The first time he woke, it was with a half-conscious request for Octavia. He muttered something about "my responsibility" before going limp once more.

Clarke worked quickly. She cooled his feverish body with rags soaked in rain water. She applied a plant salve to the vicious burns on his back. She traced a scar on his collarbone, unable to remember where it had come from. She apologized for leaving.

The next time Bellamy woke, it was with a helpless whimper. Clarke hurriedly gave him water, forced him to drink. When he moved to sit up, he lapsed into unconsciousness once more.

Those were the good hours, when Clarke could work in peace and Bellamy could sleep through the pain.

They were followed by the bad hours, when he burned with fever and couldn't' escape the pain by sleep. Sometimes he would lie there and whimper, other times he would actually cry out. Clarke would give him a piece of wood to bite on and speak softly to him, smoothing back his sweat-slick hair, doing her best to distract him. And whenever he was strong enough to ask, he always received the same answer: his tent, and no one but Clarke.

Those hours turned into days, and the days were long and hard, and the Hundred didn't like the waiting or the listening, but they were not idle. They would be ready.