Hey guys! I hope you enjoy the first part of chapter three! I'm posting only the first part now because I just got assigned many assignments and I want you guys to read something while it took me a few extra days to finish the complete chapter! So enjoy :) Second part of the chapter should be up this week.
i.
Wells Jaha visits the medical bay on a Tuesday.
The room isn't busy, most of the patients asleep or doodling on the notepads they provide as entertainment. It's hard to avoid him, hard to pretend she doesn't see his figure, but he stops in front of her, his eyes yielding.
Clarke nods at him, not looking up from the clipboard in her hand. "Wells," her tone is cold.
He digs his hands in his front pockets, shifting on his feet. He's nervous, of course he is, it's dangerous for him to be in the East end, especially with the riots and rising rebellion. The rebellion she is apart of. The rebellion that will compromise his father.
But yet he stays. Attempting to be bold. "How are things?" he asks.
That's brave of him to ask, considering his father executed her parents. Considering she hasn't spoken to him in months, and he hasn't tried to contact her, much to her relief. Sometimes she forgets that we they once had, whatever it was, even existed at all.
"I'm fine," she tells him.
Wells nods. "Listen," he begins, and her stomach clenches, because the speech already sounds too familiar, the endless amount of apologies she doesn't want to hear. "I'm sorry about your parents. I don't agree with a lot. But - I just need to talk to you."
Clarke sighs. His voice is strained and desperate, genuine. But it doesn't matter. He doesn't matter. She doesn't look up from her clipboard when she speaks.
"There's nothing to say."
He doesn't say anything for a while, and Clarke desperately hopes he takes her silence as a reason to leave. To exit the medical bay and never come back. To return to his pleasures and life full of advantages. To return to his father, his father, with more blood on his hands than life itself.
"I hear you're hanging with the Blake siblings a lot," he whispers eventually. Clarke's eyes look up from her clipboard, stares at him, finally acknowledging his presence. His eyes are guarded and fierce. "You shouldn't be. They're dangerous."
Clarke almost laughs. "You can't be serious."
A changing of emotion shifts his expression, and for once she see's the display of concern and terror reflect in the eyes of a privileged Ark citizen. His mouth forms a line of desperation, his grip hard when he grabs her wrist. The action momentarily shocks her before she rips herself from his grasp.
"Clarke." His throat burns with the struggle to remain calm. "You need to be careful. Stay off the streets. You don't know what you're about to be up against." He eyes her, his steady glare meeting her unexpected eyes. "I mean it."
She stares at him, her head shaking in disbelief and a fear of the unknowing. She wonders what he knows, wonders who knows, wonders how much longer they have until there's another change, a change they're not planning for.
Questions blaze at the edge of her lips, but Wells doesn't hear, because he's already retreating from her, leaving the medical bay and the zone of the unprivileged.
ii.
The Pit contains a tense atmosphere when they gather in the bunker that night.
Bellamy stands beside her, his arms crossing over his chest as he faces the various people around them. There only a few, the people they trust the most, the people who have proven their alliance and commitment to the rebellion.
He's silent, calculating, wearing the same expression he gave her when she told him of Wells' visit. When she told him of Well's threat. Or at least it was a warning. A warning that cautioned them to be careful, to be smart about what they plan to do next.
"I think we should hold off on the burning of the execution stand," Octavia says, finally speaking since she first entered the underground hideout. "They might know something. Might be sensing an uprising."
Bellamy shakes his head. "Octavia," he mumbles, and Clarke can dictate the verge of collapse in his voice. "If we give up, so does humanity." He pauses, gazing at the people around him. "We are humanity."
"We're not giving up," Raven reasons. She steps forward, sharing a nod with Wick and Finn. "Wells came to Clarke with information he shouldn't be sharing. We shouldn't take that lightly."
Bellamy swallows thickly. His muscles tense under the material of his shirt, veins pulsing in his internal struggle to remain composure. He lowers his head, black curls falling against his skin when he exhales a deep breath.
"Bullshit," he comments. The word isn't angry. It's unknown and confused. He looks at the group one more time, his gaze holding responsibility, before he turns his body and walks towards the wall of the fallen, the wall with her parent's names.
Clarke follows him.
His body is facing away from the open room, the tension in his back tight and complex in front of her. She walks forward, her shoulder touching his when she stands beside him. She's never had the chance to be there for him, because it seems like she's always the one who needs the reassurance, and now it's her moment to return the treatment.
He sighs, speaking first. "Clarke - "
"We have to be smart about this," she whispers. Their eyes are focused on the names in front of them, a reminder of the risks and lives they lost while fighting this battle. A battle that might turn into a war. A war with only one side winning. "We need to think about our safety, reevaluate our choices."
He breathe deep, and when he responds, his voice is quieter, calmer. "Did he say anything else?"
"No."
Bellamy nods. His hands rest at the bones of his hips, eyes scanning the names in front of them. The names of people who are alive, who are dead, but nonetheless the names of the people who wanted to make a difference.
They will make a difference, they have to.
"He should know not to visit you again," he mumbles after a while, so low she almost doesn't hear.
Clarke shakes her head. "Why should he know that?"
Bellamy shrugs, his shoulders stiff. The voices from behind them echo around the room, their low murmurs speaking of different ideas, different theories of what's to come. What the council is going to do next. Clarke doesn't try to listen, her focus intent on the person beside her.
"Because then I'd have to beat the shit out of him."
Clarke almost chuckles. The sides of her lips turn upwards, despite the context of his statement, and she grins slightly. Her head turns to look at him, but he doesn't return the gaze, his eyes still tracing the wall.
"Thanks," she whispers.
"It's not for you."
Clarke wants to roll her eyes. "Sure," she says.
Octavia approaches them then, her voice tired and complex when she tells them it's getting late. Clarke is the first to turn away from him, but she can feel his presence behind her when he follows, feels his eyes at the back of her head.
And she wonders, wonders when Bellamy Blake started to become a valuable person in her life. Wonders when she started to become a valuable person in his.
iii.
The sound of knocking is the first thing she hears when she wakes up.
The morning sun is edging along the skyline, the light streaming into Octavia's room when Clarke opens her eyes. She props herself on her elbows, looks at Octavia beside her on the bed, and they share a look of confusion that slowly turns into concern.
Clarke draws her blonde hair into a ponytail and follows Octavia out of the room. Bellamy is already at the bottom of the stairs, his hand warning them not to come down. They ignore his protests of protection, standing behind him when he opens the front door.
A guard stands on the porch, his hands at his hips.
Clarke swallows thickly. She see's the muscles in Bellamy's jaw lock, see's his hand tighten around the door knob. She takes a shuttering breath and shifts her gaze to the guard, looks at the gun at his belt, looks at his fingers resting beside it.
"All citizens of the Ark are to report to the camp square immediately."
Bellamy nods. The movement is tense and rigid. "We'll be right - "
"Immediately."
Bellamy stares at him, his eyes hard. He turns to Clarke and Octavia behind him, and she knows what he's thinking. Knows he's thinking the same as her, thinking if this is it. If this is the warning Wells was speaking of. If this is the change that isn't the rebellion.
So she nods at Bellamy in agreement, because she knows they can't run away from this. Knows they have to face it.
"We are humanity."
Bellamy sighs. He returns his gaze to the guard in front of him, voice dry when he speaks again.
"Lead the way."
The camp square is crowded when they arrive, the population divided amongst the privileged and the unprivileged citizens. Divided amongst those who live and those who survive. This is the humanity they have come accustomed to observing, the type of humanity who turn against each other.
There's a repeating sound of a hammer hitting nails, deafening in the soft murmurs of the square. Clarke looks towards the source of the noise, eyes widening when she see's two large poles being drilled into the ground beside the execution stand. There's a rope that ties from each pole. It looks torturous.
The men who gather around them look unfamiliar, different from the usual guards who are responsible for their security. Or at least the privlided's security. They wear white helmets, and a white sound, a name spreading across all of their uniforms.
Mountain Men.
Clarke looks at Bellamy. He returns the glare, his expression faltering.
"You don't know what you're about to be up against."
There's a sense of fear that momentarily rises in her chest. The crowd echoes her thoughts, echoes her terror, speaking of the additional poles and the additional guards that surround them. She shifts her gaze from Bellamy, looking towards the man who walks along the execution stage, his hands behind his back.
Chancellor Jaha.
The soft rumble of the people around her begin to silence when he presents himself in the centre of the stand. His stance is proper, appropriate, dripping with his relief for the privileged and uneasiness for the unprivileged.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the ark," he begins. The guards with the mountain men uniforms stand around him, stand around everyone in the crowd. "I have brought you here today to discuss a very important matter. In the following months, there has been exactly four attempts at a rebellion in four camps across the nation. Only two have succeeded."
Clarke's breath falters, and she feels Octavia grip her hand. Clarke understands her actions, and she receives her message through the squeezing of her fingers. Don't show weakness, don't show fear.
"Unfortunately, there has been riots in the streets of the Ark," he continues. His tone desires terror to those he's speaking of. "This will not stand. This will not be apart of our history. This will not be how our people are remembered."
Jaha gestures towards the guards who line the perimeter of the camp square. The Mountain Men. The guards with the bigger muscles and the bigger guns. The guards with the bigger smiles.
"The Mountain Men are included in our logistic army. They are here to ensure not only our safety, but yours as well. To ensure your trust in the Ark."
Clarke's head is spinning and heart is racing. Her fingers feel numb around Octavia's hand, and her thoughts feel clouded inside her mind. This is their plan. They're trying to destroy them. Trying to destroy the rebellion.
The rebellion. They know about the rebellion.
"Anyone who goes against the Mountain Men will be punished by shock lash or will be executed. Anyone who passes the curfew of ten at night will be punished by shock or will be executed. Anyone who performs in illegal trades will be punished by shock lash or will be executed."
The list continues, his voice and words a deeper cut in Clarke's wound. And then he says the last consequence, a smile almost on his lips when he speaks to the crowd yet again.
"Anyone who practices in an uprising will be executed."
Executed. There is no option. There is no chance, no freedom. Octavia's hand tightens, sending a shiver of anger and disgust down Clarke's spine. She looks at Bellamy, see's the same emotions in his eyes.
"Follow these laws, and you will not be harmed. Don't, and it will cost you your life."
iv.
Bellamy and Octavia have been fighting for hours.
Clarke sits on the living room couch in their cabin, her fingers rubbing absentmindedly at the skin across her forehead. The moments following Jaha's announcement has stretched into the darkness of the night, cascading a black and shallow feeling amongst the remaining members of the rebellion. Amongst the remaining citizens of the Ark.
"They can't scare us. We've been risking our lives since the beginning," she hears Bellamy urgently whisper from the kitchen. She can almost see Octavia rolling her eyes in response. "We don't stop now. We don't give up. We take the punishments and we keep fighting."
Octavia scoffs. "How?"
There's a silence that follows, and Clarke senses the inner territorial that develops in his chest. She imagines the drooping of his eyes, the intensity in them morphing into confusion and complexity. She imagines him refusing to give up.
"You're going to get us killed."
Octavia's voice is harsh through the quiet cabin. The statement seem to create a lingering in the air, and Clarke remembers the word he once spoke to her on the porch, when it didn't seem like everything was falling apart.
"We don't get to control a lot of thing, Clarke. 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."
Clarke tenses. She knows what he's thinking. They're going to get killed anyways.
Octavia exhales deeply, exiting the kitchen area. She rushes past the living room to the staircase, her footsteps heavy as she walks up to the second level. Her quiet cries are loud in the silent cabin.
Clarke turns to observe Bellamy leaning against the stair's handrail, his head lowered in thought.
She sighs, lifting herself from the couch. Her stride is slow and painful when she approaches him, and she wonders if her actions are ever going to synchronize with the doubtful thoughts of her mind. She stands beside him, watches as he takes a shuddering breath.
"What the hell are we doing?"
His arms tense as he rests them on the railing, facing the direction in which Octavia left towards. He seems exhausted, and so stressed and confused, and she wants to remember. Wants him to remember he doesn't have to do this alone.
"We're believing," she whispers, "like our parents did."
Bellamy raises his head, his gaze settling on her face. His eyes yearn for the gentleness that the world has yet to offer them, scorns for the despair that Jaha has impended on them. Feeling bold, she continues to remind him, to make him remember.
"You saved my life. That's who you are." She leans forward. Please. Remember. "I trust you."
She does. Sometimes she wonders if she trusts him more than she trusts herself. More than she trusts the past and the future. She trusts him and she needs him. Needs him to help lead them to their own paradise.
Jaha won't stop them from trying. Won't stop them from maintaining their humanity.
He looks at her and he understands. "You should get some rest," he tells her.
His voice is gruff, almost drowning in it's complexities. There's a sense of hope and hopelessness in his tone, an internal battle between the two emotions. She attempts to guide to the first option.
Clarke smiles. "Don't do anything stupid in the mean time."
"No promises."
v.
Octavia accompanies her when Clarke finishes her morning shift at the medical bay, both of them walking along the perimeter of the camp in the morning sunlight. It's a cool April day, the clouds muffled by the light above them.
The camp square holds the addition of the shock lash post, and it sends shivers down her spine each time.
The Mountain Men stand in fierce positions, alining each other with their hands on their weapons. Octavia is careful, her voice soft whenever she uses it to speak of the weather, or the upcoming Trade and their supplies of rations. It's hard to say much in the open these days.
"I like spending time with Lincoln," she says when they enter the street that leads to the Pit. "And I think he likes spending time with me, too."
Clarke smiles at her. Octavia and Lincoln have been building a connection between them since Clarke first noticed their electricity in the months she's been involved in the rebellion. The relationship so new and beautiful it reminds her of how life can be, of how it should be. Raw and passionate.
"Are you going to do something about it?"
Octavia shakes her head. "Bellamy would never allow it. Trying to 'keep me safe and without heartbreak' and all that."
Clarke nods. It's only been a few nights since Jaha's announcement, since the fight that erupted between the Blake siblings. She knows Octavia is still upset about Bellamy's decision to move forward with the rebellion, despite the agreement they came to the next day, and it dawns on Octavia during her relationship with Lincoln as well.
"He just wants to protect you," Clarke informs her.
Octavia rolls her eyes in annoyance, surely familiar with the overwhelming gentleness and love her brother shows for her. Familiar with the amount of trouble he would endeavour to make sure she's safe.
"He wants to protect everyone."
Clarke doesn't argue with her on that.
They continue to stroll down the pathway that leads to the Pit, their shoulders brushing against each other as they walk. It isn't until they pass the walls, those lining with burned posters, when Charlotte runs up to them, her eyes shinning with brightness.
Her voice is energetic when she speaks of her condition, claiming she feels better and awesome and cool and fun. How she loves life. God, she's the only reminder of how powerful people can be without weapons. How they change the world with a smile.
Change the world with peace. Without violence.
"I'll have to come visit you at the medical bay soon," she tells Clarke.
Clarke laughs, introduces her to Octavia, Bellamy's sister, and Charlotte's grin widens. She beams at her, asking how he is, asking if him and Octavia can be there at the medical bay too when she visits. Can be there to play a game, to play cards. So much anticipation for the future despite the armed guards that surround them.
When she leaves, Octavia turns to her with a gentle smile. "She's cute."
"She has something," Clarke says, her lips deepening to a frown, "I couldn't figure it out. Old books say cancer, but I'm not sure."
Octavia nods, says something like 'poor kid', the poor kid who has too much passion to let the sickness affect her. She suggests continuing their walk to the Pit, how Bellamy will be waiting for them. She steps forward onto the street.
Clarke follows, her eyes searching for Charlotte's retreating figure in the distance. She isn't hard to find, since her smile brightens the entire universe.
She's not a poor kid. She's the strongest kid for having the strength to be happy in this God damn place.
Lucky kid.
vi.
"Punch me."
Clarke wipes the sweat that slides down her face, brushing the strands of hair sticking to her forehead. They stand in the centre of the underground arena, her body aching from the previous move he instructed her to do. He's been pushing them harder, pushing them to the point of bones breaking and bruises forming.
Bellamy positions himself in front of her, his body close. His shirt soaks in the area surrounding his chest, and she can see his muscles flexing beneath the material.
Clarke shake her head, raising her eyes to his. "What?"
"Punch me," he repeats confidently.
She nods, clenching her hands into fists. She can hear the whispering snickers of Raven and various rebellion members in the background, or at least the rebellion members who didn't allow Jaha's announcement to terrify them. To scare them into giving up. Into giving in.
Fuck you, Jaha.
Clarke eyes Bellamy's jaw, and swings her fist.
He's quick, his fingers wrapping around her wrist before her knuckles collide with his skin. He turns her towards him, bending her arm behind her spine when her back slams against his chest. She yelps, her head slamming into his shoulder. The giggles releasing from Raven erupts a flush on the surface of Clarke's face.
Bellamy's breath is hot against her neck. "I guess I should have said try to punch me."
"Funny."
He chuckles, releasing his grip on her. Her skin burns when she steps away from him, the contact a reminder of the feeling she doesn't want to feel. The feeling she can't afford to feel. She turns again to face him, trying to hide the redness that spreads across her cheeks.
"Here," he mumbles, his gaze lowering to her midriff. He rests his hands on the flesh that covers her waist, pulling her closer towards him. "Use your hips to elaborate on power."
She nods. His face is near, and she looks at him, counting the freckles that run beneath his eyes. She tries to distract herself, tries to think of anything other than the burning sensation of his fingers on her body.
God damn it, pull it together, Griffin. There's a war to win.
"And your eyes," he continues. He reaches towards her, gripping her chin between his fingers and lifting her head in a satisfying position. "Don't look at the place you want to hit. Now punch me."
Clarke swallows thickly, eyes tracing the depths of his glare until he begins to return it. He parts his lips slightly, his hands on her shoulders, burn to burn. Fire to fire.
And she lowers herself onto the ground, her legs swiping beneath his feet. He tumbles onto the matt in her victory.
Bellamy is lying on his back when she crawls on top of him, her legs straddling his stomach. It seems wrong and right and good and bad when she senses the warmth enter her skin, enter her heart. As corny as it fucking sounds.
His eyes are dark and round when she leans forward, a reflection of heat in his eyes when she's close. Grinning, she taps her fist against his cheek.
"Score."
He shakes his head. "Doesn't count."
"I punched you. It totally does."
He smiles then, a playful and hesitant smirk that reaches his eyes. He rests his hands on her knees before moving them to the matt, his fingers gripping the springs beneath them. The eyes that surround them observe the scene from a distance.
"You cheated."
"I improvised," she presses.
Bellamy rolls his eyes, and she lifts her body so she's standing above him. She offers her hand, a teasing grin on her lips, a perk in her eyes when she looks down at him. He takes it, and she pulls him up, his hand warm against her skin.
"Okay, Griffin," he finally admits, "not bad."
Clarke exhales deeply. She drops her arms to her sides, her palms sweaty and her fingers tingling with flames. She rubs them absentmindedly against the material of her pants, riding the evidence of the affect he has on her.
"We should leave," he says after a moment. He turns to Octavia behind them, standing and watching with Lincoln in the distance. "O, let's get a move on."
Octavia steps forward, shaking her head. "I think I'm going to stay and practise a bit," she tries. Her expression is hopeless, and she glances at Clarke, urging.
Bellamy releases a grunt of disapproval. He swallows thickly, crossing the strong length of muscles across his chest. He analyzes the close proximity between his sister and Lincoln, and he shakes his head, opening his mouth to speak.
Clarke beats him to it. "Be safe," she calls towards her. She turns to Bellamy, cautioning his hesitant expression. "She'll be fine. Now come on."
He's grumpy and not happy about it, but he follows her anyway.
vii.
And he sure as hell expresses that to her, telling her his concern about letting Octavia walk home without him, about letting Octavia practice alone with a man he doesn't exactly know. She tells him he's a typical, anxious, overprotective big brother .
What she doesn't tell him, although, is the teasing feeling that grows inside her chest at his words.
That damn odd emotion she doesn't like to think or talk or feel at all. His shoulder brushes a bit closer to hers when they pass by the line of Mountain Men that stand to the side. When they pass by the shock lash post.
They're crossing the camp square when they first hear the sobbing.
Clarke turns, her body freezing at the familiar sound that muffles from the person's mouth. She searches, eyes frantic and desperate, heart racing and halting. Her gaze lands on the three people that walk along the street, two Mountain Men guards dragging a young girl in their grasp.
A young girl. The young girl.
"Charlotte."
Clarke runs towards her.
Her legs are heavy as she rushes along the ground, her eyes never leaving the fear that passes through Charlotte's eyes. The fear that was once filled with hope and brightness and love. The fading of Bellamy's voice is in the distance of her mind, yelling, but she can still sense him behind her.
"What the fuck are you doing?" she hisses when she reaches them. Bellamy grabs her arm, stopping her from lunging forward.
She can dictate the emotions on Charlotte's face, can dictate the same emotions Clarke felt that one night in the alleyway. Her gut feels tight and her heart feels cold. Bellamy did something for Clarke, and now Clarke will do something Charlotte.
She has to. Beautiful, young Charlotte.
One of the Mountain Men guards steps forward, blocking the view of Charlotte squirming in their arms. He places a fierce hand on the gun that settles at the side of his hip, attempting to intimate them.
"Step back, Miss."
Clarke shakes her head. "What are you doing?"
"I said, step back. Now."
Bellamy wraps his fingers tighter along Clarke's elbow. He guides her backwards, almost behind him, almost secure, except for the feeling of helplessness that swims in both their chests.
A feeling of helplessness as the Mountain Men guards closes his hand around his gun.
Charlotte screams, a high pitched cry for Clarke and Bellamy that sends shivers down her spine. Her eyes are wide and terrified, eliminating the happiness from her expression and replacing it with apprehension.
Clarke wants to tell her it's okay, that everything will be okay, but it's not.
She never gets the chance.
The guard steps forward, his hand gripping his weapon, lifting from the belt at his hip. His expression is almost amused when he aims it at Clarke, when he aims it at Bellamy, and his finger inches towards the trigger. So slow and agonizing and Clarke isn't sure what she's feeling but fear isn't one of them.
Bellamy pushes Clarke behind him, and swings his fist at the guard's jaw.
There's the mixture of sound when a gunshot and the cracking of bones echo into the night. Bellamy curses, and Clarke reaches forward, pulling him towards her as the fear now enters her body. She searches his body for an entry wound, an exit wound, anything but there's nothing.
Clarke's eyes widen in realization as the guard stumbles backward, into the remaining guard, into Charlotte.
Charlotte.
Charlotte, who holds one of the Mountain Men's guns in her hands, a hole in her forehead.
Charlotte, who collapses onto the concrete, her once youthful appearance cascading into her lifeless corpse.
Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy fuck.
"No . . . "
Her word is a broken cry when Clarke whispers it, when she looks at the blood seeping into the ground at her feet. This can't be real, this can't be happening. The good people aren't supposed to die like this. The bad people aren't supposed to win like this.
Charlotte. The sick kid who looked at the world with beauty and wonder. The sick kid who knew she was sick, who knew she was dying. The sick kid who ended her life in order to save other's, to save Clarke's, or Bellamy's.
Fuck, Charlotte.
The tears are hot against her cheeks when they fall, and she isn't aware that she's shaking until Bellamy rests his hands on her shoulders. His grip is soft and gentle, cautious. It feels familiar, and it shouldn't, because he shouldn't have to comfort her so many times. He shouldn't have to witness so many deaths with her.
The Mountain Men curse under their breaths, something about 'stupid kid' and 'wasting damn bullets'. But Clarke can't breathe. Can't feel. Can't articulate the anger, can't really register what's going on.
This wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to save her.
But she can't save anybody. None of them can.
The Mountain Men make a comment towards them, something she doesn't hear because all she sees and feels is the ache in her heart as they pick up Charlotte's lifeless body, dragging her. Beautiful, young Charlotte.
"What did I do?"
Bellamy whispers those comforting words, those words too familiar and soothing. She turns in his arms, pressing her face into his chest as his arms wrap around her body. He rubs his hands against her back and pulls her close, and she knows he's thinking the same thing.
What did we do?
Haha! Crazy, right? Hope you enjoyed it :)
Also, I'm thinking of writing a sequel to this story after the first four parts, so if I receive comments and favourites it really does motivate me to keep writing this piece hehe. Please let me know if you're interested by continuing to show your awesome support. Thanks again:)
Happy Bellarking ! xoxoxo
