I posted this as an idea on tumblr and then I couldn't not write about it. Also, a bit inspired by THG.
Bellamy understood the Grounders.
Spears through chests for invading their territory.
A Trojan horse sent with sickness to weaken their enemies' bodies before an attack.
Fingernails pulled out and skin flayed to extract information from a captive.
Blood must have blood.
Bellamy understood the physicality of their existence because the ground, to him and to them, was all about corporeality: gashes, bruises, sprained ankles, broken limbs. It was feeling the rain on your face and the bark under your hands and the leaves against your shoulders. It was cold air and wet dirt and hard rock. It was air burning in your lungs as you ran for your life, sticky blood between your hands as you hoped that a friend wouldn't die or that an enemy would.
The Mountain Men couldn't feel those things though, not without risking death. No, to them the ground meant something much different. It was the thing they couldn't have but desperately wanted, the there-right-there thing they could never quite attain. They were all Tantalus, standing between a pool of water and a tree branch that were always out of reach. Something like that preyed on your thoughts, until it became the only thing in your existence. For the Mountain Men, the ground was a trick your mind played on you: how bad do you want it?
They wanted it bad enough to keep 47 minors captive, to poke at their veins and drill into their bone marrow, sucking their bodies dry. They wanted it bad enough to string Bellamy up and lash him, cut him, shock him, in hopes he would provide them with more bodies to exsanguinate.
Bellamy just laughed through the pain, ending every gasping scream in a dark chuckle, because this—the brutal physical torture—it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before. The ground and its people had already tried to use physicality against him many times and had failed. What made the Mountain Men think they could do any differently?
Except too late Bellamy realized what the ground meant to the Mountain Men, that it wasn't physicality, but mentality. The ground played tricks on the minds of the men in the mountain, so they played tricks on the minds of the children of the ground and sky.
The first time he heard her voice, he thought help had arrived. He heard her call out names, ending with his own. As he strained against the chains keeping him upright, he called back, trying to catch her attention, guards be damned because if she was this far in, they already knew she was here. Her voice grew more and more frantic, screaming his name, with him yelling back at her, pulling against his bindings so hard they dug into his wrists, slicing the skin open. Blood trickled down his arm, and her voice trickled away, fading with defeat. Bellamy still screamed, terrified he would be left behind, that she would leave him behind (it's worth the risk).
It was days later when he heard her for a second time. He had been returned to his cell, back and chest burning from the latest injuries inflicted by his captors, eyes stinging with tears held back for too long. As he lay curled up on the cold concrete floor, her muffled whisper from behind the wall to his right caught his attention: what did you do to them? Bellamy squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to listen, because hearing her voice meant that she had been caught. The dreaded question came again, though, a bit louder and more distraught: what did you do to them? Louder and louder, she cried: WHAT DID YOU DO TO THEM?
Then she got quiet, deathly so, before whispering: what did you do to him?
At that, he slammed his fist against the wall and yelled her name, letting her know he was still alive and that she just had to hold on, that their people would come for them again, that he would find a way to get them out.
His promises were met with silence.
The minutes dragged on as he heard nothing more. Then her whisper came again, this time from behind the opposite wall: what did you do to him. Louder from another wall. Please let me see him. Then from the ceiling. Just tell me if he's alive. Then from behind the door. Please don't hurt him. Her voice grew louder and louder, on repeat, the sentences blending into each other until the individual words were indistinguishable, instead becoming just a scared, angry, desperate, hum of her very, very familiar tone. He pressed his hands to his ears, the melancholy melody of her voice lancing through him with as much pain as the whip, knife, or prod. Finally, he screamed, screamed, screamed until his throat felt like it was bleeding, just to drown her out. It wasn't enough, and he passed out with her pleading voice still tormenting him.
The third time he heard her, she was the one screaming. He was in chains again, being strapped in for another round with his captors. He knew her cries were not real; he had figured it out after the incident in his cell. Yet, when heard her scream like that, it tugged as his insides, an aching pull, like they were being ripped out right through his scarred, battered skin. And then they almost were, as a knife sliced across his stomach, making shallow cut after shallow cut.
He laughed at the irony, because he had always thought Prometheus brave for trying to be a hero to mankind.
And look at the thanks he got.
Soon Bellamy lost track of how many times he heard her. She cried, she whispered, she yelled, she screamed on an endless loop. In some moments her voice was electricity itself (run, Bellamy!). Other times it was a dead, still void (you should go). Memories blended into the manipulation so seamlessly that he no longer knew if the Mountain Men were still torturing him, or if he was just torturing himself.
He almost laughed when the hallucination appeared because how the hell had the Mountain Men managed that one. Her face appeared outside his cage, muddy yellow hair framing bloody, bruised pale skin and sad blue eyes, all fragmented into small squares by the metal mesh. She whispered his name in that same desperate voice the Mountain Men had been playing for him (Bellamy, we've got you). He cringed away from the sound, not caring if his captors saw him in pain, because there was nothing left to hide from them. They knew all of his secrets now (her).
Her voice called out again (Octavia, he's over here – Lincoln, get the cage open, hurry!), and he pressed his hands to his ears, hissing out pleas for it to stop. When hands tugged on his limbs, he kicked out, trying to fight the enemy off. She begged with him: Bellamy, stop, we're here to help. He cursed at them, still fighting, but he was tired, oh so tired. So, when two bodies propped him up on either side, he gave in. He let them drag him along, trailing behind the torturous sound of her, allowing himself to drown in it.
Then there were so many more sounds, loud shouts and clanging clashes, rolling thunder and sharp shots. Still, above it all, he heard her (he's not well – we've got to get him out of here – follow me – Bellamy, you hold on okay – we're almost there – mom, we need you, he needs you). With the background noise fading, and she was all he heard again, when she whispered in his ear (you stay with us, you stay with Octavia, you stay with me, we cannot lose you) he yelled out, thrashing against the hands holding him down, because it hurt, hearing her hurt, and he had surpassed his limit for pain of that sort long ago.
He closed his eyes and surrendered. The Mountain Men had won their game.