Bellamy fidgeted with the gun in his hands. He was anxious and worried about Clarke. He knew, perfectly well, that Clarke could handle herself – he knew that. Still, he worried over whether or not they were harming her, harming the rest of their people. He had become much more than a janitor since arriving on Earth. The weight of leadership was a heavy burden to bear. Bellamy had learned many things: responsibility, courage and patience, though he was still working on the latter.
And Finn was testing it mercilessly.
"We are wasting time! We need to go in now, kill the bastards and rescue Clarke and the others before it's too late." he spat. He raised himself off the ground and began to pace back and forth, kicking up rocks and dirt in frustration.
Bellamy and Murphy shared a knowing look.
"Clarke can take care of herself," Bellamy retorted. "And besides, she might have a plan in mind that doesn't include us."
Finn threw up his hands and continued to pace.
What a dramatic son of a bitch.
"You're the one that wanted to storm in there after she was hauled inside!" he hissed. Murphy turned to Finn and shushed him. Spacewalker glared back. "And since when are we giving guns to murders instead of people who can be trusted?"
"For the recorded I didn't murder anyone." Murphy snarled.
"And attempted murder is any better?" Finn shot back. Murphy was about to get up off his stomach and punch Finn when Bellamy laid a hand on his back, shoving him back in the dirt. He gave him a hard look and was met with hateful eyes.
"Stay out of this Blake." Murphy threatened, struggling against Bellamy's hold.
"Shut the hell up – both of you," he barked, his tone authoritative. "Look, Clarke wouldn't get herself captured without putting up a fight. When she walked with Anya towards that camp she was walking with purpose. I know Clarke and I know that she is smart enough to save herself."
Bellamy noticed Finn bristle when he mentioned knowing Clarke. He grinned, raising his scope to eyelevel then dropping it again.
"I sent Monroe and Sterling on reconnaissance. Monroe found a way to easily infiltrate the camp." he added.
There was a moment of brief silence. An unsettling calm reverberated through the forest. However, the ground seemed to hum with an unsuppressed energy. All three of them – Bellamy, Finn and Murphy – were staring at one another, waiting for one of them to snap with bated breath.
"This is bullshit and you know it. No one enters a Grounder camp and survives." Finn said, his voice dangerously level.
And he walked off into the darkening forest.
. . .
A piercing scream awoke Bellamy from a deep sleep.
His hands immediately went to his gun and his eyes were trained on the Grounder camp within seconds. He must have dozed off after Finn returned from one of his late night dalliances. The Grounder camp suddenly came alive with shouting and bright flames. Explosions erupted into a cacophony of intense light and heat.
The camp was on fire – and it was spreading quickly.
The flames reached towards the sky, appearing to lick the blackened night with hot, golden hues. It was as if the sun was yanked back into being and forced to radiate light over the Earth. The huts were highly flammable and quickly turning to ash. More screams bombarded the night. Panicked men, women and children spilled out into the forest – all of them Grounders.
Bellamy cursed and pushed himself onto his feet. Where was she? Where were the others? Before he even realized what he was doing, he was on his feet and racing towards the enflamed camp. The screaming and crying became more deafening the closer he got. No one stopped him as he shoved his way closer. The ones who had initially tried to quell the fire were now joining the others, their heads hung in defeat.
"Bellamy!" someone shouted from the tree line. He ignored the call and burst into the camp. The smell is what hit him first – the smell of burning flesh and wood. He raised his arm to his mouth and tried to breath as little as possible. The stench was stomach churning. The heat and ash burned his eyes, making them water.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement – people racing towards the back of the Grounder camp, only they weren't Grounders.
They were his people.
Bellamy sprinted after them, coughing due to the increasing soot building up in his lungs. He caught up with one of them and grabbed the kid's arm. The boy panicked and spun around. He was no older than fifteen. His eyes widened when he realized who it was.
"Bellamy?" his voice was weak.
"Where are the others?" Bellamy shouted, the fire roaring and splintering in the background. Houses and huts were collapsing.
The boy put Bellamy's hand on his shoulder and motioned for him to follow. They ran through the camp and ducked under a wall that, surprisingly, wasn't on fire. Escaping into the forest, they didn't stop running until they reached the river. The boy collapsed on the ground coughing and wheezing. Bellamy had to steady himself against a tree and attempted to rid himself of soot.
"Will? Is that you?" called a male voice rounding the tree line. Will stood up off the ground and embraced the newcomer. When the boy stepped away from Will, he glanced over and noticed Bellamy.
"Bellamy Blake?" he asked, more of a statement than a question.
"Sam, he was looking for the rest of us." Will said, looking up at the older boy.
Sam waved Bellamy over and led them towards the river. The rest of the 100, at least half of them were here. They all looked over when Sam and Will approached, smiling despite the injuries some of them sustained.
Then – they noticed Bellamy and almost immediately they all started cheering. Those that could, stood and raced towards him, telling him about what happened, asking him about where he was this entire time. He greeted each and every one. A smile plastered across his face. Each time he saw a tuft of blonde hair he would get excited, only to be disappointed when it wasn't Clarke.
When the crowd finally dispersed, a girl, with her back towards Bellamy, leaning over a child with cuts across her face, stood and glanced over her shoulder. Her mouth formed an O when she registered his face. The long blonde hair that clung to her neck and face was whisked away by the wind and her clothes clung to her small frame, drenched with sweat. She had cuts and bruises of her own marring her body.
Clarke never looked more beautiful.