Chapter 2
He repeated the question again, pressing the knife closer to the throat for emphasis. Clarke held his gaze, telling him with her silence that she would not speak. She'd die, without selling herself.
"Fine," he muttered, "have it your way." He stood up swiftly, no sign of his previous exhaustion, and for a sliver of a moment, Clarke thought he looked... resigned? The moment passed, and with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, he threw the knife at Kane. It landed, stuck in the ground, an ant's width away from his leg. Kane looked at it confused. The men watching laughed.
"You'll kill her." The rebel king said, folding his arms. Kane looked at him aghast.
"I will not!"
The leader rolled his eyes, and with a quick hand motion, five men strung their bows, all aiming at Clarke. Her mouth went dry as she saw Kane pick up the knife.
"This is what is going to happen good sir knight. You can kill your Lady with mercy, or my friends here will send five arrows into her stomach an arm, a leg... She'd die screaming. For some reason," He said kneeling down beside them once more, "I believe m'lady here, has never experienced an arrow wound. If youu slit her throat and make it quick we'll even return you the favour."
Clarke looked around wildly, for a sympathetic gaze, some compassionate soul willing to stop this. She met the eye of the girl by the cart. She was chewing on her bottom lip, clutching one of Clarke's ball gowns to her chest. she gave Clarke a miniscule shake of her head, before turning away. Clarke brought herself back to reality. Kane knelt beside her the silver knife clutched in his hand. The King had stepped away, raising an eyebrow, watching to see what would unfold.
"I'm sorry M'lady." Kane said gruffly, lifting the knife higher, before turning the hilt at the last second pulling the blade towards his own throat.
"Stop! Wait!" Clarke screamed, just before the knife pierced his skin.
"I'll tell you, just please, stop this atrocity!" She said her voice filled with desperation, and a little anger. The leader nodded at one of the men, who yanked the knife from Kane, and kicked him to the ground.
"You were saying, Princess?" said the leader, urging her on with his hand. Clarke grimaced before pushing her self up from the ground. Her ankle throbbed, and she felt herself sway for a moment, then steadied herself.
"My name is Lady Clarke Griffin, of Ark." She said, the familiar words bringing some courage into her blood. Who were they to challenge her? They may have strength of body, but she had strength of soul. She pulled her shoulders back, and held herself in the manner she had been taught since she could walk.
"I am travelling to meet his majesty King Thelonious in the capital, where I am to be, I believe, affianced to his son."
The leader raised an eyebrow. "It seems we do have a princess in our company." He made a low, mocking bow. "Fair lady, I am Bellamy, King of rebels, lord amongst ruffians. Your flowery words do us great honour we assure you, it has been a long time since us simple men have heard so pleasant a speech." He said, every word dripping with sarcasm. Clarke felt herself grinding her teeth. This man was beyond infuriating. Several unladylike names fluttered through her mind, daring to leave through her voice. She kept her mouth shut.
"My lady, you say the King if expecting you?" He said approaching her with his arms crossed. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"Then this day has proved a lot more eventful than I had previously thought." He grabbed her by her arms, and began pulling her towards the horses.
"Someone find Octavia, we travel back to camp now." He yelled behind them. Once they reached the horses, he swiftly tied her hands to one of the saddles. Clarke gave him a withering look, and he shrugged.
"Can't have you running princess." Suddenly he ducked down to her feet, and Clarke instinctively kicked him. He swore, before grabbing her leg. "Hold still," He muttered pulling yet another knife from God knows where and quickly cut a long strip from her forest green riding stood again, and gave her a grin.
"Sorry to ruin your pretty dress, m'lady." He pushed her hair from her shoulders and Clarke hated how she felt herself blush when his thumb brushed against her cheek. She later realised that she had been touched by more men in the last hour, than she had been in all her seventeen years. And then everything went dark, and found he was blindfolding her- with her own dress!
"Secret camp?" She muttered, letting her disdain fill her voice, since he could no longer see it in her eyes.
"Can never be to careful," Bellamy answered, "Let's move!" She heard him shout, and then felt someone mounting the horse she was tied to. She turned herself in the general direction of the movement.
"I don't think I can walk, my ankle is sprained." She tried to explain, but someone knocked into her. "You'll walk. Let the privileged work for once." Murphy said to her. She could see his grin, even with her blindfold.
"Try not to fall over." A young voice said in a cheerful tone, and Clarke felt herself being pulled forward.
Clarke had tripped over her skirts three times. Her heavy riding boots were not meant for long periods of walking, and she was constantly stepping on the long skirt, pulling herself forward. They had left the road almost immediately and Clarke had been stumbling, quite literally blind, through marsh and mud for hours now. This didn't help her dress predicament.
Suddenly she felt the material go under her foot again, but this time, she stumbled into the horse, spooking it. The animal jolted forward a few paces, and it's rider calmed it quickly, but not before it had pulled Clarke to the ground. With no hands for protection, her chin bore the brunt of the fall. She felt it the sting of cold air on broken skin straight away, and let out a frustrated cry.
"What, in God's name, is going on back there?" Bellamy yelled, and then she heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching her. Hands grabbed her arms roughly and pulled her to her feet.
"Well? What's the problem, Princess? Never walked before?" Bellamy said, his voice tainted with frustration. Clarke stored her hatred for the man at the back of her head and answered calmly.
"I keep tripping over my dress. I am dressed for riding not walking, which, I can assure you, I have done plenty of."
Without warning he pulled out a knife, and Clarke heard the ripping of material, before she felt her dress getting lighter. She gasped in shock as she realised Bellamy was cutting her dress short, right below her knees. The strange sensation of wind brushing past her legs distracted her from the embarrassment she should have felt. And anyway, her riding boots came up almost to her thigh- it was not like they could see skin. She even somewhat admired Bellamy for his innovation.
"It'll be dark before we get to camp," Bellamy yelled, "We've wasted enough time."
And with that the company started moving again.
The muffled sounds of a village grew louder and louder until Clarke felt she was at the heart of one. The man on her horse stepped down, and removed her blindfold. Once her eyes adjusted, she realised he wasn't a man at all, but a boy around the same age as herself, with a face far to friendly and cheerful to be a bandit. He set about untying her hands, and Clarke took in her surroundings. This was no camp for thieves. This was a thriving village, full of people, young and old. Children rushed to the cart, some running to the men, searching their pockets for toys and trinkets, while the men laughed good-naturedly. Clarke couldn't have been more surprised if God himself revealed himself from the bonfire that burned merrily at the centre of the camp.
"We call ourselves the 100, though our numbers have long surpassed that number," the boy said cheerfully, as his fingers fumbled with the rope, "we have everything we could need; carpenters, millers, hunters, though we could use a good healer-"
"Jasper." Bellamy said roughly, placing a warning hand on his shoulder. "That's enough."
Jasper nodded, giving Clarke a parting smile and cheery wave. Under different circumstances Clarke may have smiled back. Bellamy rolled his eyes. He pulled a knife from his sleeve, (Clarke wondered if it was the same knife he had used to cut her dress, or if he kept an infinite supply under his shirt), and cut the rope from her wrists. Clarke gasped in surprise at the red, chafed marks left on her wrists and hands. He seemed to frown an the state of her hands, it was hard to tell in the darkness, and placed a hand on her back, leading her forward.
He stopped at a small cabin, and gestured for her to step in. She moved into the room, and was surprised to see a bed, table, and a small serving of food and ale. She contemplated throwing the meal to the ground and using the metal plate as her escape weapon but decided against it. Better to save her energy for when she was sure she could escape. Bellamy leant against the doorframe, arms folded, and was watching her with a curious expression on his face. She took the time to look at him to.
He was tall, but not thin, he filled his height. Clarke thought that bandits like him were supposed to be gaunt and starving not so... strong. She supposed his features lived up to the romantic ballads and stories the maids spread about. Not that it mattered.
The candlelight revealed a fresh looking scar across his cheek, probably a result of the skirmish earlier today. Was it only today? It seemed a far longer time had passed. Bellamy spoke, interrupting her reflection.
"Eat. Sleep. Rest that ankle, no doubt we'll be headed for the capital at dawn." He said, and left the hut, closing the crumbling door behind him. Clarke heard him muttering orders to men outside. She laughed. As if she could escape, even if she tried.
Looking about the tiny room, she felt a sudden urge to hit something. Bellamy's face would have been ideal, but she settled for table. Forgetting her ankle, she kicked it hard, and despite the fire the that flew up her leg, felt the satisfaction. This continued for a minute or so, until the pain became to much and she threw herself onto the bed. To angry to cry, she rolled onto her stomach, and let sleep take her away.
Pain. Something was stinging her chin. Her eyes flew open on find the girl from before sitting beside her, dabbing at her face with a rag. The girl paused for a moment, watching Clarke carefully, before shrugging and continuing with her work.
"My name is Octavia," She said, as if she were introducing herself to a guest, not a hostage, "I'm cleaning the cut on your chin, in case you were wondering. I have to prevent infection- the smallest scratch can kill you out here." She said calmly, as she dabbed the cloth at the wound on Clarke's chin.
She was very pretty, beautiful even, with long dark hair twisted into plaits all over her head, and wide eyes framed with thick lashes. Octavia looked just as out of place here, as Clarke imagined she herself did.
"Sorry if my brother scared you before. He would never have killed you and your guard, he just needed to find out who you were." Octavia said as she washed the rag in a basin, and dried her hands.
Clarke raised an eyebrow. "It seemed real to me." she muttered, taking off her boots, careful around her right ankle, where the pain seemed to worsen. Her fit earlier of course had made it worse. Ocatavia then set about wrapping up Clarke's ankle.
"My brother is not a murderer," She said, her voice serious before she smiled again, "This is the last time I treat your wounds by the way. Out here you look after yourself or you die."
Clarke nodded, pushing herself up, until she was sitting.
"Understood."
When she was done, Octavia picked up a bundle and dropped it beside Clarke. She unfolded them, and found them to be clothes- men's clothes. A shirt, jacket and long breeches. Octavia laughed at Clarke's bewildered expression.
"Bell did marvelous work on your lovely riding gown, but these might be a little more comfortable to travel in."
Clarke nodded and began to remove her now frayed dress. Octavia was right, the dress was ruined. Yet another reason to loathe this girl's brother- he had ruined a perfectly good gown. For people who had so little, they certainly didn't mind waste.
"Will I be travelling?" Clarke asked apprehensively. Octavia shrugged.
"From what I gather there's quite the discussion about you. Bellamy wants to return you to the king in exchange for a reward, and, if possible, a pardon for all of us. Murphy however, wants to hold you hostage, make the king aware of it, and bring the fight here."
Clarke scoffed. "What would you have to gain from that? A thousand corpses, and perhaps a pretty ballad sung about the brave rebels and their fallen King?"
Octavia laughed.
"That's what Bellamy said. Murphy believes that we have enough men and arms to put up a fight. Once we defeat the king's own army, we could demand our own terms. Perhaps he's right." She mused to herself, tidying at random.
"Eat that meal before I do, and then 'll take you to the discussion. Bellamy wants to know the likelihood of a reward should he return you to the King."
True to her word, Octavia waited for Clarke to finish her food. Though it was a simple dish- cold chicken, hard cheese and bread, it was the first meal she had had in hours and she just about stopped herself from licking her fingers. Satisfied that she was ready, Octavia skipped out the door, gesturing for Clarke to follow.
"Come on," she said, quite loudly over the din of the village, "Let's find out your fate."
After a long enough walk, Octavia stopped at a large tent. She entered, Clarke following behind her. Inside was a long table, filled with maps and mugs of ale. Around it were about ten men, all fighting for their voice to be heard above the rest- Except for Bellamy, who was seated, feet resting on the table, watching the ruckus with a bemused grin. He noticed her and Octavia, giving Octavia a nod and a smile and Clarke a mock bow from his chair.
"Gentlemen!" He shouted and there was a so sudden a silence, Clarke flinched. She couldn't help but be in awe by how much power this man, just old enough to be considered a man, had over his people. What had he done, to command this much respect from his peers?
"Gentlemen," he continued, "The lady in question has arrived, though I hardly recognise her without her finery. Are you rested, m'lady?" He said with false concern. Clarke's eyes narrowed.
"Well rested, good sir."
"Good, good." He said, and then rose from his seat, making a show of dusting it off.
"Please sit."
Clarke was sure they expected her to refuse his hospitality, or throw a tantrum at their blatant disrespect for her, but instead she took the seat, giving him a wide fake smile in thanks. Better they think her naïve than capable.
"I must ask you, since some of my men have concerns- The King would reward us for the safe return of his future daughter would he not?" His expression asked the question innocently, as if he didn't know what answer she would give, but his eyes said something else. Their hard, pointed expression told her there was only one answer she could give.
"Of course. The King is very generous to those who are loyal to him and his family. I am sure if I am taken to the city safely, you will be handsomely compensated for your time." She answered, returning the pointed expression. To most, their conversation was just questions and answers, but Clarke knew they were discussing the terms of her freedom. One wrong answer that scared the men, and she'd be stuck here, waiting to die.
Bellamy gave her a small nod, silently accepting the terms of her agreement.
"You see men? Handsomely rewarded. Why waste the time and effort of a war, when we are guaranteed what we want for far less?" They all nodded, one or two let out a cheer.
Bellamy turned back around to face her.
"Go back and get some more sleep, princess. We leave at dawn."
A/N: Thank you all so much for your support, I'm so flattered! I'm probably going to establish Sundays and Wednesdays as updating days, but that could change. Again thank you everybody you reviewed and followed. If you have time, please tell me what you thought of this chapter!