The light was low in the forest, the sun just beginning to rise. Frozen in a crouch, the hunter sat in total silence. His fingers ran over the smooth surface of the blade in his left hand, feeling the metal glide across his skin. Careful not to nick himself, he played with the knife between his hands.

He could see his target lying fast asleep several yards away. The campfire was dying out, but with the sun rising he'd lost his opportunity to attack in the dark. And how could he get to the girl with her guard just a few feet from her?

No, Dax reminded himself, sinking lower into his crouch, I can wait. I'll wait until she is alone. He'd wait all night if he had to. The reward was far too good to pass up.

So Dax slunk back, deeper into the thick undergrowth, camouflaged by the brush and bushes and darkness of the early morning, waiting for the chance to strike at his prey.


Clarke woke up slowly, as she normally did. She blinked the sleep from her eyes, her gaze focusing on a small thread of smoke winding upwards from their dying fire. Shifting onto her back, she felt her thick cloak – her makeshift bed for the evening – swish underneath her. Midmorning sunlight lit the forest, and she could make out slivers of a bright blue sky beyond the leafy canopy.

She sat up, feeling the chill of September air on her bare collarbone. Glancing across their camp, she saw her guard still asleep, and some part of her felt weird for watching him while he wasn't awake. But sleep took years off Bellamy's typically-grumpy face, his eyebrows relaxing and his lips slightly parted. He can't be that much older than I am, Clarke reasoned. Bellamy slept on his side, like she did, and when he began to stir she tore her gaze away and busied herself with her pack.

"Good morning," she called out to him, reaching into her bag for an apple and taking a bite. The only response Clarke received was a groan, and she saw Bellamy run a hand over his face to wake himself up.

He sat up and the color drained from his face, "Dammit, Clarke, your moonshine is some nasty stuff. How has your head not split apart?"

She shrugged, "You get used to it, I suppose." Reaching for her nearby waterskin, she passed it to Bellamy, "Here, drink it off."

"Really? Solve a hangover by drinking more?"

"It's just water," Clarke rolled her eyes. "Either take it or don't, I don't care."

Bellamy looked at her dubiously before taking a long sip. "Empty," he said, after downing the last of the water. "There wasn't much in here to begin with."

"Give it to me," Clarke sighed, snatching back the waterskin. "I'll fill it up." She tugged her boots back on, feeling the broken-in leather mold to the curve of her ankle and foot. It was like wearing a second skin. She stood and crossed to the small pond beside their camp, then paused. In the dimming light of the night before, Clarke hadn't paid much attention to the tiny stream that fed the pond. Now, she watched it curiously as it crossed over rocks and under exposed roots. It seemed to grow up past some trees, and Clarke felt a strong urge to follow it.

"One moment," she said to Bellamy, then nimbly hopped to the stream's side and began following the little river. Clarke could sense the distance she was putting between herself and the camp, but she felt safer remembering her small knife she kept in the lining of her boot. Of course, she knew Bellamy wouldn't leave her alone anyways. She could hear the distinctive crunch of his heavier footsteps following her through the undergrowth.

Swinging around the side of a thick tree trunk, Clarke's eyes grew wide. She took in the sight of a wide pool, framed with large mossy rocks on all sides. One edge of the pool sat along a short stone cliff, and a silvery waterfall fell over the side. The water was a glassy green and only disturbed by the slow ripples from the waterfall. It looked like a scene from some exquisite painting.

"Wow," Clarke felt the word slip past her lips, in awe at the sight of the forest's hidden gem. Every part of her body ached for a dip in the water.

She heard Bellamy catch up to her, recognizing the feeling of his body beside hers. Clarke could tell he'd relaxed enough to remove his metal chestplate before falling asleep, leaving him in a royal blue shirt and dark black pants. His curls were tousled in that I-just-woke-up look, appropriately.

"Good find, Princess," he said, his voice just as breathless as hers had been. He slipped the waterskin out of her right hand, approaching the rocks. Crouching down, Bellamy filled the skin with the water from the pool and took a swig. His features relaxed, "The water's clean, too."

"Keep drinking," Clarke knelt beside him, "That's the best thing to take off the headache."

"Since when are you a doctor?" Bellamy snarked, refilling the skin and splashing his face clean. Water dripped from his face and hair, beading down the curve of his jaw and nose.

"I know my stuff," Clarke replied, not wanting to get into it with Bellamy. Running her hands through the water, she longed to jump right in. It'd been quite a while since she'd had a proper bath; not a sponge one like back at her old camp, but a real, swimming bath. She felt grimy. Tugging her hair out of its usual braid, she spoke, "I'm going to take a bath."

Bellamy's eyebrows shot up, his face still beaded with water. "Oh, are you?"

"Yes. If I'm returning to Station City, then I want to be feeling clean. And, well, smelling clean."

"Returning?" Bellamy caught her words, "You never said you were from the capital. Are you?"

Damn, Clarke swore to herself. She'd been careless. "I lived there, a long time ago." She shrugged it off, like the detail was unimportant.

"Whatever," Bellamy said, drying his face on the hem of his shirt. He stood up and folded his arms.

Clarke waited for him to leave. "I'd like to take a bath," she repeated.

"Fine."

"Can I have some privacy, Bellamy?"

"Oh," Color flushed his face, and he ran a hand awkwardly through his hair. He seemed torn between sticking to his post – which would involve watching Clarke bathe – and being a gentleman. "Yeah-"

"I'll be fine," Clarke insisted. "I've got a knife, and we're in the middle of nowhere. Just give me ten minutes."

"Okay," Bellamy spoke more to himself than to Clarke, still looking embarrassed. "I'll be back at camp, just that way," he pointed.

"Alright," Clarke answered, waiting for Bellamy to finally leave. She smiled to herself, watching him dip around the trees and out of sight. She'd seen him look grumpy, angry, tired, confused, and – very rarely – slightly at ease. Now she could add awkward to that list.

Giving one more glance around the forest, Clarke didn't see anyone else near the pool. She began to undress, taking off her leather boots, belt, leggings, then her tunic. Just in case she needed to slip away quickly, she left on her undershirt and shorts, hoping that a quick swim would clean them up enough. And of course she didn't touch the wrist bandage wrapped over her royal mark.

The cold air stung Clarke's skin, goose-pimples prickling up along her shoulders and above her knees. She took a hesitant step into the pool, a little gasp leaving her lips when her toes touched the water. It was cooler than she'd expected. She stood with the water reaching her ankles, then walked further out. The chill was biting yet refreshing, and when the water touched her hips Clarke dove forward. She slipped below the surface in the perfect dive, arms stretched out and back arching to curve upwards. Her head broke the surface and sent her gasping. Her shoulders trembled from the cold but she could already feel her body adjusting; her toes didn't feel nearly as chilly as they had before.

The water was deep in the middle of the pool, deep enough where Clarke couldn't touch the bottom. She was lucky that she'd figured out how to swim at a young age, from when she and Jasper and Monty found a small pool to splash in. Using long overhand strokes, Clarke swam across towards the waterfall. It wasn't as deep here, and she could comfortably stand with the water just reaching past her chest.

Tilting her head back, Clarke let the cool water of the waterfall spill down her head and shoulders. It poured off her cheeks and down her nose, and for a moment she could wash all of her fears away. Wash away the thought of marrying Wells and becoming queen, the thought of returning to a life she'd tried so hard to forget. She felt it all roll off her shoulders and into the pool, like it was nothing but a stain scrubbed away.


Bellamy swore again as he tripped over yet another exposed root, shuffling his feet to regain his balance. Stupid Clarke and her ability to walk through the forest without making a fool of herself.

He shook his head, as if doing so would actually shake her from his mind. Bellamy supposed that, by leaving her alone for a few minutes, he'd be able to forget about Clarke for a little while. He couldn't have been more wrong. Part of him didn't like the idea of abandoning his post, even for just for a moment. He didn't think Clarke would actually run away; he was worried that something could happen to her.

Nonsense, Bellamy reminded himself. Clarke was as tough as nails and fearsome enough to defend herself without him being there. And really, why was he so worried about her?

He wanted to blame this on Octavia's situation, assume that his worry about Clarke stemmed from her being the key to his sister's freedom. But a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach told him otherwise. What if he was actually growing to care about the girl? Bellamy scoffed; this was Clarke. She was frustrating, and moody, and knew exactly how to make him steam. And he didn't even think he remotely liked Clarke. Tolerated, that was a better word for it.

But he certainly wouldn't want to see any harm come to her.

His mind drifted to the memory of last night, Clarke sitting beside the campfire and the firelight bringing a warm glow to her face. He remembered how her smile lightened her entire persona, how she talked openly with him like she trusted him completely. Her teasing jabs, her competitive streak, how her fingertips felt when they brushed his-

The front of Bellamy's boot caught on a large rock, sending him tumbling forwards. He stopped a few feet off the ground, catching the nearby trunk of an evergreen for support. Swearing impressively, he wiped the images of Clarke from his mind and filled his time by packing up their camp.


Clarke dragged her hand lazily across the rippled surface of the pool, loving the way the water sparkled over her fingers. She leaned back, feeling her wet hair balloon out behind her as it fanned out on the surface. Kicking her feet upwards, she slid back into floating, staring up at the cornflower sky through the trees.

She tried to imagine what the sea would be like: one giant expanse of a pool like this, stretching on and on as far as you could see. Clarke could picture real waves, and air that smelled like salt, and wind tossing her hair.

But thinking about the sea brought her mind to Finn. She'd tried hard to keep him out of her thoughts, and it wasn't easy. The image of him with Raven draped across his body seemed to be seared into her brain, her own personal torture that keep crawling up from her subconscious. It was as though all of the little puzzle pieces, the little hints she'd missed for months, were falling into place, painting a picture of a cheater. All the times he'd deftly sidestepped her questions, or failed to look her straight in the eye, or gave a quick vague answer and covered it up with a kiss or caress.

And, even though she couldn't believe that she was recognizing this, she was grateful that Bellamy had the tact not to bring Finn up. It wouldn't take a genius or perfect vision to see that Finn had hurt Clarke, but her guard had largely avoided the subject.

Clarke heard the sound of a twig snapping, and her head shot up. She lost her balance, feet sinking down beneath her as she rested into treading water. Staring into the forest in the direction of the sound, she figured it was Bellamy being too heavy-footed in the woods, as usual.

"So much for privacy, Bellamy," she called out, slightly irritated. She'd expected better from someone with enough honor to serve as a royal guard. Squinting, she could just make the outline of someone's boot, hidden behind thick bushes. They were large and squarish and familiar in appearance.

More sounds of branches snapping, and Clarke swam over towards the edge of the pool. She'd didn't notice that her boots and the rest of her clothes were on the other side, lying atop a distant rock. She just wanted to know what he was doing, and why he was watching her.

"Something I can help you with?" Clarke raised her voice, pushing herself onto a mossy boulder and folding her arms over her chest. She could feel her woven undershirt and shorts sticking tightly to her wet body, and there was a deep chill running down her spine.

The pair of boots moved forwards, stepping out from behind the bushes. All blood drained from Clarke's face when she saw that they weren't attached to Bellamy, but another man entirely. His face was all angles where Bellamy's had curves, and there was something crazed in his eyes. A hood fell low across his head, obscuring half of his face, and Clarke could see how tall and fit he was beneath the cloak.

Surprisingly, now she was really wishing that it had been Bellamy.

"What do you want?" Clarke asked, not liking the look in his eyes one bit.

"So you're the one they sent me to find," he said, his voice quieter than she'd expected. There was smooth control in it, and she found it unnerving. "But I can see that they left some… details unmentioned." From the way his eyes combed her body hungrily, she could tell that he liked the look of these details.

He took a step forwards and Clarke backed up into the rock behind her. "Get away from me."

"They never said I couldn't have a little fun with you before I killed you."

Clarke's blood ran cold. "Killed me?"

"What do you say, pretty girl?" His teeth flashed, "Want to play?"

Clarke broke off in a run to her right, trying to make it to her boots – and her knife. The assassin stepped in front of her, so she jerked left and scrambled onto the rocks. Her feet flew across the boulders while he dove for her, grabbing her ankle and sending her crashing down onto the rock. For a second, Clarke saw stars. Yanking herself out of her stupor, she kicked at the assassin in the face and ran for the rock cliff. If she could just make it to the top, she could put enough distance between herself and the man behind her…

She leapt onto the first ledge, fingers digging for handholds along the mossy stone. Her foot slipped and she felt rough hands grab at her waist from below. Clarke cried out, kicking blindly behind her as the assassin wrestled her off the rock and dragged her down. She landed in a heap below him, managing to tug her right arm free and launch a vicious punch across the man's jaw.

The assassin went reeling backwards, his elbows just stopping his fall. Clarke gasped for breath, hesitating for too long as her head pounded from her crash on the rocks. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and spat onto the ground.

"So, you want to play rough, do you?" The look in his eyes was positively insane now. "I can do rough."

Clarke rose to her knees only to be knocked right back down. She saw the flash of a metal blade before feeling it rip into her leg, the pain coursing up her body in a hot rush that sent a scream tearing from her lips.


Bellamy was ready to get walking. He'd snuffed the dying fire, restocked his pack and even fixed up Clarke's. He was just beginning to reattach his chestplate when he heard a strange noise.

It sounded like a cry. Bellamy's blood ran cold when he heard it, stuck in place. His brain naturally thought of Octavia, with his protective instinct kicking in to go and fight for her. But of course it couldn't be Octavia, out in the middle of deep forest far from Station City, so his mind jumped to the next conclusion.

Clarke.

Bellamy dropped his chestplate, the metal crashing onto the ground as he took off in a sprint towards the pool. He followed the stream, stomping his way through it as he flew past the trees. His blood, having finally crept up from his toes, was pounding hard in his ears like incessant drumming. I have my back turned for a few minutes and…

He broke through the tree line just as another scream pierced his ears. This one wasn't out of fear or desperation: this was a cry of pure pain, the kind that ripped his heart just listening to it. He saw Clarke lying crumpled, her face twisted in a look of agony. Looming over her was a cloaked figure with wild eyes, his right arm holding a knife that dripped blood over her wounded body.

Something primal, almost animalistic, welled up with Bellamy as he launched himself at Clarke's attacker. He threw the taller man to the ground, landing blow after blow onto his surprised face. The assassin finally came to, jamming his fist hard against Bellamy's temple and sending the guard flying. As Bellamy came tumbling down to the ground, his legs kicked out at the assassin and caught him in the stomach. Through his red vision, Bellamy watched the stained blade fly from the assassin's hand to land on the slippery moss nearby.

The hooded assassin lunged for his knife, but Bellamy was too strong. He leapt over the man, diving on his stomach and swooping up the short knife with an outstretched hand. He rolled onto his back and slammed his fist against the assassin's neck, plunging the knife deep into his jugular vein.

The man shuddered, blood spilling from his neck and mouth as he fought to breathe. He slumped backwards, eyes still open wide as the life bled from his body.

Bellamy was breathing heavily, taking in the dead man in front of him before remembering Clarke. He crawled to her side, seeing her struggling to sit up. She looked like hell: her undergarments her plastered to her shivering body, hair stringy over terrified eyes and blood pouring from a nasty stab wound to her upper left thigh. Her breathing was shallow and labored, and she closed her eyes tight as her body shook.

"Dammit, Clarke," Bellamy said under his breath, taking in the sight of her injury and not knowing where to begin. He knew basic first aid, but his mind seemed to be frozen at the sight of her looking this broken.

Her eyes skirted over to the body of her attacker. "Is he-?" Clarke's words were a strained whisper.

Bellamy nodded, throat thick. "What do I do?" He felt helpless.

"Get me - back to camp. I have supplies, I…" Her voice faded out and she clenched her hands tightly, fingers growing white.

Knowing he needed to act quickly, Bellamy leaned to her left side and slipped an arm under her shoulder. He pulled her upright into a standing position, and she let out a loud cry of pain. Bellamy took three steps, trying to coax Clarke into using her right leg to help her walk, but he ended up shouldering most of Clarke's weight as she collapsed in his grip. Grunting, he reached underneath her knee and scooped her up in his arms, finding it easier to just carry her. Clarke's hung on around his neck, and he felt her face burrow into his shoulder as he marched back to camp. He moved as quickly as he could without dropping the precious cargo trembling in his arms.

After what felt like miles of trekking Bellamy returned to the camp, gently setting Clarke down on the ground. She spoke through gritted teeth, "Grab me my bag, and relight the fire."

He nodded, tossing the pack over to her after pulling out her worn flintstone and a knife from it. Crouching over the remainder of their firewood, he struck the stone with the blade until sparks flew. Soon a little fire was glowing.

"Good," Clarke said, reaching for something deep within her pack. She withdrew a familiar waterskin: the smaller one holding her moonshine. Clarke tossed back a deep swig, then poured a splash out over her wound. A cry flew from her raw throat, back arching in pain as the alcohol cleaned the cut. Something curdled in Bellamy's blood at the sound of Clarke's screams.

"Clarke," he dropped by her side, hands hovering but not sure what to do.

"I'm fine," she spat, making it crystal clear that she wasn't. "Heat my knife in the fire, heat the blade."

"Okay," he said, turning to grab the knife again and sticking it into the blue of the flames. He watched the blade begin to glow orange, trying to focus on the color change and not how labored Clarke's breathing sounded. When the blade started to glow red, he called for Clarke. "Blade's ready, now what?"

Bellamy saw her wound in sickening detail: the angry stab mark deep into her flesh, the blood spilling out and down the pale skin of her leg. He could tell that she'd tried to wipe up some of the red with the bottom of her cloak, but she'd done a sloppy job of it. Picking up where she'd left off, he gently dabbed at the skin to try and clean off some of the blood, but more just kept coming.

Clarke pushed his hand away, "Seal the wound with the knife."

His stomach dropped. He'd hoped she wouldn't ask him to do that.

"It's the quickest way to stop the bleeding, Bell…"

His ears prickled, hearing her refer to him by that name. Only Octavia ever called him "Bell". Hearing Clarke say it just made her sound more broken and vulnerable. He nodded, flattening the blade in his hand and lining it up over her leg. Glancing up, he saw the fear in Clarke's eyes.

"Hey, don't look at it." He grabbed her chin with his left hand, bringing her gaze up to his. "Look at me instead. Just… look at me." Her eyes were huge and watery and growing bloodshot, but he could see the sliver of trust behind layers of fear. Bellamy took a quick breath before pressing the blade down.

His senses were overloaded: his ears assaulted by Clarke's cries of sheer agony, his eyes watching the terrifying way her features contorted in pain, nose catching the awful smell of burning flesh. After the blade sizzled against her leg, he pulled it up. The wound was angry and red and inflamed, but the burn had sealed it and stopped the bleeding. Clarke was right.

She was also trembling, a bead of sweat running down her temple along the gentle curve of her cheek. "Bandages," she murmured, reaching for her pack.

"I've got it." Bellamy found the wad of fabric she was looking for; of course Clarke had come prepared. Unrolling it, he wrapped the bandage around her leg slowly before tying it off. He wasn't any doctor, but the wound sure looked a hell of a lot more manageable once it'd been cleaned up and covered.

Clarke turned towards him. "Thank you," she said breathlessly, then sank forward. Bellamy caught her with his shoulder, stopping her fall. He was about to move her off of him when her head sank into his collarbone and froze him altogether.

"Bell," she slurred.

"What?"

"I think it's my birthday today."

"Not a great way to spend your birthday." Looking down at the girl lying against his chest, feeling the unsteady rise and fall of her breathing as she drifted out of consciousness, he didn't want to move her. Instead, Bellamy leaned backwards himself, resting against a trunk.

It was strange, the way her head fit neatly along the curve of his neck, her half-dry blond hair tickling his chin. Bellamy ignored the fact that Clarke was barely dressed and slid a protective arm out from underneath her, pressing her shoulder back. Her body adjusted to his, turning inwards against him as she fell asleep. Soon Bellamy found himself absentmindedly stroking Clarke's hair, mind wandering back to the man he'd killed out of self-defense, and exhaustion began to seep through the fading adrenaline to pull him asleep as well.


When Clarke awoke the sun was lower in the sky than she'd remembered. Of course that makes sense, I've been sleeping, she thought groggily to herself, rubbing her eye. She shifted her leg, wincing audibly. Glancing down, she saw the bandage wrapped around her upper leg and remembered the attacker at the pool.

"I wouldn't try and push yourself too much," came Bellamy's voice from across the fire. He was sitting on a rock, weight forward and hands on his knees. There was something strange in the way he looked at her, something protective. "We don't know how your leg is going to hold up."

Clarke frowned, "Why are you making it sound like it was my fault?"

"It's your leg, that would make sense."

"That's a low blow, Bellamy," she groaned, "It was a freak attack."

He furrowed his brow, "Yeah, why the hell would some crazy charge you with a knife? We're actually in the middle of nowhere. There's probably no one for miles around. And yet, you manage to catch a psychopath during the one minute I have my back turned."

"Excuse me? Sorry I wanted to clean myself up, didn't know that's considered a crime now."

"I'm just saying, you couldn't have been a little more… careful?" There was irritation written all over his face.

"I wasn't expecting to be attacked, you ass!"

"That psycho would've killed you if I didn't hear you. You weren't exactly defending yourself."

"And what do you want? A formally-proclaimed thank you? A statue erected in your honor?"

"God, Clarke," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair with a dark look on his face. Suddenly he stiffened, standing up quickly. "What was that?"

Clarke whipped her head around, then struggled to push herself up. She could sit up, but standing would be more of a challenge. "What are you talking about?"

"Did you hear that?"

"I didn't hear-"

An arrow ripped through the air, slicing the space beside Bellamy's left ear and hitting the tree behind him. He jumped, reaching for his sword and holding it out in a defensive stance. Instead of charging after his attacker, he stayed a few paces in front of Clarke.

Clarke pushed up with her arms, grabbing onto the trunk behind her and trying to stand. She gave a cry when she felt pain race down her leg.

"Clarke?"

A familiar voice called out for her, running up from her right. Her eyes went wide when she recognized the dark hair and bright gaze of Monty, scrambling through the trees towards her. Bellamy stepped to the side, standing between the two of them just as Jasper emerged from the other side, bow in his hands and ready to fire again.

"Get the hell away from her," Jasper said in a deep, serious voice.

"Stay back," Bellamy warned.

"Clarke, are you okay?" Monty shouted again.

"If you so much as touch her-"

"What are you two doing here?" Clarke interrupted Jasper, incredulous. "How did you find me?"

"You weren't exactly covering your trail. Or at least he wasn't." Monty motioned to Bellamy.

The guard's stare was locked on Jasper's bow. "Drop your weapon."

"Not until you back away from Clarke," Jasper said, holding his ground.

"I don't want to have to fight you, but you did shoot first…"

"Put the sword down and step away from her. She's no longer your prisoner."

"Jasper, I'm fine really-"

"Prisoner?" Bellamy said, "Not quite. I'm to escort her to Station City, by order of the Chancellor and the-"

"I don't care," Jasper shook his head, speaking fast. "About any stupid order from the Chancellor or anyone else. I don't care that she's the freaking royal heir, you're not taking our Clarke away from us without a fight!"

"Royal heir? Who said anything about the royal heir?"

Clarke's blood froze.

Son of a bitch.

.

.

.

That happened.

Bellarkebellarkebellarkebellarke. I ship these two so hard it's a problem. I hope that the slowburn is realistic - it bugs me when a fanfic jumps from "I kind of hate you" to "suddenly we get along perfectly and make out all the time" too quickly, especially with this pairing. But that's none of my business [insert Kermit Lipton tea meme here]

Let me know what you think of this chapter! Next time we'll get back to some of our other characters and see what they're up to. I'll be introducing another fan favorite face, and bringing back someone else mentioned earlier.

Hit me up with the reviews! Lemme know what you think, and what you're predicting will happen!

-K.T. Grace