"Wake up, Skaikru." A hand shook him roughly. "This is the day you die."
"Yeah, I don't think so," he said, rolling over. Bellamy knew fuck-all about how the day might go, but if all he had at the moment was bravado, it would have to do.
They brought him food and drink, which he downed rapidly. This was the ground, and he knew enough to grab a meal when one was offered. Just as his body had learned to renew itself with sleep when the opportunity arose.
Although the night before had been a challenge.
After Clarke left - tossed out finally by his jailer - he'd had trouble falling back to sleep. For a while he'd tossed and turned, and all he could think about were the words she'd breathed into his ear. That she had a plan.
She'd refused to elaborate, cocking her head at the jailer who still stood in the shadow of the doorway. So he'd had to trust that her plan was a good one, that if he couldn't get them out of this jam with his fighting skills, her backup plan would do the trick. Whatever it was.
Accepting that finally, he'd turned over on the hard ground only to find another, more familiar, distraction plaguing him, as his body remembered the soft curves that had been pressed up against him as they'd sought to comfort one another. When the Azgedan assigned to watch him had ejected Clarke, Bellamy had been torn between missing the warmth of her touch and a feeling of immense relief that he'd been delivered from the sweet, sweet torture of her nearness.
Overcome with exhaustion, even the memory of Clarke's disturbing presence could not keep him from finally falling into a fitful sleep.
XXXXXXXXXX
When he was at last allowed to emerge from his prison, he blinked at the bright sunshine and wondered idly if his jailer had been right. Would this be the day that he died? But then, there'd scarcely been a day since they'd arrived on this fucking planet that he hadn't wondered the exact same thing,
"Where are you taking me?" he asked, following the Azgedan down a path toward the open plaza. But the man just grunted, "Heda."
Emori was still tied to the pole at the top of the square, and as they passed through the area, Bellamy glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, hoping to catch her attention. He could see that she was dirty and disheveled, but his cursory inspection did not discern any blood.
On the one hand, he was relieved to find that she was apparently uninjured. On the other, he was enraged that they'd kept her tied up like that all night. That they'd felt free - perhaps even obliged - to pelt her with filth, merely because her body was less than perfect.
His fists clenched reflexively, and for the first time since he agreed to the fight Bellamy began to relish the idea of taking out his frustration on at least one person in this remote village.
He felt his pulse thrumming and his breath quicken, and he struggled to replace emotion with purpose. His breathing calmed as he forced himself to recall everything Lincoln had taught him about hand-to-hand combat. And for the first time in weeks, Bellamy found himself able to think about Lincoln without an overwhelming sadness.
If I make it through this day, my friend, it'll only be thanks to you.
XXXXXXXXXX
He was covered in sweat after hours of training, wiping his face on his tan shirt before slipping it over his head. By contrast, Lincoln looked like he was barely winded. Bellamy shook his head, amazed, as always, by the raw power and endurance of the man.
"How is it you look like you could still go for another couple of hours and I can hardly stand?"
Lincoln gave a small smile. "I've been training since I was a small child, Bellamy. My father..."
Lincoln's voice trailed off and Bellamy recalled the last time Lincoln had spoken of his father. The day they'd been walking through the forest to Mt. Weather.
"Your father?" he prompted, and Lincoln's face became a blank mask.
"My father was a warrior and he believed in the warrior code. In the warrior life. I was big, bigger than most my age, and my father planned to make me a great warrior. So I trained for hours every day. And I was quick to learn and easily bested the others."
He looked at Bellamy and sighed. "But I also made my father angry."
"And why was that?" Bellamy couldn't help being curious.
"Because as good as I was, as easily as it came to me, I hated every minute of it. Left to myself, instead of spending extra hours practicing with the spear or the knife, I was in the woods, drawing and cataloguing the plants."
Lincoln shrugged. "And then I chose the life of a healer. My father was not pleased."
"This was the man who tried to turn you into a monster, Lincoln. Who made you kill a man for no reason when you were just a kid. Maybe not pleasing him wasn't so bad."
For just an instant Lincoln looked confused, and then his face cleared as he recollected their previous conversation.
"I remember telling you that story," he nodded. "We were on our way to the mountain."
Lincoln stilled suddenly, his face sharp with emotion.
"I've never told you, Bellamy, never said how sorry I was for letting you down that day."
"Lincoln, it's not necessary," Bellamy assured him, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "I've done things I wish I could take back. We all have."
"No," Lincoln shook his head, rejecting Bellamy's words. "I'd promised you. I'd promised Octavia to take care of you. And I let you both down. I showed weakness. My father would have been ashamed...and this time I would have agreed with him."
Bellamy smiled. "And how do you think he'd have felt about you training your enemy? About helping us learn how to fight you?"
Lincoln's lip curled in a hint of rare amusement.
"I can't be sure. My father was a simple man with a simple code. What Lexa did at the mountain was dishonorable, and he would have hated that. Although I'm not sure if he would have thought teaching our combat tricks to the enemy was any more honorable."
"Believe me, Lincoln, whatever debt you feel you owe me after Mt. Weather has been more than repaid. None of us would ever have learned to fight like this without your help."
Lincoln nodded. "And whatever level of skill you've reached, my friend, it's because you, too, are a strong and talented fighter. One day, I believe, someone will be most unhappy to discover that."
XXXXXXXXXX
Bellamy recalled that conversation now with a lump in his throat. It was right after that that everything had gone all to hell, and within a few short weeks his friend was dead.
As they continued across the square, Bellamy noticed his jailer's attention wander and took the opportunity to veer slightly closer to Emori. Close enough, in fact, that she finally raised her eyes and looked at him.
Are you okay?
He had to mouth the words. He was still to far away for conversation and he didn't want to call attention to the girl by shouting across the open plaza. At the moment, she was being left alone and Bellamy wanted to keep it that way.
Emori gave him a short nod and he could see her determination in the line of her mouth and the set of her jaw. He nodded in return, hoping the gesture would convey everything he couldn't say out loud.
I'm sorry I got you into this.
You don't deserve this shit.
Try to hold up a little longer.
I'll get you out of here if it's the last thing I do.
As he passed within a few feet of her, one of the villagers approached, a woman, young, very much like Emori herself. Bellamy tensed, afraid he was about to witness some form of abuse, but instead, when the girl reached the prisoner she lifted a cup to her mouth. He watched Emori drink greedily and felt reassured that there was still some humanity to be found in this village.
When they reached the heda's home, Bellamy saw that the man was dressed far more elaborately than he'd been the day before. The ceremonial robes were perhaps a little threadbare, but his hair had been pulled back into a complicated knot to highlight the facial scarification so common among the Azgeda, particularly those of rank.
The heda stood, his chest puffed out with self-importance.
"Are you ready to see what happens when a worthless Skaikru challenges an Azgeda warrior?"
"What the hell? You're the one that wants this fight, not me."
"Quiet!" the man said. "I am heda of this village. I do not debate with someone of so little consequence."
Bellamy frowned as he followed the heda out the door and back to the open square. It seemed clear that the man was intent on making political hay out of the fight, but Bellamy didn't care any more about Azgeda politics than he had about the Trikru infighting, or Lexa's problems with her coalition.
Unless it affected him or his people. He suddenly felt certain that the heda had a hidden agenda.
The heda stopped when they reached the middle of the square, and the villagers began to emerge from the homes surrounding it, and from the roads and lanes leading into it. Until it seemed to Bellamy that the entire village must be there to bear witness to the event.
Emori was still tied to her pole, although she was no longer the center of attention. Bellamy looked around for Murphy and found him at last, snarling and struggling against the two large Azgeda who were keeping him from reaching Emori. He could see that Murphy's nose was bloody, and there was a welt across his cheek.
Dammit, Murphy! Couldn't the guy just lay low for a bit and let Bellamy take care of them. But then his gaze shifted back to Emori, and he wondered how he'd feel if it were Clarke tied up and tormented in the village square. He suddenly felt a lot more sympathy for Murphy's need to get physical, however ineffectual the result.
And where the hell was Clarke, anyway? He knew she'd never be anywhere else by choice. Bellamy was just beginning to panic, to worry that her "plan" had been some ill-conceived escape attempt, when he at last saw her weave through the crowd, her shining blonde hair standing out amid the sea of dark heads.
The only one of them not confined in any way, Clarke pushed and shoved toward the front ranks of the crowd and began to make her way towards him, gliding around inside the circle that been formed by the audience. She was a scant three feet away from him when she was stopped at last by one of the heda's guards.
"Are you okay?" she asked, raising her voice and pushing ineffectually against the arm that was holding her back, just out of reach. "I wanted to see you this morning but patients kept coming to Kalen's house. They haven't had a healer here for several months."
Bellamy nodded, giving her a small smile. Of course she was held up taking care of the health of these villagers. As always, Clarke saw them as people, not Azgeda. Not the enemy. And she would continue to see them that way until she was forced to do otherwise. Then she would fight as fiercely as anyone for those she cared about.
"I'm fine," he said, wondering if he was lying or if he really was as calm as he felt. "What about the others? Have you been able to see them?"
"Murphy's a little banged up, but okay," she said, still struggling to get past the guard. "I tried to check on Emori but they wouldn't let me near her."
She turned to the guard, insisting that she had to see Bellamy, to speak with him. He watched as she became more and more frustrated, and the guard, more and more irate. Then he saw the man reach for his knife.
"Clarke! Stop! I told you, I'm fine. Why don't you head back to the boy and his mother?"
Dammit! He couldn't be worrying about her safety and still focus on the fight.
Maybe she saw something in his expression, or maybe it was the obvious futility of her struggle with the guard, but she stilled suddenly. Gave him a small nod and a tremulous smile.
"Right," she said. "I'll be over there," she added, pointing to where Tanno and Kalen waited for her, their faces masked with worry.
Bellamy gazed at Clarke, drinking her in. They'd had so many of these moments, moments when they never knew if it would be their last sight of each other. At the drop ship door. Before he left for the mountain. When she took off at the gates of Camp Jaha. And just recently, when she'd left him her body to protect while her mind traveled into the City of Light.
So maybe he should be used to it by now.
But it was always a fresh agony, every damn time.
"Bellamy," she said suddenly, "I never told you..."
"Whatever it is," he said, stopping her cold, "tell me later. After the fight."
Her eyes were shiny now and he saw her swallow convulsively.
"After the fight," she agreed. "I'm holding you to that."
Clarke turned swiftly, pulling away from the guard and returning to her friends standing at the bottom of the circle.
Bellamy sighed in relief as he saw her slip safely back into anonymity. These villagers had no idea who she was and he'd just as soon keep it that way.
Momentarily relieved of his concern for Clarke, Bellamy became aware of a heated discussion between the heda and another man. A man of similar rank, it seemed, judging by his clothing and facial scars.
He was close enough to hear the argument, but they were speaking in the grounder language in which Bellamy was far from fluent. But when the men's eyes shifted to two other men - younger, more fit - standing together several feet away, he understood immediately.
This was a dispute about who would represent the village in fighting the Skaikru interloper. Bellamy couldn't tell from their gestures which warrior was the heda's candidate, but surely whichever it was would be the one chosen. The heda didn't seem like a man to let others dictate his decisions.
Bellamy's attention shifted to his two potential opponents. One was noticeably taller, with outsized musculature and an arrogant expression to match. He waited patiently, ignoring his rival. And his potential opponent.
The other man was shorter, wirier, the look in his eyes shrewd and intelligent. As Bellamy studied him, the man's attention shifted as though he'd felt Bellamy's gaze. They'd just locked eyes when the heda raised his voice, this time speaking in English.
"You all know that the purity of our village was sullied when these Skaikru dared to bring a cursed one here. Even worse, this man, their leader, challenges our right to rid ourselves of this horror."
The heda turned his head and eyed Bellamy with exaggerated contempt.
"Who are these Skaikru that they dare to defy us? They do not honor our ways. And we must show them how we treat those who show us disrespect."
He paused, turned toward the two warriors waiting to be called to duty.
"Damon will show this Skaikru fool how we treat those who dishonor us."
The larger man stepped forward amid the cheering of the crowd, and Bellamy breathed a silent sigh of relief. As he'd anticipated, the heda had chosen the larger man, the opponent Bellamy instinctively felt would be easier to beat.
He glanced over at Clarke and could see the worry on her face when she saw the man's height and girth. Bellamy tried to compose his features in a way that would reassure her, but she was too far away to understand. He supposed he'd have to show her instead.
XXXXXXXXXX
Now that the village's champion had been chosen, Bellamy thought the fight would begin immediately, but of course he should have known better. No facet of grounder life, a least none that he'd observed, ever seemed to occur without its accompanying ritual.
He found himself hurried into a large building, stripped of most of his clothing, and cleansed in what appeared to be a ceremonial manner. When he saw one man approach him with a razor, he thought for a moment that he was going to be given one of those Azgedan facial scars, but he was mistaken. Instead, three days' growth of beard was scraped from his cheeks and chin.
Apparently, Azgeda warriors did not go into battle unshaven. Bellamy was grateful; his face had reached the stage of being unbearably itchy but he'd had no time to remedy the situation. He supposed if he could emerge from this predicament with nothing more than a close shave he wouldn't complain.
As abruptly as it had begun the cleansing ritual was over, and Bellamy found himself back in the square. The crowd cheered as the two fighters faced each other in the middle of a circle ringed with onlookers. In that moment, everything melted away except the dance.
Bellamy was shirtless and barefoot, just as he'd been during those long hours of training back in Arkadia, and he unconsciously took the stance he'd been taught by Lincoln. He saw the surprise on Damon's face, but then the man shrugged imperceptibly, as if to say that Bellamy knowing the steps of the dance would make no difference to the outcome.
They circled each other, changing direction frequently and abruptly, trying to predict their opponent's next move from a telltale sign as tiny as the blink of an eye or the flutter of a finger. Finally the grounder lunged at him, but the slight nod of Damon's head had given him away, and Bellamy swerved in time, remaining just out of the other man's grasp.
For several minutes, he and Damon continued to pace around the circle, and somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Bellamy heard the crowd roaring. Jeering at him because he hadn't made any moves toward their champion. But he knew that wasn't the way to play the game. Not if he wanted to win.
Bellamy was in the zone and had no clear idea of how much time might have passed when the grounder lunged at him a second time, and again he stepped smoothly to the side. He could see the frustration in the man's eyes now.
He could also see something else: a pattern.
And sure enough, as though he had only one move in his repertoire, the grounder lunged a third time. But this time Bellamy was ready for him. He set his feet, distributed his weight, grabbed his opponent's arm as he came at him, and let the man's weight and momentum carry him over Bellamy's shoulder and onto the ground behind him.
Where he landed with a resounding thwack!
Bellamy pivoted swiftly, automatically regaining his stance in case the grounder leapt up to take another run at him. But as soon he turned he saw there was no need. The big man was out cold.
The silence was deafening. And then a low murmur began to rise from all around him as the villagers made their displeasure known. Bellamy glanced at the heda, wondering how he would handle the Azgeda's defeat, since he had framed the fight in terms of the village's honor only minutes earlier.
Then suddenly someone stepped forward. It was his other potential opponent, the one that Bellamy hadn't wanted to fight. The man gave the heda a shallow bow.
"You see, heda," the man said, speaking in English as he side-eyed Bellamy, "it is as I said. I am the champion of this village, not Damon. I demand to be allowed to uphold our honor by thrashing this worthless Skaikru."
The heda bristled. "You demand, Marko?"
Marko retreated, but only slightly. "With the heda's permission, of course."
Bellamy was outraged when he saw that the heda appeared to be considering it.
"What the hell is this?" Bellamy said, not bothering to hide his anger. "You demanded that I fight for my people and I've done that. Now I'm making a demand of my own. Release my people and let us be on our way."
"Quiet!" The heda spoke sharply. "I will decide what becomes of your people."
Bellamy's fists clenched at his side.
"We had a deal," he reiterated, biting out the words.
A canny look suddenly overtook the heda's face.
"Yes, our deal was that you must fight the village champion."
"And I've done that!" Bellamy was insistent.
The heda shook his head. "No, Damon was not the champion."
"But you chose him yourself! How can you say now that he's not your champion?" An end to this madness had seemed within his grasp, and now Bellamy was beyond frustrated.
The heda's face was smug as he gave his answer.
"Because he did not beat you, so he cannot have been the champion. Marko is clearly the champion and you will now fight him."
Bellamy's mouth gaped at the man's circular logic and he tried to dig in his heels.
"I won't fight again," he insisted.
The heda's eyes narrowed as he looked at Bellamy. Then he turned his head toward the pole at the upper end of the square. The pole to which Emori was still fastened.
"You will fight Marko or your female abomination will be killed immediately."
Bellamy tried to tamp down his anger. "And what guarantee do I have that this will be the last fight? That if I beat Marko, you won't suddenly decide there's some other village champion?"
The heda paused and looked at him closely.
"You will not beat Marko," he said, his quiet voice menacing, his eyes shifting again to where Emori was tied to the pole.
The heda turned away then and Bellamy's eyes closed in despair.
Fuck! His mind was in turmoil. How the hell am I going to get us out of this?
XXXXXXXXXX
Marko had to go through the cleansing ritual, so Bellamy got a short reprieve. He was still being closely guarded, so he simply dropped to the ground where he stood, trying to retain as much energy as possible.
"This is so damned unfair!"
He turned his head and looked up to see Clarke no more than two feet away, just on the other side of the loose ring of guards that surrounded him. Her expression was a cross between disgruntled and terrified.
"What are you doing here, Clarke? You need to get back to that family. If anything happens to me, just stay with-"
"Dammit, Bellamy!" She interrupted fiercely. "Nothing is happening to you. I won't let it."
One of the guards smirked, perhaps putting his own interpretation on their relationship. Maybe that's why he shifted slightly, allowing Clarke to get just a bit closer. Not close enough to touch Bellamy, but near enough that their words no longer had to be shouted around a half dozen grounders. She dropped to her knees, scooting as close to Bellamy as possible.
"Does he really mean to make you fight someone else?" she asked, both indignant and furious.
Bellamy nodded. "There's not much I can do about it."
"Well, you beat the first guy and you'll beat the next one, too."
"Clarke," he said, his voice just above a whisper. "This one will be different.".
"How do you know?"
"I just do."
She reached across to touch him, but before her hand connected, it was slapped away by the guard.
"Get up, Skaikru," the guard said. "Time to get your ass kicked."
Bellamy rose to see the heda moving toward him with the now-cleansed Marko.
"I ask to speak to my...friend before the fight." Bellamy rushed into speech before he could think better of it.
The heda eyed Clarke, now standing next to the guards. "The healer," he said.
Bellamy nodded. "Just for a moment."
The heda considered, then bowed his head magnanimously. "A moment."
Bellamy rushed over to Clarke, and for the first time ever he took the initiative and folded her into his embrace.
"Clarke," her whispered fiercely. "Please promise me that you'll stay safe. And that you'll continue to look for Octavia."
Clarke pulled back to study him, her hands clutching at his arms. "We'll both be safe and we'll both look for Octavia," she said with her usual determination. "Just hold on for a little while longer, Bellamy," she begged. "Just a little while."
She reached up then to brush a kiss across his cheek, her lips barely connecting with his skin before she was pulled away roughly by the guard.
A little while longer. He'd forgotten that she had a plan. He stared at Clarke for a moment, and then she was pushed back into the crowd by the heda's men. Bellamy sighed inwardly. He could think of no plan that would save them now.
But the time was past for all such musings. The heda had given the signal, and the villagers re-formed into the same rough circle around the new combatants. Bellamy took his stance, eyeing Marko warily, and the dance began again.
As the first one had, this contest opened with the two men circling each other, shifting this way and that, each trying to gain some advantage over the other. To learn something useful. As he'd anticipated, it proved much more difficult to predict the movements of this new opponent, and for the first time, Bellamy considered that what Lincoln had so painstakingly taught him might not be enough to save them all now.
A sudden blow to his head sent Bellamy reeling, but he recovered quickly, smoothly shifting his body out of the way so that Marko could not strike again. Amid the cheers of the crowd he heard a sharp gasp, and knew it was Clarke.
Goddammit! He'd let his mind wander, let doubt creep in, and caused her pain and worry. It wouldn't happen again. Lincoln's training reasserted itself and Bellamy carefully emptied his head of everything except the opponent he faced, the battle to be fought, and the absolute necessity of winning. Within seconds, he found a weakness to exploit and delivered two punishing blows to his opponent, one to the head and one to his midsection.
And they were off.
Punches and body blows and roundhouse kicks were traded back and forth as both men were bloodied and bruised again and again. Bellamy had the by-now-familiar taste of blood on his tongue, but beyond that he noticed nothing. The pain would come later, and it would be welcome because it would mean that he'd survived. But for now, there was only the correct placement of his arms and legs and body to ward off his opponent's strikes, and the absolute need to inflict maximum damage with his own.
So they fought on, the advantage shifting between them, until finally, his endurance drained after two exhausting fights, Bellamy began to feel himself getting tired. Began to wonder if he had the strength to outlast the man. And perhaps his opponent sensed it, too.
Or perhaps it was simply that Marko was as tired of this fight as he was and just wanted it to be done with.
Time seemed to slow for Bellamy as he watched the man gather himself for what was clearly intended to be the death blow. And in his head, he heard Lincoln's words from all those weeks ago.
He almost had me, but he was too aggressive.
It was unfortunate for Marko that he hadn't had the benefit of hearing those cautionary words, too.
As the man rushed towards him, intent on delivering the knockout blow, Bellamy called on every remaining ounce of mental and physical toughness he possessed. He set his feet, distributed his weight, and in a near replay of the climax of his earlier fight, grabbed Marko's arm and used the force of the man's drive and momentum to flip him over into the hard-packed dirt.
The crowd gasped, then stilled, stunned by the suddenness of it.
Exhausted, Bellamy turned to assess the damage he'd inflicted. Unlike Damon, Marko was still conscious. As Bellamy pulled air into his lungs in short gasps, he watched the man stagger to his feet. Bellamy felt his own exhaustion, but he could see that his opponent was even less able to carry on and he knew that one final punch would finish the man completely.
He gathered himself to deliver it.
It happened so quickly that he had no time to prepare. Someone - one of the heda's guards, maybe - handed something to his opponent, and before Bellamy could react, Marko had covered the short distance between them and sliced through Bellamy's upper arm.
There was little strength behind the strike, but the sharpness of the knife he'd used insured there didn't need to be. For an instant, Bellamy was too shocked to feel anything at all, and then rage took over. There was a roaring in his ears and he moved his arm to strike the final blow.
But something was wrong. His arm wouldn't move, wouldn't follow his commands at all. Instead, blood was dripping down to his wrists, across his palm, and onto the dirt.
Bellamy felt himself sinking to the ground as blackness threatened to engulf him, and he dimly heard the crowd shouting its approval at this turn of events. Sweat dripping from his forehead, his vision nearly obscured, he watched helplessly as Marko, knife raised, bloodied teeth on display as he grinned in triumph, staggered towards him to finish the job.
He never made it.
Bellamy looked on in shock as something struck the other man in the chest. A spear, delivered with a downward arc, sliced through Marko and pinned him to the ground. Even through the fog that swirled in his brain, Bellamy knew immediately that the man was dead.
He looked up then and saw what he'd been too busy awaiting death to notice earlier. Some time in the last few minutes, a section in the circle of onlookers had opened up, the gap wide enough to accommodate several men on horseback. One of those men had tossed the spear at Marko. And Bellamy knew that man.
"I think maybe you owe me now, Skaikru." Roan's tone was sardonic as he gazed down at him in exasperation.
Bellamy opened his mouth, fully intending to dispute that statement. But before he could utter a word the blackness overtook him.
