Hey guys! I decided to continue with the story! Hope you guys enjoy the second chapter! :)
Nowhere Found Part 2
i.
Abby Griffin has been dead for five months.
Five months since the execution that left Clarke's mother hanging in a state of lifelessness. Five months of struggling, struggling with being polite with the privileged and the Guards, with creating enough medicine to last her until the next Trade.
Five months since she lost her mother. Five months since she became an orphan.
The cabin feels empty, lonelier. Cold and hopeless without the cheering smile of Abby Griffin, without the comfort and wise words she would tell Clarke in order to get through a day in the Ark.
The Ark. Still despicable. Still corruptive.
But the unprivileged society is beginning to fight back.
"When you get older, you are going to learn that some things aren't how they should be, that things should be better."
It's not better. It's different. And the Ark is different. There's been riots, small undiscovered crowds of the unprivileged that storm the streets, that tear down posters of Chancellor Jaha and paint words of rebellion on nearby stores.
Expectantly, with the increasing number of resilience against the Ark, there's also an increasing number of executions.
Fathers, mothers, siblings, and friends. Young and old. Healthy and ill. All of them, it doesn't matter, there's no limit on the amount of lives that the Ark has taken. No amount of hopelessness and grief that Chancellor Jaha has clouded the camp with.
But something is coming. Though Clarke doesn't know whether that something is good or bad.
She supposes it doesn't really matter. Nothing was ever good.
Clarke sighs. She reaches forward to scans her fingers across the piece of paper that lays in front of her. Her mother's note. The words have since been burned into her memory, the last words her mother has ever told her. Her final, last piece of advice.
And Clarke still can't figure it out.
"Trust the Grounders, follow them home, Clarke."
Grounders. She has no recollection of ever speaking of the term before. No memory of ever hearing of it. But she knows her mother, what she wanted, what her father would have wanted.
They want her to fight. Clarke just doesn't know if she can anymore.
She doesn't know how she can.
The silence of the cabin breaks as the horn bristles through the air, reminding the Ark citizens of the Trade that will shortly begin. Clarke is still at the same booth, with the same people, with the same thieves and Guards surrounding the area. That's how it is.
It's a cool day in February, and Clarke glances over at the kitchen table. The pile of medicine that rests on the surface of the wood seems to get smaller and smaller each month. And so do her meals.
School has since ended, and that allowed Clarke the advantage to start her shifts at the medical bay. She's able to get the supplies she requires to make the medicine for the Trade, able to receive a couple additional packs of rations. It's still not much. But it's enough.
For now, living in the Ark, following the law, that's enough.
Enough for her to keep going. To keep living.
But she doesn't know how much longer she can last. Doesn't really care.
ii.
The camp square is swarming yet again with customers. There's the familiar sound of begging, of crying and screaming that Clarke has always been uncomfortable with but has grown to accept. The unprivileged are desperate human beings.
Desperate people make desperate attempts. And those desperate attempts usually get them killed.
Clarke breathes deeply, looks down at her table. She's only managed to sell seven bottles of medicine in the last couple of hours. That's equivalent to nine packs of rations, to three weeks of living.
Or survival. Or whatever.
That's what Clarke has come accustomed to, with the death of her mother. That's what she's come to learn. She'll never be able to live, to be happy, to make other people happy. There's no room for that in the Ark. In the Ark, hope makes you weak. And weakness gets you executed.
It also sure feels a hell of a lot like giving up. She never thought she'd come to this point.
Clarke licks her lips. She exhales, breathes, rubbing her fingers against her palms to remove herself from her state of mind. Her eyes flicker, pressuring against the building tears in her eyes, and she catches herself in a glare with the person at the booth across from her.
Bellamy Blake.
God damn Bellamy Blake.
His eyes are strong, persistent, the familiar intensity she's observed since the moment of the attack in the alleyway. His hair is curly and growing long since the last Trade, and that's the only time she see's him, when he's standing by Octavia, doing what he needs to do to survive.
Clarke looks away. She hasn't contacted him since the days following her mother's death. But he tried, and so did Octavia, they tried to help her, to give her extra rations and offer her support. They tried to make the pain go away.
But she refused. Because every time she looks at him, she see's the man in the alleyway. And every time she thinks of the alleyway, she thinks of how it got her mother killed.
And it starts over again. The pain that never ends.
She's seen him once since the tragedy that occurred five months ago, when he came into the medical bay. His arm was bleeding, deep, and she had to perform stitches on him that required about an hour of practical procedure.
An hour of silence. Silence and brooding. There were some things he said, although, some things she learned. She learned he is still working at the factory, that his sister has begun a job at the school, teaching Greek history.
She learned that his mother died.
But then again, she didn't exactly learn that. She heard of it, when it happened a couple weeks after her mother, heard the wailing that Octavia Blake echoed throughout the East end from their cabin. She heard, and she didn't do anything. Didn't say anything then.
She offered her condolences to him when he informed her, and he just shrugged, nodded even. His lips were bruised and he looked tired. He looked too good of a person for this world.
"Hey, Clarke."
Clarke turns to the sound of the voice, eyes widening at the person in front of her. "Graham," she says in acknowledgement.
He smirks his yellow grin. His hair is shaggy and red, dirty, and Clarke looks around, eyeing the Guards that pass by. They know of Graham's motives, of the amount of suspensions he received from the Trade. He's stolen, even from the most poor of the families, but it didn't matter.
He was a privileged. And that meant it was okay.
Graham fingers one of the medicine bottles on the table. It makes Clarke's nerves tense. "I just wanted to come by, see how you were doing with your mother and all."
"I'm fine."
"That's good," he slithers. He eyes the table, his gaze shifting between the medicine and Clarke. "That's good."
Clarke nods. Her mother was usually the person who could deal with the conflicts that arose during the Trade. And he knows that. He knows and that's why he was smart to never try and steal from them before. But now it's not them. Now it's just her. It's just Clarke.
Graham turns away from the booth before she even realizes the two medicine bottles missing from the table.
Fuck.
"Hey," she sneers. She steps away from the booth, her steps trailing behind him as he walks further into the centre of the camp square. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
He glances over his shoulder at her. "Piss off, Griffin."
Clarke reaches forward. She grasps his elbow with her fingers and turns him towards her, her hands tight on his skin. He rolls his eyes, smiles at the Guards that observe them, and it hasn't occurred to her until then that straying people have begun to notice their encounter.
Clarke doesn't care. She doesn't fucking care.
"I can't afford this Graham and you know it." She's pleading now. Desperate people make desperate attempts. "Give it back."
Graham sighs. He gently peels her fingers from his elbow, and places her hand back to her side. He looks at her, and those eyes of trouble are hidden behind his bangs, behind his status. He smiles, softly, sarcastically.
"Why don't you go cry to your fucking mommy?"
There's many options of how she can handle this situation. There's a few stray members of the Ark that has surrounded them now, engaged in the situation and clash of the statuses. She can walk away, easily forget about the medicine bottles and return to her booth without consequences. But she doesn't do that.
Clarke punches him.
Her fists clench, tightly wounded as they strike against the side of his face, against his right cheek. He gasps, his fingers pressing against the redness surfacing his skin as the medicine bottles drop to the ground from their spot in his coat pocket.
Clarke's eyes harden, and she raises her fist again.
"Clarke."
She feels hands on her shoulders, pushing her back, and she knows who it is before her eyes even reach his face.
Bellamy stands between her and Graham, his expression hard. He tightens his hold around the material of her jacket, and he shakes his head, eyes warning in his usual intensity.
"Stop," he demands.
Clarke removes his hands from her shoulders and narrows her eyes. "Get the hell out of my way, Bellamy," she growls.
"No."
His answer sends a shiver of rage down her spine, and she stares at him, the silhouette of the crowd and Graham in the background. His hard expression reflects hers, and she knows he's not giving up. He's not giving up on her.
Her shoulders slump as she sighs. She wants to cry, wants to scream out at the people watching them, yell at them to continue with their day, to not gawk. She's the exhibit of a tragic individual in the Ark, the poor girl who almost got raped, who lost her parents, who punched Graham.
The poor girl who lost her mind.
"Miss. Griffin."
The icy voice of Chancellor Jaha splits through the air. Her fists curl tighter, and she swallows thickly, throat burning in the hatred that surrounds her. His tone is menacing, and she doesn't want to look at him.
But then she watches as Bellamy's eyes shift from hers to glare at a figure behind her shoulder, and she follows his direction of vision, turning to face Jaha and the crowd that parts with him.
Jaha steps forward. His stance of pride is familiar and despicable as a rally of Guards stand nearby in a protective stance around him. "Miss. Griffin," he repeats, this time her name sounds more irritated on his tongue, "I, along with other witnesses, observed you getting in a physical fight with Mr. Graham."
Clarke nods. She won't deny it. "He stole two of my medicine bottles, sir." The title still burns her lips.
"I understand," Jaha answers. Bellamy's breath is hot against the back of her neck where he stands behind her. "Although I am afraid to announce that this act of violence will not be accepted. Starting now, you are suspended from the sequence of today until the next Trade. Please, if you could, pack up your booth and return to your cabin."
Clarke shakes her head in disbelief. "Chancellor - "
"Now."
Clarke blinks. The crowd that has been observing the scene has grown larger, and she see's the recognizable faces of the students she went to school with, the acknowledged expressions of her mother's past co-workers. All thinking the same thing. Always thinking the same thing.
The Griffin girl. The one who's lost her mind.
She hears the coughing of Graham as he stands from the ground, and she doesn't realize until then that her fist starts to cramp. She licks her lips, flexing her palm and turning towards the direction of her booth.
Bellamy is still looking down at her when she catches his gaze again, but this time the wall of armour is gone, and his eyes are softer, sympathetic. And she wonders if he's thinking the same thing, too.
The Griffin girl. The one who's lost her mind.
Clarke shakes her head at him, as if to answer her own question. She's not gone. She's not lost. She pushes past him and ignores the wavering stares as she walks through the crowd.
She bends down to pick up her two recovered medicine bottles, and then leaves the Trade, with a pile of rations much smaller than last time.
iii.
With a pile of rations much, much smaller than last time.
Clarke sighs as she stares at the scatter of items in front of her. The Trade has since ended, and she's in her cabin, analyzing the amount of medicine bottles she has left and the amount of ration packs she received.
She'll have to skip four meals this time.
Clarke rubs at the soreness that has spread on the surface of her knuckles. There's a shallow cut that runs along her skin, and she traces her finger on it, remembering the satisfaction she felt when her fist connected with Graham's face.
And then that moment of satisfaction was interrupted when Jaha appeared. When he suspended her from the Trade. When he accustomed her to skipping four meals with her low amount of rations.
When he executed both of her parents.
Clarke screams. She screams and screams until her throat begins to burn with the sensation of grief and despair. She screams for her mother, and her father, and for the citizens of the Ark, and for the survivors of the war. For everyone.
Her hand slams against the table, and she presses her palm into the wood. She's not gone. She's not lost. She's not gone. She's not lost.
Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in.
But she is scared. She's an orphan and she's alone and she's scared. She's God damn terrified.
Clarke curls her fingers against the surface of the table, and she bends her head, lowers her face and closes her eyes. She remembers Bellamy's words, during her mother's execution, remembers him telling her she's not alone.
There's a knock on the front door that echoes throughout the cabin, and Clarke pauses, her muscles tensing. She waits and listens, and there's a second knock, then a third.
Clarke reaches forward and grabs the pile of rations and medicine bottles and places them inside one of the kitchen counters. She wipes at the redness around her eyes, the tears threatening to spill, and walks over to the front door, pulling it open.
Chancellor Jaha stands in front of her, hands behind his back, two Guards at his side.
"Clarke Griffin," he nods in greeting. The sun is setting and the light cascades the darkness of his skin. "Sorry to bother you in this hour."
Clarke shakes her head. "That's alright, sir," she tells him. Her pulse is quickening and her heart is edging and she knows that he senses the disgust she is displaying towards him.
Jaha tilts his head. His eyes rake over her body, over her ragged jeans, the messiness of her hair. She hasn't exactly been maintaining her appearance since her mother's death, hasn't been maintaining her sanity.
"What you did today," he begins, "is not acceptable. I understand that you are grieving - " Bullshit " - but I cannot allow this kind of behaviour, Clarke. You understand me?"
"Understood."
Jaha nods in satisfaction with her response. She glares at the uneasiness in his eyes, glares at the discomfort he feels being in the East end, with the starvation and death and suffering.
Yes, he must be oh so very disturbed.
"I'm glad we are able to come to an agreement," he says. His tone almost makes him sound genuine. He's good at pretending to care. "I hope you are able to respect these wishes, for I won't be as lenient next time."
Clarke nods. She knows what that means. That's a threat.
Don't trust the Ark, and trust the Grounders, follow them home, Clarke.
She doesn't know what home is anymore.
iv.
The darkness of the night has covered the sky when Clarke continues to finish her rounds, checking each patient and their diagnosis, checking their needs and requests.
It's been a long day at the medical bay. There was a man who came in with a deep gash stretching across his face, and Clarke knows it didn't come from a bicycle accident he told her as an excuse. He was funny, and witty. She thinks his name was Jasper.
It's been a couple of days since the last Trade, since Jaha visited her and warned her of any further drastic behaviour, as if she had anything left to lose. As if she had any reason left to care.
Clarke is pressing a cloth against the forehead of a small girl, the ticking of a nearby clock a burden to her ears. There's only two other doctors in the building, and since no one has come in yet with a serious injury, Clarke is hoping to finish her shift by midnight.
Her stomach growls. She hasn't eaten in hours.
"My name is Charlotte," says the girl who Clarke is treating. She's young, about ten, and she smiles up at her from her position against the pile of pillows on her cot. Her eyes are red and tired.
"Hello, Charlotte," Clarke grins, and her lips stretch, because she doesn't remember the last time she smiled, "I'm Dr. Griffin."
Charlotte nods knowingly. She was brought in by her father a couple hours ago, puking and in pain, but the other professions aren't sure what it could be. Don't have the technology to be sure of the diagnosis.
Clarke thinks it's cancer. Stomach cancer, pancreatic cancer, she doesn't know. She'll have to stay at the medical bay for a couple of days to be cautious.
Charlotte shifts on the mattress. "I know who you are. I remember your mom. She helped me when I came in one time. Said she had a daughter named Clarke."
Clarke's grin falls, and she releases a low breath. She hasn't been used to the constant staring she's received since she began working at the medical bay, the constant whispering, old co-workers of her mothers saying, "that's Abby's daughter, the poor girl." The poor girl, poor Griffin girl.
Charlotte bites on her bottom lip, and she places her hand on top of Clarke's, stopping the soothing motion of the cloth as she rests her palm on her skin.
"It's okay. I don't have a mom either."
Clarke looks at her. Her eyes are bright and watery, but she smiles, nods at her, and Clarke returns the affection, squeezing her hand in hers.
Most of unprivileged have lost one of their parents, or in Clarke's situation, have lost both.
It's a couple minutes past midnight when Clarke leaves the medical bay. Her hands rub against her arms, fingers skimming the fabric of her jacket. It's a cool night, and there are Guards lining the perimeter, guns at their hips and glaring.
Clarke sighs. She turns the corner onto her street, the silhouette of homes distant in the background. The living room lamp is still on in her cabin, and it allows the front porch to illuminate in a low light.
Clarke stops in her tracks when she arrives at her porch, and her eyes narrow, noticing a dark figure sitting on the steps.
Bellamy Blake.
He's leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. His eyes are rimming with exhaustion when he looks up at her, and Clarke bites on her lip, because he's still the man who reminds her of grief. But then she remembers. She remembers she's not the only one who has lost both parents.
"Hey."
Clarke nods in greeting. She clutches at the material of her shirt, breathing deep. "Hey," she mumbles.
Bellamy lifts himself from her porch steps. He stands in front of her, and the light reflects against his face, exposing various cuts and bruises on his skin. Clarke stares at him, eyes wide when he crosses his arms over his chest.
"We need to talk."
v.
Clarke glares at him, her mouth open and agape as she shakes her head in disbelief.
"A rebel group? That's what the Grounders are?"
Bellamy Blake leans against her kitchen counter, his eyes intense and yearning. He nods, tapping his fingers absentmindedly across the surface of the wood, and she wants to shake him, wants to burst with questions and wonder in the unsatisfying answers he's giving her.
A rebel group. A group of the unprivileged, of her people, of Bellamy and Octavia, using the frustration against the Ark into a weapon. A weapon that allows their rage to spark a riot, to tear down posters of Jaha and the council. To inspire others.
Clarke looks at the bruises that cover his face, and how he told her of the amount of practice they involve themselves with. The amount of fighting and skills they enhance in order to become stronger. Her eyes narrow, and she thinks of Jasper, thinks of the gash across his cheek.
"It's mostly those from the East end. About forty-six of us now," Bellamy tells her. "There used to be a lot more, but after your father was executed, people got scared and - "
Clarke's eyes widen. "My father was a leader?"
"Your mother, too."
She stares at him. Her chest rises quickly, and her breath falters, and suddenly she thinks of the times her father would teach her lessons, of how her mother never gave her a direct answer to why her father was killed.
Her mother, her mother who would promise her a new beginning. Who would speak of words and statements opposing the Ark, who sacrificed her life, not only for Clarke, but for all of them.
A change is coming, Clarke. It has been building for some time now, your father and I were both apart of it, and I hope you will become apart of it as well.
A rebellion. The change is the rebellion. The riots in the streets are the rebellion. Her parents, Bellamy, are the rebellion.
Clarke returns her gaze to Bellamy, and he's looking at her, calculating her with that same intensity she's familiar with. She takes a step towards him, and her head feels heavy and her mind feels weak. A rebellion.
Her voice is a broken whisper when she speaks. "Why didn't they tell me? Why didn't you tell me?"
Bellamy's eyes soften, and his shoulders sag at the desperation in her tone. He sighs, lowering his head, and she wonders how long he's known, how long he's been apart of it. She wonders how long he's known her parents.
"They knew how dangerous it was," he says, and he's looking away from her now, towards the kitchen table. "They didn't want to force it on you until you were ready. A couple days ago, at the Trade, I saw that you were."
Clarke gaps at him. This is what she's been wondering for months, what her mother's note meant, what her father's lessons taught her. This is it. It's the rebellion. They wanted her to join the rebellion, of course they did.
But she's not the same girl they raised. Not even close.
"This doesn't make sense," she murmurs. She steps to the side, standing beside him and leaning her hands against the counter. She bends her neck and closes her eyes. This doesn't make sense.
Bellamy's voice is close to her ear when he speaks. "A lot of us want things to change around here. I know you do. That's what were trying to accomplish."
"Well, getting both of my parents killed doesn't seem accomplished to me."
She hears Bellamy sigh, feels his breath along her skin. His hand wraps around her arm and turns her towards him, her body pressing against his. His frame is warm and tense and when she opens her eyes, she can see the reflection of her intensity in his own.
"Hey," he grunts. His face is close and determined, securing her. "Both of your parents sacrificed themselves, Clarke. Not just for you but for all of us. An uprising is coming, and they knew we would be able to win one day."
Clarke narrows her eyes. "And you see that day being soon?"
Bellamy drops his arm, releasing her from his grasp, but she doesn't move. Doesn't shift. She watches as he nods slowly, a confident and convinced nod that sends a moment of motivation throughout her body.
But then she remembers bodies of the innocent and the corpses of her parents and the death of hundreds of the unprivileged. She remembers her mothers note, her fathers lessons, and then remember how strong they were, how confident they were like Bellamy is.
So strong, and so confident, but they're dead. The Ark is more strong and more confident.
Clarke leans forward, and their gaze doesn't break when she shakes her head, a defeat in her character.
"I don't."
And then Bellamy sighs, and she can hear the voices in her head screaming in protest. Can hear the Griffin in her crying to accept the offer.
But she's not a Griffin anymore. She's Clarke.
That poor Griffin girl. She's gone.
vi.
Octavia shows up at the medical bay three days later.
"Seriously, Griffin?"
Clarke sighs, her fingers squeezing the cloth on Charlotte's pale forehead. She bites on her bottom lip, turning her head to see Octavia standing at the entrance, her arms crossed against her chest. Just like a Blake.
"I'm busy, Octavia," she tells her.
She should have seen this coming. She should have known that if Bellamy wasn't able to convince her, than his younger sister wouldn't leave her alone until she did. She wouldn't leave her alone until she agreed to join them and fight back.
But Clarke stopped fighting day her mother was hung.
She places the wet cloth on the table next to Charlotte's cot, gives her a small smile before she takes the few steps to stand in front of Octavia. Her eyes are glinted with passion and frustration, the same intensity her brother gives.
"I'd rather not do this right now, Octavia."
Octavia scoffs. She shakes her head as she leans forward. "No matter how much you stall and pretend and fake it the Ark isn't going to get better. The Ark is going to kill you, Clarke. It's going to kill all of us."
Clarke swallows thickly. "Octavia - "
"I can't believe you," she breathes. And her voice isn't angry now, it's disappointed. "A couple months ago you would have been the one approaching us. If you hate how things are then do something about it."
Don't trust the Ark, and trust the Grounders, follow them home, Clarke.
But, most of all, trust yourself.
Her mother forgot to mention why to trust herself, forgot to tell her how.
Clarke feels the quickening of her heart as she remembers the words from her mother's last note. The last words, they were her mother's last words, and her last words were telling Clarke to fight. Telling her to fight back.
Octavia watches the change in Clarke's expression, and she exhales deeply, preparing for the final statement she knows will break her.
"I thought you had fire, Griffin. Guess only your parents did."
And then she leaves, leaves Clarke with the burning feeling of guilt and grief and pity and -
Her father is dead.
Her mother is dead.
- and anger.
Her father is dead.
Her mother is dead.
That night, after her shift ends, she walks to their house, her hands clenched in fists and her eyes scolding with adrenaline. She knocks on the door, and when Bellamy answers, his jaw set and his muscles tense under his shirt, he nods at her. Because he knows. He knew she would come around.
"I'm in."
That Griffin girl. She's not gone.
vii.
Bellamy's in front of her, his body leaning against the door frame of his kitchen as she stands across from him.
Her eyes scan the layout of his cabin, searching. "You said forty-six people. Where are they?"
Bellamy shrugs, his shoulders slumping along the wood. She remembers the last time she was here, with her body trembling with panic, and her eyes filling with fear as he told her his plan to turn himself in. To get himself executed.
But her mother beat him to it.
Death and pain, the endless cycle of the Ark. So she'd rather die trying to stop it then die being afraid.
"All across the East end. We have a lot of people trying to get the word out," he tells her. He leans his head against the doorframe as he looks down at her. "We want to plan another riot soon."
Clarke bites on her bottom lip. "What would it be this time? Burn all the propaganda posters?"
"No. Burn the execution stand."
Clarke gapes at him. She steps forward towards him, and he lifts his head, gaze locking as she nears him. "Burn the execution stand?" she questions, "there's too many Guards in the camp square. They'll kill us all."
Bellamy shakes his head slowly. "Haven't done so yet. And besides, they can't. All of East end is working class." His eyes burn into hers reassuringly, and she feels her body relax, feels the tension leave her muscles. "They need us," he adds.
They need us. The Ark needs their pain and their suffering, needs their struggle to survive and jobs in order for the system to work. The system of inequality and the unfairness of products and goods. They're protected by the injustice that inspires them to fight.
Clarke exhales deeply as she rolls her shoulders. "Burn the execution stand? That's what's next?"
"Yeah."
Clarke nods. Her eyebrows knit together as she studies the ground below her. This is the rebellion. This is what they do. This is what her father and mother did, what Bellamy did, what she'll do. They start a movement, make a difference.
Make a difference. They risk their lives to make a difference.
Her parents did, and now so will she. This is what she wants to do, what she needs to do. Make a difference.
When Clarke looks up at him again, the adrenaline in his eyes reflects her own. "Okay," she whispers, and then she grins, because this is crazy. They're crazy. But then he grins too and she thinks it's okay to feel like this, to be like this.
It's okay to want change.
Octavia walks down the stairs then, and she enters the kitchen with a shine in her eyes. She acknowledges Clarke with a smile, a wide smile that expresses her persistence.
"Griffin," she breathes, and strands of her hair are parted in multiple braids, "I figured you'd show up sometime."
Clarke shrugs. She steps away from Bellamy, her arms crossing over her chest as she looks at the woman in front of her. She's starting to predict her behaviour now. Octavia Blake - mean before being nice.
Octavia grins graciously at her and turns to Bellamy. "It's time to go."
He nods, and when Clarke looks at him again, the adrenaline in his eyes enhance.
"Ready to explore the underworld?"
viii.
The darkness of the night is surrounding them when they approach an alleyway a couple streets from their cabin. It's hard to see her, and the brick walls feel close to her frame as she follows Bellamy and Octavia in the direction they're leading her to.
Clarke swallows thickly. She remembers what happened the last time she was in an alley.
And Bellamy seems to remember too, because he turns to her, his eyes adjusting to her in the night. He offers a reassuring nod, and she returns it, because he knows what he's doing, Clarke. He knows what he's doing.
Octavia stops ahead of them, in front of a dumpster, and Clarke watches as she pushes the object to the side. Her breathing is heavy when she returns, bending down, gripping her hands forward. And that's when Clarke sees it. That's what when she see's the door trap in the ground.
Octavia looks up at them when she rusts it open. "Come on."
She jumps into the opening, and there's a small sound of her feet hitting the cement as she lands. Clarke shakes her head. A door trap. In the ground. In the Ark. Clever.
"What are you waiting for?"
Clarke breathes deeply when she see's Bellamy in front of her, squatting at the entrance. He wasn't kidding when he said he would show her the underworld. She walks towards him, and he nods at her before hurdling himself into the blackness of the opening.
Clarke follows, and she slightly stumbles when she feels the new ground beneath her feet.
She hears Bellamy exhale as he steadies her, his hands gripping her shoulders to prevent her from swaying. It's dark around them, and he squeezes the material of her shirt before releasing her. She looks up at him, eyes yielding.
"It's over here," he whispers. He turns from her then, walking down the hallway of the bunker. He guides her down a staircase, and she can see the brightness growing as they gain closer.
They eventually approach a large room, the light coming from battery lamps and torches of fire. There's words that line the walls, words of rebellion and their commitment to equality of all citizens. Equality amongst the privileged and unprivileged.
Clarke stares in awe at the people that occupy the room. There's a group of them training in a squared off section on the opposite side, their arms flexing as they face their own opponent in a physical competition. Others scatter amongst the bunker, participating in any activity available.
Bellamy leans closer to her. "We call it the Pit."
Clarke shakes her head in astonishment. She wonders of the memories her parents have carved into the walls, into the process of building the rebellion. She wonders how they started, how they continued, how they strayed Clarke from their lifestyle for eighteen years.
She wonders if she'll be enough to maintain her parents' reputation.
Bellamy touches her elbow, and she looks up at him, regarding the firmness in his expression. He jerks his chin towards a group of four people standing at a table, their heads bent as Octavia watches them work. She follows Bellamy as they approach them, eyes constantly discovering another interest in the bunker.
"Guys," Bellamy says as they reach them, "this is Clarke. She'll be joining us."
A girl with brown eyes smiles. "About time we get another chick around here. I'm Raven."
Clarke nods at her, notices the cuts that run along her bare arms. It seems as if Clarke wasn't the only one receiving fighting lessons from her father. Her eyes scan over the next two boys as they introduce themselves, Finn and Monty, her gaze landing on the final person to the side.
"Jasper," she remembers.
Jasper. The Jasper who came in to the medical bay a couple days ago with a deep gash forming on his face. The Jasper who told her it was a bicycle accident.
He smiles awkwardly, his cheeks reddening. "Hey, Clarke."
"Ignore him, he's only apart of this team because we're desperate," Finn teases. He pats Jasper's arm jokingly as Raven, Monty and Octavia snicker in the background. "We've got physicality on us too, but, mostly, we're the ones who build the weapons."
Clarke shakes her head. "Weapons?"
"Yeah." Finn gestures towards the pieces of scrap material that lay on the surface of the table. "Guns."
Guns. Her eyes shift amongst the forming bullets, amongst the outline of pistols on the wood. She knits her eyebrows together in confusion. "How did you - "
Raven interrupts her before she can finish the question. "If you look in the right places, you can trade for a lot more than rations." She picks up a crumpling of metal from the table. A bullet. "Bullets aren't easy to make. We save them for when we have to use them, and for practice."
Clarke nods. It seems as though the rebellion has been growing with people and equipment, has been developing despite the loss of her mother and father. She exhales deeply. Maybe they have a chance.
Monty crosses his arms shyly over his chest. His eyes are unwilling when they meet hers. "You're Jake's daughter, yeah?"
Clarke swallows thickly. "Yeah."
Monty offers her a sad smile. It settles an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, knowing that these people, these strangers, potentially knew more about her father than she did. Spent more time with him than she did. Had more in common with him than she did.
He's been dead for years, and yet the reputation of his soul has been constantly following her. Constantly reminding her of the good and the bad.
"He was a good guy," Monty tells her when he notices her distressing posture.
Jasper nods his head in agreement. "So was your mom."
Clarke's grin is small when she stretches her lips. The rumours that surrounded her family following her father's death was a factor she was taught to ignore, was taught to believe in the lies that her mother told her. Her father died for what was right, and her mother died for what was right, and so will she, if it comes to that.
She glances at Octavia, her eyes softening with a knowing look. She gestures her chin towards a wall of colour and paint, and Clarke turns, walking towards it. Her eyes search the writings and her hand presses against the wall, against the same concrete that her parents once touched. Her eyes widen when she finally notices their names in the middle.
Abby Griffin and Jake Griffin. A line crosses along both their names. Dead.
She glides her fingertips across the carving. A feeling of satisfaction rises inside her, because this is who they would want her to be, they would want her to be good. They would want her to be one of the good guys. One of the good guys who fought and stood up for those who couldn't.
And she will. She'll fight, not only for the unprivileged, but for her parents, for herself, the Griffin girl.
She's not lost. She's not gone.
There's a shift in her breath when someone stands next to her, and she doesn't have to look to notice his presence. To notice who that presence belongs to. Her palm rests against her parents names plastered on the wall, her fingers rubbing along the line between them.
"Your turn."
Clarke turns her head, her eyes finding Bellamy's as he secures her in a steady gaze. He extends his hand towards her, and when she looks down she sees a carving utensil in his palm.
She exhales deeply, her skin brushing against his when she takes it from his grasp. It feels heavy between her fingers.
It's heavy and cold but it doesn't matter. She presses the tip of the sharp knife against the wall, and carves, carves and thinks of her mother and father, of the legacy they left her. An entire world she didn't know about until recently. When she finishes, she stares at the new addition to the wall, Clarke Griffin, the name directly beneath her parent's.
Bellamy grin is small when she turns back to him, and suddenly the carving utensil doesn't feel so heavy and cold anymore.
"Welcome to the rebellion."
ix.
Rebellion.
A word with one meaning, yet with various ways to approach it. With various ways to succeed in it, to fail in it, to save or lose lives. Rebellion. A chance to make a difference, a chance to make a change. It all starts with one word.
Clarke sits on the wooden stool that rests on a side of the bunker, observing the scene of training and skill improving in front of her. She watches as Bellamy fixes Jasper's posture as he holds a gun, his curly hair falling over his forehead as he reforms Jasper's stance.
They're nice. Strong. The people here. It's been a few days since she was first introduced to them, first introduced to the unknown world hiding inside the Pit. When she returned home the first night, her mind reeling from the discovery, it was difficult to continue in her daily routines. Was hard to focus on anything but the hope that swells inside her chest.
Rebellion.
"It takes a while to get used to."
Clarke turns her head at the sound of the additional voice, her eyes meeting Raven's wide ones. Her hair is pulled into a tight ponytail as usual, brown strands falling around the frame of her face.
"Crazy, huh?" she continues, and there's a sense of pride in her tone. "To think this might work. We've come a long way."
Clarke nods. "What made you join?"
Raven sighs. Her eyes trail along an individual standing beside Octavia and another Grounder, Lincoln. Clarke follows her gaze, noticing the man who is glancing back at Raven, smiling, his hair scruffy and blonde. Clarke remembers his name is Wick.
"My parents were in the factory when it caught on fire a couple years ago," she explains, her eyes still fixated on Wick, "Turns out it occurred because there was machinery that was out of practice. Jaha knew. The bastard could have fixed it . . . but he didn't."
Clarke remembers. She remembers the amount of people who lost their lives, the people who lost their spouse, their children, their mother or father. Raven lost both. Lost everything. She swallows thickly, there's a lot more orphans in the East end than Clarke would like to think about.
Raven crosses her arms across her chest. Tough. "I was pretty young. Pretty scared. But that's when Wick found me and told me about the rebellion. And I met Bellamy. Met your parents."
She turns to Clarke then, and her eyes are round and passionate. Clarke knows this is more than a chance for change to Raven, this is more than eventual peace. This is revenge. Clarke senses it too. Allows it to motivate her.
"When we burned down those posters, we didn't want to do it for the violence. We wanted to do it for the hope. To inspire people."
Clarke nods. She gets it. She gets the risks they're willing to take in order to restore equality. In order to avenge those who they've lost.
Raven lowers her voice then, sympathetic. "What happened to your mom, that's what we do," she tells her. "That's what Grounders do. Sacrifice themselves."
Sacrifice. She thinks of her mother, of the rope that wounded tightly around her neck. Thinks of Bellamy, when he was preparing to turn himself in. When he was preparing to sacrifice his life for her freedom. Sacrifice. Yeah, she's sensed that a typical Grounder quality.
"That's what Bellamy was going to do," Clarke mumbles. Her eyes find him again in the crowd, and she doesn't remember the last time she allowed herself to look at him without thinking of her mother. Doesn't remember the last time she was able to push the thoughts away.
Raven chuckles. "That's not Grounder. That's just Bellamy. Your dad saw a lot in him, probably the reason why he trusted Bellamy to lead us if anything happened to your father."
Clarke bites on her bottom lip, watches Bellamy as he continues to assist others in handling their weapons. She remembers the conversation they had the morning after the incident in the alley. Remembers his voice and his expression. I'm not going to let us both get killed, Clarke.
No, he wouldn't. And it hurts, knowing the lengths he would go for his people. It hurts knowing the lengths he would go for her.
Clarke swallows thickly. "He saved my life," she whispers. She hasn't thanked him enough times. Never will be able to.
There's a guilt that rises inside her when she thinks of the months she spent not being able to look at him. The months she spent trying to avoid him and his damn expression of sympathy. But she has to let go. She has to realize.
Her and Bellamy aren't the reason her mother is dead. The Ark is the reason.
Clarke clenches her fists, and thinks of the word again. Rebellion. Her mother is dead. Her father is dead. Rebellion. Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in. And she won't. She'll fight. She'll become a Grounder.
"He saved all of our lives," Raven echoes.
And when Clarke looks towards the gathering of people again, his eyes have already found hers, and she hopes he notices the words she's trying to reflect through her eyes.
I'm sorry, Bellamy. Thank you.
He nods at her, and maybe he'll allow her to bear some of the guilt too. Maybe they can bear the guilt together.
x.
Two days later, she holds her mother's gun in her hands, eyeing the target ahead of her.
The metal is cool against her skin, and she grips it tighter with the recognition that her mother once touched it, once pulled the trigger. Her fingers trace the weapon, eyes focused on the large X displayed on the red sheet hanging from the poll.
She breaths deeply. In. Out. Thinks of those who have suffered from the undoings of the Ark, and those who have suffered from the outcome of Jaha's leadership. Thinks of the woman who once held this gun. Thinks of the man who once taught her upper hooks.
And pulls the trigger.
The bullet enters through one of the sheet's corners, ripping through the fabric with a scaling sound. It's a long shot. A bad shot. But it felt good.
Clarke sighs, lowering her arms. She glances at Bellamy, who stands behind her, his gaze shifting from the red sheet to her own glare. He shakes his head and steps forward, ignoring the exaggerated groan from Octavia who observes on the side.
"Clarke," he breathes, and his voice is low against her neck. They've been here for hours. "Raise your arms higher."
He demonstrates, reaching forward and gripping her elbows. She swallows thickly because it's suddenly hard to swallow, and he positions himself behind her, her back settling against his chest.
"Why is that important?" she asks him as he raises her arms to his own satisfaction.
She feels him shrug around her. "Structure," he explains. "Don't present yourself with anger, it'll destroy you."
Clarke rolls her eyes, and he visibly makes his point as he releases her arms from his grip, resting them on her shoulders. They're harsh and rigid, and he presses down on them, breaking the tension that builds there.
She rolls her shoulders back, exhaling sharply. "I can handle it."
He chuckles. A low and quiet rumble in his chest. It's different, seeing him when he isn't completely surrounded with worry and danger, when he isn't trying to protect everyone. It's different, because she can finally look at him now, can finally accept his presence without thinking of her.
But her father trusted him. And he did save his life. She doesn't know how she could ever regret it.
But she was grieving, and grief is a funny thing.
"Just breathe," he tells her. And it occurs to her that her chest has been throbbing with the impulsion to release a breath. His hands drop from her shoulders, and he steps away from her, allowing her to focus. She settles her gun on the target and breathes deeply. In. Out.
When she releases the trigger, it's only inches away from the X.
Clarke smiles, a real smile, and drops her hands to the side. She turns to see Bellamy looking at her with a hint of amusement in his eyes. Octavia shouts a praise somewhere in the background and he grins, nodding in agreement.
Clarke raises her eyebrows at him. "So?"
Octavia walks towards them, skipping in her step. "Looks like you're a Griffin, after all," she smirks. Her voice holds the same impressive tone as Bellamy's expression.
But, of course, he'll never admit that, so he only regards her with a small nod. "Hopefully it won't take you another five hours next time," he teases.
Clarke rolls her eyes because he's right. Everyone else left after her fifth try, and it's been the three of them, waiting, always waiting, for her to get a decent shot. She doesn't remember the last time someone stayed with her until she succeeded in something, or the last time someone stayed with her at all. But then she looks at Bellamy and Octavia again, see's them looking back, and it almost feels normal.
xi.
Clarke awakes that night to the impending darkness of the room.
She stirs, her fists rubbing against her eyes as the moonlight struggles to shine through the curtains. Her body is still aching from her previous lessons when she lifts her body from the mattress and she rests herself on her elbows, glancing at the sleeping figure beside her.
Octavia.
Clarke sighs. It's an odd feeling, the feeling she gets when she allows herself to accept others into her life. When she allows herself to care for other people. Octavia is a good person, a good friend, and it's odd. She's been alone for so long.
She's been unfixable for so long.
Clarke slides her legs over the bed, her footsteps queit amongst the wood as she exits the bedroom. It wasn't planned, sleeping at the Blake cabin, but they were all exhausted when they returned from the Pit that it seemed like the only rational thing to do. It seemed normal.
But she can't sleep, hasn't been able to in a while, so she goes to the only place she knows will help ease her mind.
The place where she used to sit with her parents, watching the sun rise and lower in the summer days that kept them entertained. The porch. It's as simple as a porch. But when Clarke slips on her shoes and walks outside, Bellamy is already there, sitting on the steps.
She almost turns back. Almost wants to run home. But she doesn't. Instead, she takes the remaining distance between them in a few strides, and lowers herself beside him on the porch steps.
She receives another odd feeling when she settles beside him, when their knees touch, but she can't quite find the name for it.
Bellamy turns his head to glance at her. "Couldn't sleep?" he asks, and his voice is husky and his eyes are soft.
"Never can."
He nods, a simple and curt gesture. He looks at her for another moment before returning his eyes to the sky above them, to the cloudless night. She curls her fingers around her elbows, tries to count the freckles on his cheek.
He sighs deeply, his chest rising with his breath. "Seems like there's a lot of that going around."
Clarke doesn't say anything, and he doesn't ask her to. It's silent, and peaceful, and she's suddenly reminded of the last time she woke up in his cabin, screaming and thrashing. Remembers him comforting her until she came from the fear.
And there was that fear to him itself. A fear of the unknown while she forced him to promise her, forced him to promise that he would try to convince the council of their innocence. A fear that they both shared.
It seems as if they can't stop hiding from each other's demons.
"Bellamy," she whispers. She directs her face towards the sky, reflecting his position. "Did you know what she was going to do?"
She doesn't need to elaborate. They both know what she's speaking of, know the night in which changed their lives and entangled their lives into a mess in which they couldn't escape from. A night that brought on the continuous nightmares and sleepless nights.
"No."
Clarke turns to find him looking at her, his expression heavy. There's been so many questions and unanswered responses between them, so much guilt and unwanted emotions. But it'll never change. He'll always be the boy who saved her life. And she'll always be the girl who almost took his.
"We talked all night," he continues, "she told me she couldn't leave you. I offered to do it anyways."
Clarke shakes her head. "Why?"
He lowers his gaze, but her eyes can't seem to stray from his face. He looks so vulnerable, so much like in the moment he told her he was turning himself in. And she wants this. She wants to share the guilt. Bear it together.
"Something I learned to do," he mumbles. He still won't look at her. "To protect people."
That's not Grounder. That's just Bellamy. Raven's words are a reminder, and Clarke suddenly feels as vulnerable as he looks.
"To protect me."
Bellamy lifts his head then, settles her gaze on her. There's a yearning in his eyes that she wants him to speak on, wants him to feel and act on. But he's guarded. There's more demons inside him than he will ever allow himself to show her.
Clarke scrunches her eyebrows. "You didn't have to. We barely knew each other."
Bellamy shakes his head. His hair curls around his forehead, shagging, and when he turns back to her, there's a newfound passion in his eyes.
"We don't get to control a lot of things, Clarke," he whispers, because he needs her to understand. "But we do get to control who and what we choose to live for. We get to control who and what we choose to die for. And I'm not allowing them to take that from me."
The words rise a swelling inside her chest. A swelling that reminds her of the person who was able to teach her lessons on an emotional and physical aspect. Who had soul and passion, who shared Bellamy's vow to humanity.
Her eyes are burning with unshed tears when she speaks again. "You sound like my dad."
Bellamy releases a breath of laughter, without humour. "I guess so, huh?" he murmurs.
Clarke laughs. A sound she hasn't heard in months. His chuckle follows, a thumping in his chest, their entangled tones echoing throughout the night. She wipes at the lonely tear that slides down her cheek. Sitting here, with Bellamy, it doesn't hurt to cry.
It doesn't hurt to cry and it doesn't hurt to think.
Moments later, when their laughter fades, she bumps his elbow with hers. "I'm sorry. For avoiding you," she tells him. She doesn't elaborate, but he knows what she's speaking of. She couldn't even look at him the months following her mother's execution.
He shrugs. "You're here now."
Clarke nods, the wetness beneath her eyes removing from her cheeks. She grins at him, and he returns it, and suddenly she forgets what it feels like to be anxious, because she's never met anyone who's made her feel so secure. Who made her feel so hopeful without even saying the words.
"Yeah," she whispers. I'm here.
And then she turns her face towards the sky, watches the moon hanging from the night with Bellamy beside her, and it feels good not to be scared for a while.
xii.
Clarke stands beside the counter top in the medical bay, Charlotte bright and eager in front of her.
It's early in the morning, the sun a low rise amongst the clouds. Her shifts have been doubling at the medical bay since she doesn't have enough time to make medicine bottles to sell at the trade. But it's hard to count on a job for rations. Hard to count on anything.
Charlotte leans forward on the surface. The young girl has been staying overnight since Clarke first suggested it to her father a couple weeks ago. Her skin is still pale, her hair still falling loose around her face, but she still maintains the appearance of a child. Of the sick youth.
Clarke sighs. Whatever illness she has, she can't fix it.
"My dad said he's going to make me carrot soup tonight," Charlotte declares.
Clarke smiles. She takes a step towards her, her hands on her thin shoulders. She removes the wires and tubes that link to her body, discarding her of any trace left of the medical bay.
She tries to mask the sadness in her voice. "Of course. He's excited to have you back."
Charlotte's grin widens as she nods. She's been up all night, puking up a substance Clarke isn't sure of, yet the adrenaline that she expresses continues to increase. It takes everything inside Clarke not to sympathize. But Charlotte almost makes it impossible. She's the happiest child she knows.
"Nice scrubs."
Clarke turns to the additional voice in the room, eyes widening when she see's Bellamy at the entrance, leaning against the doorframe. He pushes himself off the wall and walks over to them, his arms crossed against his chest.
His gaze are teasing as Clarke rolls her eyes. "Hey," she replies.
Bellamy smirks. She can still see the scar that forms across his cheek from a training incident with Lincoln, although it's faded and unclear on his skin. She wonders how many more wounds he has on his body.
He stands beside her, turning from her to analyze the small girl in front of them. "Who's this?" he wonders.
Charlotte jerks her chin forward. "I'm Charlotte. Who are you?"
"Bellamy."
She crosses her arms over her chest, smiling cheekily. "Well guess what, Bellamy?"
He grins, entertained by the overpowering energy that releases from her small frame. He glances sideways at Clarke and raises a questioning eyebrow, but she only shakes her head, returning the grin.
"What?" He plays along.
Charlotte shows him the band hanging from her small wrist. The band that displays her discharge. "I get to go home today," she tells him.
Bellamy chuckles and mumbles a small congratulations, but she can still distinguish the heartache in his voice. He hides it well, emotionally and physically, because he raises his hands towards her, and she slaps her own against it.
Charlotte giggles, and he gives her one last look before turning back to Clarke. "You done soon?" he asks. She almost lies, tells him not for another couple of hours so she has time for her body to heal. Her muscles still ache under her clothes.
Despite it, she nods at him. "I'll be there in an hour," she informs him.
Bellamy lowers his head in acknowledgement. He glances at Charlotte, her lips still stretching in a smile, and touches her shoulder. "See you later, kid," he bids. His fingers grasp the material of her gown a moment longer, before he grins at her and Clarke, and exits through the doorway.
Clarke sighs. This must be important.
She turns back to Charlotte to see her smile has widened in awe. "He's cool," she mumbles.
Clarke steps towards her as she continues to remove the tubes from her body. "You think so?" she questions, her voice teasing. It's only assumed Bellamy would be good with kids, considering his relationship with Octavia.
"Yeah. Is he your boyfriend?"
Clarke stops. She swallows thickly, shaking her head. "He isn't."
Charlotte shrugs. "Okay. Well I think I like him," she tells her.
Clarke smiles. She pats the material that runs along her shoulders, having removed all of the wires that connect her to the low quality monitors. She's going home. She's going home because she should be comfortable when it happens. When she passes.
"Well I know he likes you," she says, and Charlotte smiles again, and she wonders how she can smile so much as an unprivileged, sick girl living in the Ark.
Later that night, Bellamy encourages her in the training centre until her bones ache and break. When they finish, he grabs her elbow, her forehead wet with the release of the exercise, and brings her towards the centre of the Pit.
He informs the crowd before them of their plan to burn down the execution stand in the following weeks. He informs them of their commitment to their society, of their devotion to peace and equality. Of their promise to honour those who lost their lives in this deep war.
"We need the people. As soon as we have their support, then we start fighting back. Start making deals with the council."
The crowd cheers in response, and she was right, this is important, this is the change. She looks at Bellamy, and he looks at her, and they both nod at each other, because this is the change. This is the rebellion.
xiii.
It's almost midnight when they leave the Pit.
The sky is cloudless and the air is cool, with the guards lining the perimeter of the camp that leads to his cabin. Her hands rub instinctively along the skin of her arms as she shivers. A shiver that relates to the wind and the feeling of revolution that slowly approaches them.
There's a silence that surrounds Clarke and Bellamy as they walk along the pathway. Her muscles continue to burn and stretch through her body, and she thinks of how it felt when Bellamy's arms held her wrists, the same way her father would. But it felt yet entirely different.
After his announcement to the fellow members of the rebellion, Octavia offered to stay with Lincoln and assist those who needed and wanted the practice. Either Bellamy doesn't see it, or he doesn't want to, but the relationship between Octavia and Lincoln is there. Is growing. It's nice to see.
Clarke stands by the Blake porch when they arrive to his cabin, and he turns to her, his hair scruffy and his eyes dark in the night.
"You sure you don't want me to walk you home?"
She shakes her head. "Yeah," she whispers. "I'll be fine."
He nods, grins a little, and she returns it before curving away from him. She tucks her hair behind her ears, crossing her arms over her chest, and waits for the sound of his footsteps along the porch and the opening of his door. But she doesn't hear anything.
"Clarke?"
She stops in her tracks. Turns her body to him. "Yeah?"
Bellamy leans against the railing of his porch. He rests his elbows on the wood, and his expression is sincere, so genuine. She takes a couple steps towards him without realizing, her eyes meeting his.
There's that passion again in his eyes. That reflection of intensity and hope and wonder and God there's so many emotions in his eyes that she would never able to find or name or understand.
There's that odd feeling in her stomach again. But she doesn't want to think about that.
"When my father died," he begins, his tone rough, "for a while, it didn't seem like I belonged anywhere, like I didn't have a home. Or people." He leans forward, towards her. "But I do. You do. You know that, right?"
Clarke swallows thickly, because that feeling is climbing up her throat. "I'm trying to," she whispers.
"You'll get there," Bellamy vows. His voice is smooth now, almost healing. "You are a Griffin, after all."
Clarke grins. She wonders if he can see it in the darkness, but she supposes he can because he smiles too. It seems as if her parents are the heroes she always imagined them as. Heroes not only to her, but to the rebellion. To the Ark.
"That's a name to live up to, I guess," she declares.
Bellamy shrugs, his eyes bright. "You're managing."
She smiles gratefully at him, her gaze lingering on the mixture of emotions that sweep at the edge of his eyes. Bellamy Blake. There's so much to discover about this man, so much to learn and so much to learn from.
Bellamy Blake. The only thing that scares her is that odd feeling she has, the one she doesn't like to think about. Whatever it is, it has something to do with those damn eyes.
His expression is encouraging when he looks at her again, and maybe he's right, maybe she'll be alright. Maybe she's not alone after all.
Her mother is dead.
Her father is dead.
But the Griffin girl. She's not gone.
Okay guys! That's the second chapter haha hope you guys enjoyed it, sorry it took a while I really struggled with the plot for a while!
Anyways, about the feeling, I am both so happy and crushed about that final Bellarke scene haha! I think it's safe to see we can get more sexual tension and hopefully a kiss in season 3!
Anyways, have a great week!
Happy Bellarking, xoxoxo