Once, when Clarke was six, she was demonstrating to Wells that since she was smaller than him, she could climb trees better. She pulled herself up the old Oak in the courtyards with Wells half watching her, and half keeping an eye out for their respective parents. Everything was going well, until her foot caught on a rotten branch and she came tumbling down, striking her head on one of the old roots. She was left with shattered pride, a painful scolding from her mother, and a large bump on the back of her head that lasted for weeks. Clarke had never experienced a worse headache since the day she fell down from that tree.

Until now.

She groaned, pushing herself up from the thin mattress, massaging her skull with the heel of her hand. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and looked around the room. She did not recall falling asleep there, or even going there for that matter. Beside her was Octavia, slack-jawed, and an arm thrown over her eyes to block out the dawn light. Scattered on the floor were the sleeping forms of Miller, Murphy, Jasper and Monty. Every now and again Jasper let out a soft snore, that continued until Monty gave him a kick. Across the room, Bellamy lay sprawled across a second bed. It was far too small for him, and his legs hung off the opposite end. Like Octavia, he had an arm draped across his eyes. Must be a Blake thing Clarke thought to herself and stopped. Last night's conversation came flooding back to her in a tidal wave. Bellamy was a Blake. He was kin to one of the most wealthy families in the kingdom, was that family's heir. Did he know?

She then blushed, recalling that while she now knew Bellamy's secret, he also knew about hers. She had not only told him about Finn, (she winced at what he must think of her now, running away to the city over a boy), but she had also told him she was penniless. He hadn't pried thank God, there was no knowing what her drunken mind would have said.
Her embarrassment became overwhelming, and she crept out of the room, in pursuit of water and fresh air.

The air outside was bitter, the ground covered with a thin layer of frost. It was still mostly dark outside, the sky a deep violet purple, with a hazy streak of warm golden light spread across the horizon. She breathed the sharp air in deeply, ignoring the way her head protested. Winter was closing in, her icy claws already sunken deep into the countryside. Soon, it would spread into the towns, and then the cities, and she would be trapped. Travel was forbidden after the first snowfall. Too dangerous. She'd have to enjoy her, somewhat limited, freedom while she could. On that note, Clarke took off to visit Butterfly, to ensure that the old mare had unfrozen water.

The horse raised her head at her entrance, and shook out her mane in greeting. Satisfied that she had water, Clarke dipped her hand into a nearby bag of oats, and stroked the animals soft neck as she guzzled the oats from her palm. This was familiar. This was comforting. Clarke could almost pretend she was twelve years old again, doting on her father's stallion in the stables. Suddenly, Butterfly threw up her head, her ears flattened back. She whinneyed apprehensivly, and Clarke turned to find a man leaning against a door frame watching her.

Clarke felt herself relax slightly, when she realised he wasn't looking at her with want, just with mild confusion. Her stomach contracted painfully when she saw he was looking at her with hatred too. He took a couple of steps forward until Clarke was pinned against the door of Butterfly's stall. He grabbed Clarke's right wrist twisting her hand until her palm was facing her, her knuckles facing him. Clarke swore to herself. How could she have been such a sentimental fool?

Shining merrily on her index finger was the ruby red ring her father gave her for her fifteenth birthday- the last time she heard from him. However it wasn't just a jewel. Etched onto the front of it was the emblem of her family- a lion with feathered wings and a bird's head. A Griffin. She simply couldn't bare to part with it while they were traveling, and now she would pay the price. The man was staring at it thoughtfully, sending quick glances towards her face.
"I thought I recognised you last night, blonde hair like yours would be hard to forget." He murmured, twisting her hand painfully, pinning it above her head.
"Lady Clarke Griffin." He said, flicking spit onto her face when he sneered her title.

"I used to work for your family, you know. I used to pick turnips during the spring, and shovel cow shit during the summer. Dirty work, filthy work. Work you would never even think about. I didn't mind though. There were worse jobs, and I thought your father," He spat again, "was a decent lord."
He was fuming now, a vein throbbing in her neck, his eyes wide, teeth bared.
"Do you remember what happened four summers ago m'lady? Do you?" He hissed, twisting her arm again, forcing a cry of pain from her.
"Please, of course I do..." Clarke whispered, crying out again, when he yanked on her hair, pulling her head back.
"The sweat came, no warning, nothing. Overnight people were dying, it took everything from us. And what did your father do? He barricaded the doors to your castle! He knew it was coming and he left us out to rot." He was shouting now. He threw her to the ground, and kicked her hard in the stomach. He knelt over her, holding a rusted knife to her throat.
"I lost everything- my mother, my father, my brother... my little brother..." His voice broke, and he dragged the knife across her arm. Clarke screamed, and he covered her mouth with his hand.
"I don't know why you're here. But I think it's fitting. I've had to live without my family, and now your mother will have to live knowing that both her husband and daughter are dead. And the best part?" He said raising the knife above her chest, ready to plunge it down.
"She won't even know how you died."

Suddenly, everything fell into shadow. Something grabbed the man's arms and pulled him off her. Clarke pulled herself up, and watched in horrified awe as Bellamy fought tooth and nail with her attacker. Part of her wanted to tell him to stop, that she deserved it but her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. She watched them struggle over the rusted knife, until they fell back onto the stone ground. It took a moment for Clarke to register that Bellamy was losing. The man had pinned him the ground like he had with her, and was punching Bellamy's face bloody. He stopped, clasping his hands around Bellamy's throat, mumbling incoherently about his revenge and the like, as he squeezed the life from him. Clarke stood up quietly from where she stood and picked up the knife from where it had fallen. She walked towards them, noticing absent-mindedly how silent her tread was, mulching over the damp hay.

"God forgive me." She whispered out loud, before plunging the knife into the side of his neck.

He let out a strangled gasp, which only resulted in him coughing up some clotted, crimson blood. Clarke watched in disturbed fascination. She had killed a man. He fell backward, more blood pouring from his mouth, staining his lips red. His eyes were wide and staring, and it was that forced Clarke to look away. She fell to her knees, feeling her whole body shaking. Bellamy had risen from the ground, panting heavily. Silence swirled around them. Clarke hadn't noticed light filling the room, but it was proof at how long the silence lasted. Bellamy began to drag the corpse from the stables, and Clarke watched him heave it into the nearby well. There was a pause, and then a sickening splash.

Bellamy came back in and knelt beside her. He pulled her into his arms, laying her head against his chest. When she felt the material of his shirt wet against her cheek, she realised she was crying. Now all she could hear was her mournful sobs, and his comforting murmurs of "It's alright" and "He would have killed you Clarke, he would have killed you."
She didn't know how long they sat there, but eventually her sobs quietened. She wiped her eyes, and turned her face to look him in the eye.

"Did you hear what he said?" She asked, her voice still shaking. He nodded.
"Some of it."
"It was the truth mostly, though he was wrong about my father. He was already gone when the sweat came."
Bellamy brushed her tear-dampened hair from her face.
"Clarke, you don't need to tell me..."
"No I do." She whispered, pulling herself off him, and bristling slightly at cold air that rushed against her cheeks.

"I'm sure you remember the summer four years passed. How it was dry, sweltering, and how quickly disease spread that year."
"I remember," Bellamy muttered, "It was out first summer with The 100, we lost eight..."
Clarke continued.
"My father knew we would be hit right during harvesting time. He wanted to warn our serfs, let them prepare, but my mother and the king disagreed. They thought it would cause a panic, and that we would lose the summer crop. Thelonious warned my father not to breathe a word. He confided in me that he was going to tell them anyway."

She felt tears form at her eyes again, threatening to spill over.
"I was thirteen, and I did what every thirteen year old does when she has a secret. I told my best friend. I told Wells."
Bellamy's eyes widened.
"Wells? The crown prince Wells?" He gave a breathy laugh when Clarke nodded.
"You told the King's son, that your father was going to betray the King?"
Even under the circumstances, Clarke laughed at his ridiculing tone.
"I thought I could trust him. That was back when I thought one could have friends in court," She swallowed, grasping for a way to continue, "As you can already tell, Wells told his father."

"A week before that poor man lost his family, I lost my father. Thelonious banished him to the crusades, returning on pain of death."
"Why not execute him? He committed treason." Bellamy said bluntly, then looking embarrassed at his choice of words. Clarke shrugged.
"I suppose he couldn't bare to kill his closest friend. Though he did in the end." She twisted the ring around her finger.
"This was the last sign I got from him that he was still alive. It arrived on my birthday, two years ago. We've heard nothing since."
Bellamy looked at her with pity.
"What happened? During the sweat." He asked gently. Clarke sighed.
"We lost half of our serfs, and all of our crops. It was mostly children who died, as it always is. That man's brother was one of many. It was my mother who closed the doors on our people that day, though I did little to stop her. After that they began to leave one by one, and my mother did nothing to stop them. We had no one to pick the crops, and then we had no one to sow them, and now we have nothing at all. Everything hangs on me marrying Wells."
Bellamy looked at her, something in his eyes that Clarke didn't understand.
"You're going to marry the man that betrayed your father?" he asked his voice causing Clarke's stomach to flip.
"I have no choice."

They drifted into silence again, Clarke leaning back against his chest again, though she didn't know when she returned to his embrace. There was a small patch of blood where her kill had been laying, and she almost felt she could burn it away with her gaze.
"They say you never forget your first." Bellamy joked from behind her, before standing up, pulling her to her feet also.
"You did the right thing Clarke. It's kill or be killed in this life, and your part of that system, no matter how temporarily. But that doesn't mean your immune to it's consequences and we need to leave, before some poor bar maid finds the body in the well. Can you saddle Butterfly?" she nodded.
"Then do it while I wake the others. We'll meet in the yard in fifteen minutes. Try not to get into anymore fights." He said with a sly grin, and Clarke relaxed slightly, knowing that nothing had changed.

Bellamy dumped a bucket of water on his sleeping comrades and they were very vocal about their discomfort. Octavia had left to stay with Clarke immediately after he woke her, leaving him with the men. He threw pairs of boots and jackets at them, while they dried themselves off. Miller was the first to notice Bellamy's face.
"Christ Bell, what happened?" He asked, though his voice implied he could already guess.
"I had a run in with a drunkard in the stables, got a little carried away and now he's at the bottom of a well. We need to leave. Now."

"What were you fighting over?" Murphy said curiously as he laced his boots. Bellamy hesitated for only a moment.
"It's not important." He mumbled before heading out the door.
"Which means it was over Clarke." Murphy muttered as they followed him outside.

A/N: Hello everyone! Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and know you can look forward to more Bellarke feels in the next chapter. After a very embarrassing misspelling of the word "skull" in the last chapter I have vowed to not write while half asleep. Also I finally have time to answer reviews, so feel free to ask questions and stuff, because God knows, I need ways to procrastinate. Until next time!