Losing Bellamy

Clarke burst into Bellamy's tent, surprised to find it completely empty. They had agreed to meet that morning to discuss the creation of laws and the task of enforcing them. Though she had only known him for a short period of time, she found it very unlike Bellamy to forget something so important. She let out a sigh, annoyed that she was going to have to waste time searching for the man who claimed to be their 'leader'.

"Have you seen Bellamy?" Clarke asked, with little patience, her arms crossed in front of her. This was the ninth person she'd questioned; even his sister had no clues of his whereabouts.

"I think he went hunting with some other guys. I saw a group of them leave a while ago," answered the boy, not looking up from the knife he sharpened.

"Where they usually hunt?"

"I guess…" He still refused to look at her.

"Thanks, 'I guess'" she said, feeding his own words back to him, before grabbing the knife he sharpened and heading off. She could hear him protest behind her, whining about her taking what was his. She'd give it back to him later but at the moment she needed a knife and he, most definitely, needed some manners.

Blood. Blood everywhere: painting the trees, lacing the water, pooling in the grass and oozing from the boys' bodies. The floor was littered with them – twelve of them if she counted correctly. Pushing back the bile that rose up her throat, she forced herself to circle the bodies and truly check that they were all, in fact, dead. She clung tight to her knife, prepared to quickly end the life of any boy still alive and suffering but beyond remedy. It seemed the assassin had done his job properly, as the eleven she had examined so far were quite dead. It was the twelfth body though, the last one, which made her stop in her tracks. She could feel her heart rate pick up and coldness sweep through her. She inched towards him, putting her two fingers out in search of a pulse. There wasn't one. The tears came suddenly, the sobs pushing out of her sporadically. She stroked his dark hair gently, refusing to turn him around and see his lifeless face and glazed eyes. So instead she ran; fast and sloppily, muffling her cries with her hand in case Bellamy's murderer was somewhere close.

"Bellamy!" she shrieked as she neared the camp. "Bellamy…" Clarke couldn't finish the sentence; she couldn't get the words out. So instead she continued to scream his name between sobs, her hands constantly wiping at her wet face. A crowd began to form around her, dozens of people shooting questions at her and trying to calm her down – but she didn't want to calm down. She elbowed her way through them, still crying and screaming his name, just in time to see Bellamy exit a tent hastily and run toward her. She sucked in a deep breath – she could breathe again, her body no longer felt numb and cold. The moment he reached her she swung her arms around his neck, bringing him as close to her as she could. It was obvious that she took him by surprise because he stumbled backwards and it took a few moments for him to hug her back. His forearms pushed against her lower back as he nestled his head in the crook of her neck.

"Where were you?" she whispered. "We had a meeting."

"I forgot," he answered her in the same quiet voice. She shoved him away from her and began to strike his chest with her fists.

"Forgot! I thought you were dead! I went looking for you and I found…" her arms plunged to her sides.

"Found what?" he pressed, pushing her chin up so she was looking at him. She held his gaze a moment before saying:

"They're dead. They're all dead."

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