Clarke finished removing the chip from Anya's arm—a device she'd discovered after the long, tactical pursuit of the Mountain Men. She'd left her in the cover of the underbrush, hoping one of her own would come to her aid before the sick monsters of Mount Weather found her first. At one point she'd hoped for an alliance with the woman, but Clarke supposed it would take a lot more to convince Anya of her merits. And she just didn't have the time.

The Grounder hadn't said a word this entire time. He just stood off to the side, standing guard.

"What's your name?" she asked him slowly, in case he was unfamiliar with English.

They began to walk away. Where—Clarke didn't know. At the moment she didn't really care. As long as it was away.

He looked at her over his shoulder, silent, contemplative.

She frowned. "You're not going to tell me."

He glared a little, and for some reason, it made her chuckle. It was oddly familiar.

"Atlas," he said, almost a whisper.

She smiled slightly, taking larger strides, so as to catch up to him. "Clarke."

They walked in silence for a few moments, and Clarke was startled to realize the atmosphere wasn't tense or guarded. She wasn't afraid of him turning his blade on her. It went against all logic, all her past experiences, and yet she felt safer than she had since she first awoke in Containment.

Was she concussed? Had she swallowed too much water?

What was it about this Grounder that set him apart from the rest?

His rough voice broke through. "Where are your people, Clarke?"

She chewed her bottom lip, trying to keep her eyes from clouding up. "They're being held captive. At Mount Weather. They've…got your people too."

"My people?"

"Grounders. Anya's kind," she elaborated. Then again, maybe he wasn't from Trikru. He did attack their leader and rescue her, after she barbequed an entire army of Grounders. Could he be an acquaintance of Lincoln's? Did he not know she was responsible for the mass murder of all those people? "My friends….they think they're safe. They've got shelter and cake and friendly faces. But behind closed doors these people are conducting science experiments. They're draining our blood."

The Grounder looked up, frowning, as if taking mental notes. "How did you get out?"

"It was kind of an accident," she said, deciding not to dive into more detail on that particularly traumatizing experience. "But I have to go back for them. Once I come up with a plan…" she trailed off. Who was she even going to ask to help her? Anya was gone, clearly not interested in cooperating. Octavia might be somewhere. But the two of them weren't enough.

She needed Bellamy. She'd always needed him, from day one on the ground.

She slowed, her stomach bottoming out.

Bellamy. Finn.

Atlas glanced back at her when she stopped walking. "What's wrong?"

Everything was wrong. She could lead, yes, but not without her support. She couldn't rebound without her backboard.

"I…think I killed my co-leader in the blast," she confessed, pressing her lips together to keep from crying. She shouldn't be confiding in a total stranger, but that very fact made it easier. He was listening. And that was all she'd wanted for the past however many days—weeks.

Someone to listen.

"You don't know that."

The words surprised her. They were exactly what she'd said to Jasper and Monty, to assure them that there was hope. But hope was dwindling quickly.

"No. I shut the dropship door before he could get in. Before either of them could." She would never get the image out of her head. Finn and Bellamy fighting for their lives so she could save her people. She only hoped they'd been killed by Grounders before she incinerated them herself.

"But you saved all those kids."

She swallowed back the pain.

"I know. It's just…he's my friend…" she whispered. It came as a shock to her, really. Bellamy Blake. Selfish jerk with a mushy center. Her partner. Her rock.

He wasn't the type to just…fizzle out without a bang. To disappear. To die on her.

"Then I'm sure he understands your sacrifice," the man said stiffly, nodding once as if to urge her to forgive herself.

Clarke straightened, smiling a little at his attempt.


OoO


It began to rain heavily, pushing them to find shelter. When they finally came across a small alcove in the rocky surface of a canyon, Clarke sighed with relief.

She was tired and sick to her stomach, and she just wanted to sleep for a month, curled up in soft, clean blankets.

But first she needed to make a fire.

It was strange. She didn't even have to voice it—Atlas already sought the dry branches, while she had gathered a pair of sticks for igniting the grass. No communication had been required.

She hadn't felt so in sync since….

She shook her head, kicking thoughts of Bellamy away.

Atlas hadn't bothered keeping her in sight or tying her up. It was like he'd known she wouldn't run off, like he'd had faith in her return. It became apparent that Clarke wasn't his prisoner, wasn't obligated to stay.

She wasn't sure how to feel about that.

He dropped the wood before her, handing her his canteen.

She graciously accepted, though she still sniffed the contents before sipping the water. She was pretty sure he rolled his eyes.


OoO


They sat around the tame embers, hands out to the warmth. Atlas sat across from her, eyeing the entrance to the cave warily.

She couldn't take it anymore.

"Why are you helping me?" she blurted.

He didn't answer her for a good minute, and she figured he just wasn't going to respond at all when he said, "Because I want to."

She poked at the fire. Not the answer she'd been hoping for.

"Are you going to turn me over to your clan?"

He cocked his head at her, exasperated. "I don't have a clan."

He was on his own? A rogue? Perhaps he'd been exiled, and that's why he attacked Anya.

"Do you know Lincoln?"

His eyes flickered to the side, then back. He nodded.

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. So she had an ally. Sort of.

"I'm just looking for answers, Clarke…" he said tiredly, as a means to convince her he wasn't a threat. The way her name rolled off his tongue seemed strangely…pleasant.

She nodded, gazing back at the fire. "I don't have many," she admitted. "And I...I really don't know where to go from here."

He leaned back against the rocks, resting his head against the stone.

"We'll figure it out later."

She snapped her head at him, stung by the choice of words, but then a figure dropped down in front of them, a shadow at the entrance.

Clarke scrambled back, and Atlas raised his knife, shoulders taught.

"Show yourself," he commanded.

The figure dipped out of the rain into the warmth of the cave.

Clarke's face split into a welcome, disbelieving smile.

"Octavia?"


OoO


After some time, Clarke convinced Octavia that Bellamy—Atlas—was to be trusted.

Her words made Bellamy flinch. Trust? She trusted him? He wanted to break character just to reprimand her for letting her guard down so easily. He could have been a rapist or a cannibal for all she knew.

Fucking Clarke and her habit of seeing the good in everyone.

"Where's…Lincoln?" Clarke asked his sister.

Octavia had changed drastically during their time apart, and it hurt Bellamy to see her this way. She was harder, chiseled. She looked like a warrior.

It made him fear he'd been rotting in a ditch for more than just a few days.

Octavia recoiled at the question, then schooled an expression of indifference. "Gone."

The explanation died there. Bellamy wondered if Lincoln had abandoned her, or if he'd been killed. He didn't know, but he wanted desperately to take his sister in his arms and never let go.

Unfortunately, she'd probably slit his throat if he tried.

"Clarke, where is everyone?" Octavia said, and her eyes upturned with fear.

"They're alive," Clarke assured her. "For now."

Octavia swallowed thickly. "And my brother…"

Clarke's breath hitched in her throat. "He's…not with them. Neither is Finn. I haven't heard from either of them."

Octavia's eyes watered, but she simply nodded and slipped past them into the depths of the cave.

Bellamy's eyes ghosted over Clarke's, but she didn't meet them. It didn't matter. He knew the motive behind her lie.

Clarke thought he was dead. She didn't want Octavia to lose him too. At least not yet.

She was lying to protect her, like he was protecting Clarke.

Truthfully, he didn't know why he was lying to Clarke, playing Grounder, especially when she was so concerned about his whereabouts. But the moment he'd seen her there, breathing, alive, he'd gone into lockdown.

He hadn't wanted to remove the mask and freak her out—not in the midst of their escape. She would seek aid, try to heal him, take them off course. By then it occurred to him that revealing himself would be detrimental, even given the right circumstances. It might have doused the stressful fire in her head, but if she'd seen what she'd done to him, what she might have done to Finn—it would burn on a new level of guilt and shame that he couldn't bear to watch.

Worst of all, she might have rejected him. Especially now that he'd lied to her.

The strange relationship they'd established, the one based on trust and interdependence—that easiness between them could be stripped away the moment he removed the mask.

He wouldn't risk losing that. Losing her.

Not yet.

So he kept digging himself a deeper hole.


OoO


Clarke had asked Atlas if she could use one of his knives to carve her own, and he'd given her the one in his hand and told her to keep it.

Now she was really confused.

Who was this guy? Why did he so openly trust her, after she murdered so many of his kind?

"So...have you been secretly stalking me?" she whispered against the sound of the rain outside.

She didn't know why she felt like she could joke with him. Any other Grounder might confuse her sarcasm for an insult and kill her right then and there.

But Atlas merely smiled, or...at least it looked like it, by the way his eyes crinkled.

"I may have been...watching out for your camp."

"Why?"

He shrugged. His silence was kind of infuriating.

"Thank you for coming after me," she said, and he shifted, looking at her deeply from across the fire. She'd realized that had been his only motive for his trek. To rescue her. He had no plans now. Nowhere to be, other than by her side, apparently.

It was endearing, albeit, a little creepy. She was getting lots of Tarzan and Jane vibes.

She hoped it wouldn't end the same way her brief partnership with Anya had.

He blinked, and he looked down, pleased.

"Why are you wearing that mask?" she wondered aloud.

He breathed in softly, and he turned his head back to the entrance. "You should sleep."


OoO


Clarke shifted in her sleep, overheated, sweating.

An intense heat lapped at her legs, then her torso, and her arms. She finally opened her eyes, shuffling back on her hands in terror.

She was consumed in fire.

The heat blazed, blinding her with its fury. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes watered as she braced the inferno.

"Clarke!"

She jerked, peering through the fire for the voice.

"Bellamy?" she cried, lungs failing.

Out of the smoke and orange tendrils she saw him—that familiar stalk, that head of unruly curls.

She exhaled shakily and shot for his silhouette until the dark shape was no longer two-dimensional but real and alive and —

"Oh my God!" she gasped, throwing herself into his arms. He engulfed her, a cool river in this world of fire. She breathed him in, relieved. She didn't know when Bellamy had become so important to her. It had just struck her that night when she'd pulled that lever.

That a life without Bellamy Blake was somehow colder, darker, and much, much lonelier.

"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm here, Clarke."

She didn't want to let go for the fear of losing him again. For the fear of waking up.

"I'm sorry," she choked, gripping him tighter, tucking her chin to his shoulder.

His hand cradled the back of her head, holding her to him.

"You're forgiven."

The words latched onto her heart. He felt so real, and it made it all the more upsetting.

"In peace may you leave the shore…" he began, and she could feel him crumble.

"No…"

"In love may you find the next…" he whispered, and she shook her head, pulling him closer. But it was too late; he was already fading. Slowly, dreamlike, he turned to ash, turned to embers in the fire she'd set on him.

He burned in her arms, and she lost him again.


OoO


"He was watching us sleep," Octavia whispered the next morning.

Clarke frowned, glancing back at Atlas. He was slumped against the wall, hand on his knife, but eyes closed, seemingly asleep.

"Do you trust him?" she asked.

"Yeah," Clarke said, surprising herself. "I do."

Octavia said nothing, but there was a curious glint in her eye. Clarke didn't blame her; she didn't understand it either.

But perhaps Octavia could sympathize. She'd seen the humanity in Lincoln before the rest of them. She'd realized not all Grounders were enemies.

"What's the plan now?" Octavia pressed.

"We have to find a way to get our people out of Mount Weather. But first we need some supplies. I need to be able to draw out the blueprints of the place."

"We can go to Lincoln's village. There are people who might help us there. I know the way," Octavia answered, already packing her things.

Clarke supposed it was as good a plan as any.

She looked at Atlas for confirmation, then berated herself. Why would she look to him for advice? He wasn't…

She fought the strange tide of emotion and returned her focus to planning a rescue mission.


OoO


Clarke saw the massacre as it was happening, and she lost all feeling in her limbs. So much bloodlust. So much carnage.

Bullets rained. Grounders cried out. Octavia and Murphy yelled at Finn to stop.

Finn. The Finn she had loved at one point or another. Finn. The peacemaker.

At the sound of Octavia's shrill scream, the gun turned on the three of them, and Atlas was stepping in front of Clarke protectively.

She could only watch as the bullet shrieked, striking the Grounder in the shoulder.

Atlas crumpled, and after shooting a warning glance in Finn's direction, Clarke was at the man's side, pressing firmly against the flesh wound.

The sound of gunfire subsided. Leaves crunched as the shooter approached.

"Finn...what...have you done?" Clarke croaked.

He stepped forward, and she shrank into Atlas slightly. Finn didn't miss it by the flash of hurt on his face.

"I was trying to find you, Clarke. I didn't know he was with you...I didn't..."

Clarke couldn't even meet his eyes. She turned to Murphy instead.

"I tried to stop him," the criminal muttered before she could admonish him.

"You didn't try hard enough."

Murphy rolled his eyes, wiping the blood off his chin.

"Clarke," Finn sighed. He was on the verge of tears. So was she, but she kept her focus on Atlas's wound. On his painful inhales.

She'd been anticipating her reunion with Finn more than she'd like to admit. But now she regretted ever coming here. Regretted ever seeing him again—it wasn't worth the pain of a warped memory.

Murphy aimed the gun at the Grounders gathering around the five of them, wary of the livid expressions. "Look, we need to get out of here. Let's just get back to Abby and the others."

Wait. Abby?

"My mom is—the Ark's here?" Clarke murmured, her hand stilling for a moment before resuming its pressure. She'd seen the Ark crumble on its descent. She'd assumed no one survived.

Murphy nodded. "The whole lot."

Clarke let out a small puff of incredulity. They'd made it.

Kane. Abby. Jaha.

This changed everything. They had the Guard. An army. They could get their people back.

"Raven?" she remembered suddenly.

"Paralyzed," Finn replied, eager to get a word in. "But safe."

Clarke glanced at Atlas, and the man seemed to exhale in relief. She wondered just how familiar he was with their camp and its delinquents.

"Clarke," Finn continued. "Where are the rest of you?"

She exchanged looks with Octavia, who was tending to an injured Grounder, seething at the massacre.

"Not here," Clarke answered darkly.

And neither are you.


OoO


"Who's he?" Finn asked once they made it back to the cave.

"His name is Atlas. He's a friend," Clarke replied curtly.

"Clarke…you're really going to trust—"

"Don't talk to me Finn," she snapped, turning heads. "Not right now."

That seemed to tick him off. "The last time I saw you, you were shutting the dropship door on me and Bellamy. I just wanted to see you again, and I thought you were in trouble. We all thought you needed saving—"

"Saving from you. God Finn! Look what you've done."

The words left her mouth before she could think them through. Finn swallowed and bent his head. Even Murphy looked disgusted.

"I'm sorry," she managed, closing her eyes to block out the pain and shock of what just occurred. "I…I just need some time."

"Wait, what does he mean you shut the door on him and Bell?" Octavia wondered, voice wavering.

Clarke felt the world fall away.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

She swallowed. "Bellamy wasn't inside in time. I had to make a decision."

Octavia's eyes widened—bond shattered, trust broken. "You shut the door on my brother. Then fried him with the Grounders."

Atlas shifted uneasily in the corner. Clarke sighed. "Octavia… I had no choice. He still might…he might be…"

Octavia rolled her eyes, and she stalked out of the cave. Clarke wouldn't be surprised if she didn't return. Nor would she blame her.


OoO


"I need you to take off your shirt," Clarke said. She needed a distraction.

Atlas ignored her, continuing to prep the fire. "I'm fine."

"No. You were shot. That is the definition of not fine."

After another five minutes of pestering, he finally conceded, turning away from her and sitting down as he gingerly removed his upper body-armor, save his mask.

Clarke couldn't help her wandering, widening eyes.

For a moment she couldn't breathe.

His skin—shit, he'd been so much more than burned. The wounds were healing, but there was an inch of scabbing, scarring flesh all over his left side, up his neck, across his face, which he kept pointed away from her. As if he were ashamed. Remnants of leaves and seaweed stuck to his skin, and she knew then he'd attempted to treat his own wounds.

"Oh my God…" It was like staring at Atom again, only this man was still alive, still pushing, still fighting. "You were there that night," she managed.

He didn't deny it.

"You were fighting…with us…and I did this to you," she muttered, coming closer.

He shifted away from her touch. He refused to look at her, so she sat beside him on the rock, facing the opposite direction in order to operate on his shoulder.

"I'm so…" her lip quivered as she took in the damage. There was no recovering from this. Not completely. "I'm sorry," she cried.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the bullet wound. Her fingertips grazed his skin, and he flinched, sucking in through his teeth.

"Sorry," she repeated.

She'd done this to him. He was so ashamed, so angry, so traumatized, that he couldn't even look at her.

She'd killed all those people.

She'd killed Bellamy.

Tears welled in her eyes, making the stitching process much more difficult.

A warm hand landed on her thigh, and her eyes flew to his blistered cheek bone, his jawline, searchingly.

"It had to be done," he said softly.

Her fingers stilled on his arm, and she closed her eyes, allowing a few sparse tears to fall.

How could he forgive her for this….? How could he go out of his way to protect her, and her people, after what they'd done?

She could feel Finn's eyes burning holes in her shoulder blades. Octavia's glares. Bellamy's empty presence. And she could feel Atlas's hand, warm and gentle and burned.


Bellamy what, what, what are you doing?