To be honest, it was supposed to be something else and turned out like... well, this. A freaking mess. It doesn't even makes sense and it's too depressing, even for me. Angsty as hell.
Anyway, hope you'll find something valuable in here. Please, reviews, I love reviews as hard as I love bellarke
Not a native speaker, sorry for mistakes. The 100 fortunately not mine.
And if you're in love, then you are the lucky one,
'cause most of us are bitter over someone .
Setting fire to our insides for fun,
to distract our hearts from ever missing them,
but I'm forever missing him.
This is how the end starts.
She tries to remember the girl she used to be.
She tries to fit in her own skin again, feel it, feel like herself again; the problem is, she doesn't even know what it means anymore
Her mothers' eyes are always watching her, constantly locked on her face, on the back of her head, on her lips as she speaks. She knows she is supposed to feel good with it, that she is supposed to feel good and comfortable with being supervised; god knows she is tired with being the one others look up to. Shouldn't it be a relief for her to just let it go and let somebody else take charge?
But then she thinks about Charlotte and about Monty's arms shivering as he hugged her, she thinks about the sweet weight of responsibility on her shoulders, of bitter taste of self-shame on her tongue as she let Bellamy lose his light in favor of darkness and- this is her life, these are her mistakes and damn, she grew from it, she learned and suffered and bled and it's hers and she is not giving it up, she is not letting her mother take it.
Call her power thirsty. Call her stupid.
She can handle it. God knows she handled a lot more and she's going to be made to handle more and more until her spine breaks. But it won't be because of a few angry stares, or hushed whispers behind her back.
So instead of trying to fit into her old self again ( more like a dead corpse of a girl who died while closing the dropship door) she writes love is weakness on her palms so that she can always see it; she armors her heart with the thick layer of steel; she grows a second skin; she brushes her princess curls off her shoulders; she kills him; she sends him away.
She stops sleeping right after that night.
She tries to; she closes her eyes and tries to slow down her breathing and she's almost there, almost falling when she suddenly sees it again; the expression on his face painted on the insides of her eyelids, heartbreak so visible, almost blinding and yeah, it's worth it, baby, not even goodbye but only good luck ( she would've give Murphy more. She would've give her worst enemy more. But with her new approach at life, maybe that who he is now. Her worst enemy, the one that make her want and need and feel and-)
And so she jumps out of her tent and end up in Lexa's instead. The commander doesn't ask; maybe she already knows, she surely as hell understands. They talk strategy till the first morning light and it's not how it used to be with him, but it's not bad either and she can almost pretend that everything is okay.
It's not. But she guesses she has to carry on somehow.
Carry on somehow. If only she knew how exactly.
What doesn't kill you, she thinks bitterly, what doesn't kill you makes you want to be fucking dead.
She's floating, she's letting herself drown and then she hears his voice and damn, fuck love is weakness, fuck keeping the lower profile, god damn it, it's almost like a life is poured back into her veins and she can't remember the time when she was more relieved because god he is alive, he is alive, frantic rhythm of triumph beating in her chest I knew it, I knew it.
She shakes the feelings off and concentrates on other, more important things, but late at night, she closes herself in her tent, her knees kinda let go and suddenly she knees down and she has never prayed in her life, doesn't even know how to do it, but she's somehow doing it now just let him be safe, please, don't let me carry another burden on my shoulders, this one might be too much and she knows it's selfish but it can also be the most altruistic thing she has ever done ( a paradox which seems to be the main anthem of her life for a while)
She lets herself be weak. It's him. She lets herself be weak, because it's him.
TonDC is burning in front of her eyes.
The healer in her cries. The artist in her is thrilled is enchanted is terrified.
The leader in her is sad but content.
The girl in her dies.
Her mother says remember we're the good ones and she wants to laugh, she wants to weep, mum, there's nothing like the good ones and bad ones anymore, it's only survival and kill or die, let them die or let him die, can't you see it?
Lexa's lips are soft. This whole kiss is soft, softer she thought it would be. Tender, almost.
From so close, she sees her big, blue eyes and delicate blush on her cheeks and she is struck again by the thought that Lexa is young, Lexa is her age, Lexa is not only war paint and a sharp knife and even sharper cheekbones, not only destruction and fire and authority, not only steel but also a eighteen years old girl.
A girl.
A girl whose lover has been killed because of their relationship. Cryptic, sad, lonely girl. Too cynical, forged in fire, ruthless, tough, heartless, smart, cruel, visionary, beautiful, young, once innocent girl.
This world took her and made a leader out of her, made her a statue of greatness. This world has also torn the heart out of her chest, painted her eyes black and taught her that emotions make you weak.
This world made her lonely.
She is aware, it's doing exactly the same to her.
She wonders if she ever becomes as cruel as Lexa and then she thinks it has already happened.
This whole situation is a mistake and she knows it. But lately all of her mistakes included people dead and her hands painted red. This one includes soft lips and gentle touches and it's only one night, it won't last, none of them thinks it will. They are both leader, both queens; and queens can't allow themselves to have this kind connection between each other.
But more importantly; because she doesn't moan Lexa's name.
And Lexa doesn't moan hers either.
Substitutional lovers, she thinks bitterly as she closes her eyes. She won't sleep tonight. Sometimes she thinks she will sleep never again. Never at all.
Lexa's skin is too dark and not dark enough at the same time. And Clarke isn't even sure whose name exactly she was moaning, about whom she was thinking. She doesn't know if it even matters anymore.
It's worth the risk she says and fuck, if it doesn't hurt as hell.
He doesn't even remember the last time it hurt so much.
Was it it's all your fault, was it the blood of three hundred people on his hands, he doesn't know.
All he can do is try to understand. God knows he is good at reading her; he has learned it slowly and painfully but learned nevertheless and now he knows how to do it; how to interpret her words and expressions and eyes and brows and actions. Only this girl doesn't look like his girl anymore. He suspects that that girl is long gone; butchered by the new one. Was it when Finn- was it when Grounders- was it sometime between, he doesn't know. He also doesn't feel like he knows her anymore.
But he understands. At some point he started to feel too much. Maybe she just needs to feel less.
He understands.
( it doesn't help with hurting, thou)
Mount Weather is one big stinking mess.
It's blood and fear and he though he knew the taste of both of those things quite well; and well, jokes on him, it turns out he didn't know it at all.
This world has stopped being black and white long ago, but right now it's like all the lines has disappeared and it's only infinite gray surrounding him.
Lovejoy.
What a fucking joke.
Love is never a joy. Love is blood and fear. That's how it tastes.
And, sometimes, it feels like the first time he set foot on Earth, like the first time he breathed real air, the first time he drank real water, the first time he felt rain on his face. Sometimes love tastes like freedom.
bellamy?
i knew you would.
He jumps when she tells him to do so and he brushes his feeling off and understands. He trusts her like that.
But Octavia-
She wouldn't let Octavia get hurt, would she?
( it's worth the risk)
He isn't sure anymore. Sometime along the way she has lost some part of herself and he isn't sure she has anything in common with the girl he once knew. He has this sinking feeling as he closes his eyes and realizes she will let it happen, she will and it will be worth the risk.
He wants to wail. He wants to weep.
He greets his teeth and carries on.
Maya is a born revolutionary and he discovers he actually likes this girl, loves how fierce she is and how innocent. He watches her with Jasper; her hand caressing his cheek, their foreheads pressed together, this whole dancing around.
It makes him happy; it also makes him really sad. They found something really beautiful here in this whole mess and they are both whole enough to make it work, but he has seen how this world works; he has seen the man O loves with all her heart turn into beast against his will, he has seen love driving good man insane, he has seen love sacrificed and pierced through with a knife as the last act of mercy, he has seen love wailing and screaming, screaming, bleeding.
This is not a world for gentle words, for tender kisses, for innocent love of two kids who are too reckless and too brave for their own good.
He can smell heartbreak. He can smell the innocence lost.
He feels old. He wonders if she feels in this way too.
Everything happens to fast. Everything happens too fast, everything is too bright, too white, too crimson, so real that almost unreal.
Grounders are like hellhounds let out from leaches, wild and fast and violent and deadly and he finds himself actually afraid of them, because it's more like a force of nature than the army.
His mind keeps on going back to the Lovejoy boy. Is he safe? Is he even alive?
For unknown reason he needs to believe that yes, this little kid with wide smile and bright eyes is untouched by all of this, damn, if he lets himself think about other option, he'll surely lose his mind.
Everything is blurred, all gore and no glory, only death around him-
And then he sees Octavia,
She doesn't even look like herself anymore. War paint on her face, her clothes stained red, breathing heavy, her hair braided, full-Grounder mode.
She looks possessed. She looks bloodthirsty.
There's Lincoln by her side but it takes him one glance to acknowledge that no, Lincoln's not a Reaper again and he lets himself breath out; Lincoln's going to protect Octavia, even if it means protecting her from herself.
When exactly he began to trust this guy? He has no idea.
He sees Jasper, axe in both of his hands, bloodied hands and insanity in his eyes and he doesn't know it; he feels it; he wonders where it happened, where this small lionheart died, where she sacrificed herself for the people she hardly knew.
He knows he will grieve after her. He knows he will grieve after all of them; after the Lovejoy boy, after Maya and Jasper, after all this innocence lost and glory not achieved and lives ended before they had even a chance to begin. He will grieve after his beautiful sister greeting her teeth and paying a price for belonging and after her man carrying around his wounds till the end of his life.
He kills a man after a man and he thinks I will grieve after myself.
He turns around and he sees her and it's all coming back, all at one; all this trust and need and future lost and words never said and broken hearts and pain and beauty. And thinks that, most of all, he will grieve after her. After both of them. After everything they could be and never will.
She sends a bullet after a bullet, all reaching their target ( he turned out to be quite a teacher after all) and their eyes meet and she sends him a sad smile.
There's hardly anything to say anymore.
Does dying hurt?
She is surprised – or maybe not really, maybe she knew it all along- that it doesn't. Even at all.
Life was far more painful. But this? This is almost peaceful.
This is almost beautiful.
He thinks it's almost poetic. Or maybe it would be, if it wasn't so damn tragic.
He lets himself grieve.
He lets himself dream.
She lets herself be weak.
In the books, they would have a heartwretching scene of saying goodbye and saying I love you and saying all those words crammed in their throast and they would go in each other's arms.
Or: in the books they wouldn't die at all.
They would live and thrive and forgive and have kids and grow old.
In real life, though, people die. Soldiers, leaders, all the same. In real life Kane dies and Indra dies and Monty dies and Maya dies and Fox dies and they die too, just because, no reason other that it's war.
Just it's a war.
They die ten feet from each other; her eyes still open and smile on her lips and it's quick and his hand pressed to his chest, his last thought send to his sister, his eyes closed and it's slower, more painful, less peaceful, harder.
They die with unsaid words and unfelt feelings and it's bitter and that's how this particular world works.
Octavia names her first one after him and kills herself a bit every time she calls his name.
Raven's first one has golden curls.
They are alive in the memories of their loved ones. And they die the second time along them.
They aren't carved into statues, put into songs. There is no greatness in the memory of them; he is remembered for the things he did unintentional, she is remembered for the things she would call weak.
But they actually like it this way.
Octavia likes to gaze into the night and find him in the constellations he used to tell her stories about. Abby likes to listen to the children's laugh and find her in it.
Raven likes to cry sometimes.
Jasper like to hurt himself intentionally from time to time just to feel something again.
But they are alive. They are the lucky ones. They know it, oh, they know it too well.
They are alive. And some aren't. And it's not about who deserved it and who didn't.
One more thing:
The Lovejoy boy survives.
You can think about it whatever you want.