A Gladiator/Princess Bellarke Drabble No longer a drabble (AU)

(Find part one and two here)

Part 3

The carriage drove idly by on the crooked paths, the steady beat of the horses trot, the only thing Clarke chose to focus on, instead of the gushing giggles of the crowd outside. Her father sat loosely next to her, waving and smiling, all teeth, at the crowds, she knew, enjoying the adoration they held for him.

She almost wanted to roll her eyes, and when she caught herself wanting this, reigned back, trying to regain the image of the perfect princess her father expected her to be. Especially, when in public.

Except, prefect princesses did not sneak away from their fathers, did not fake ill health in order to deceive them, and they most certainly were not corned in dark alleys, alleys where Apollo's horses did not rule supreme, where the darkness crept in and concealed you away from the glittering light, only just long enough, for you to commit the darkest of deeds, so sinful and so-

and she was off again, thinking about that rotten gladiator.

She simply refused to call him by his name.

Even if it, had maybe, been her insistence to call him by his name in the first place, she refused anyway.

And she was most definitely not thinking about the way he'd held her up against that wall, the warmth of his hands somehow managing to diminish the cold of the stone wall behind her, the way his dark eyes had fixed her in place with a different kind of look to the first one he'd ever given her. The one he'd given her, when he actually knew her identity, that was.

Her slight fascination with the gladiator unsettled her. She was a princess, the princess of Rome, and the daughter of the great emperor Griffin. It was not the correct thing to do, to let her mind dance away with the nymphs, swirl and leap and twist with the thoughts of the-

the common as her father would say.

To occupy herself, she slid a quick, calculating glance to her father. He had insisted, now that he saw Clarke to be in better health, that she accompany him to the coliseum today. To an outsider of the family, no meaning would be seen behind the words of his actions of the day, as Clarke was usually on his arm, her mother too faint hearted to see such carnage, (she wasn't really, but the queen really was, quite an excellent liar) but Clarke knew better. However distant and cold their relationship had become, he was still her father, and Clarke had saw the gleam in his eyes, the tiny little smile, that tugged impatiently at his lips, as though it wanted to escape, and fold out fully and truly over his lips.

Oh the emperor had a scheme forming.

And it was coming nicely together.

And something told Clarke, had it been her father's unusually smirking mood, or the way her mother had held her to her tightly before she'd left, whispering the words 'I love you' over and over again as if they were a lifeline to cling to, that this scheme involved her.

All of her.

And truthfully, she was just a tiny bit terrified.

. . .

The crowds' roars rise as the man's head is ripped away from his body, blood and guts and gore settling the prowling beasts the Clarke thinks may roam inside them. She should be disgusted, she is truly repulsed at the sight of the severed head, and she can feel the gag of vomit at the back of her throat, but still her gaze drifts to him. Him, cradling the head between his arms like a child.

She has no schoolgirl deceptions about him. She knows exactly what he is, and she knows he is a murder. But by default, does this make him a monster? She finds it a most troubling thought, a murder blinking though the eyes of a monster. Entwined, for an eternity.

She blinks through glazed over eyes at him, but unlike that first day, he does not look at her by her father's side. He does not let his dark eyes fall heavily on her, consume her as they once did.

He throws the man's head in his arms to the side of the discarded body, and if her eyes were not so quick, not so completely focused on him, she thinks that she wouldn't have caught the sharp glint of something like dull silver pressed into his hand, only the top of it showing from his palm balled up into a fist.

"Clarke!" Clarke jumps slightly from her intense study, turning swiftly to face her father, only to see a dark haired man (boy, this is a boy) standing close to her instead, his posture proud and tall.

"Clarke, my daughter, I introduce you to Senator Collins. He is of noble birth, and has some excellent ideas when it comes to governing Rome – not that, that concerns you in any way-" (he is a cruel man and they both know it) "but, I have high hopes for you, for the both of you." He smiles and it's all teeth and daggers. "I know you're, let's say sentimental shall we, when it comes to matters of the heart," (he knows nothing of her heart but let's pretend he does) "so I'd suggest you become acquainted with one another quickly, yes?"

Perfect princesses do not wish to gouge their fathers eyes out with their bare fingers and it is in that moment that Clarke knows she will never be one because she wants to do so much more than that.

The images that play in her mind are graphic and all come to one single fairly gruesome conclusion that mean the separation of her father's head from his body. It's something very close to hatred that rushes through her then, in that single moment seized with the wanting, the wanting to turn and run and flee and to hide in the darkest corners of the world where her father and her fiancée will never find her.

How could she not have seen this coming? (Because she is a foolish, foolish girl fascinated by a monster.) The way the unshed tears had glistened in her mother's eyes, as if her heart was cracking into jagged pieces, tearing and ripping, the love and wholeness broken. And of course, the way her father had scanned her as though a stamp to seal a deal.

She was on the verge of womanhood, the innocence that fluttered around inside her truly pulling to any man, but she found she simply despised the way that the Senator looked at her, his gaze too sharp, too much like her fathers, but also the sick gleam in his eye as he drinks in the delicate curve of her hips, the way he eyes linger too long on the length of her chest.

And she is to marry him?

He reaches for her hand and plants a kiss against her knuckles, much to the pleasure of her father and the disgust of her, though of course, her opinion is not valid, she is only the bride, after all.

"Please, princess, call me Finn."

His voice bristles, makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, though not in the way Bellamy had, (the gladiator, you silly girl) but in the way of them wanting to tear away from the skin and run away and hide.

She doesn't smile, doesn't speak, as they both expect her to, but drops back down into her seat, ignoring the hiss of her name through her father's lips, and the slight uncomfortable shift in the Senators stance. They are only men, after all.

The Senator clears his throat, coming to stand at her side and her father sinks back into his seat beside her, his eyes burning, and she knows even this small act is too reckless, too rebellious for a princess but she doesn't care because the bastard is marrying her off.

The gladiator remains locked in combat with another, though from the look of the defeated stance of the much smaller man, this is already another battle won. All dark eyes and strained arms the gladiator fights though this isn't a fight, not really, (that fist still remains tightened and tense and this gladiator is leaving her more questions and she hates him for it),and the smaller man falls into the sand, panting and gasping and begging, (she doesn't but let's pretend she does) begging not for a longer life, but for a quick death.

The gladiator looks to her father's approval (no no no it will never be yes) and the Senator chooses that exact moment to place his cold hand against her shoulder, all stone and no warmth and of course someone's eyes manage to land on her, for the first time that day.

Well no, not exactly on her, but more on the hand that rests against the thin material of her dress, and there is quick shock in his eyes, and then, for the most fleeting of moments, there is jealously.

Bellamy (there really is no other thing to call him, not after that) looks at her and his eyes are hooded and dark, but she sees it, and for a second he looks so angry that she breaks the gaze.

Her father's thumb is, as it always is, pointing down down down, and he is smiling his sick little smirk and she knows she should not look back to the arena but she does and regrets it instantly.

Bellamy drags back the man that had desperately been trying to crawl away from him, his tanned hands fisted in the man's dark hair and unflinchingly pushes the spear through his head.

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