family to worry about (not that that little family hadn't caused enough worries for a whole damn country full of people).

It had changed after he followed Octavia to Earth, of course.

Not at first—but slowly, after a few weeks, he started to care about the ragtag bunch of children that was the Hundred.

First, he cared only about Octavia—Clarke followed so swiftly, it was almost natural… And before he knew it, he found himself caring. Not just about his own life, but also about theirs—even about the people still on the Ark.

It only went downhill from there—the battle with the Grounders, finding the Arkers that had crash landed on earth, Octavia, Clarke (and damn her for making him feel like he couldn't breathe until he knew she was okay), watching Fin die, watching Clarke fall apart under the weight of her guilt while he was trying to hold her together, rescuing the remaining forty-six from Mount Weather (or Mount Doom, as Jasper and Monty had dubbed it), and making new plans with the Grounders to round up all Reapers and cure them.

They'd made friends amongst the Grounders—real, true friends—, they'd moved out of Camp Jaha with most of the forty-seven (bar a few kids who chose to stay with their families) and a few of the others who didn't agree with the lifestyle Camp Jaha was forcing on them. They'd built a village with wooden cabins and made a home for themselves and they'd survived.

If he's honest with himself, he can't hate all of it.

He doesn't hate his life now—he hates that it hurts and that he didn't expect it would hurt so much—but he can't hate his life.

He looks at the tiny little baby in his arms, no longer startled by the deep forest green eyes that look back up at him—she's beautiful and small and the first Earth-Sky child, and she'll solidify their truce with the Grounders and she's his.

He's a father.

And he has no idea what to do.