Clarke scraped the blood off her hands with her nails. She couldn't tell if her hands were red from the stains or from the icy water in the trough. She got more and more frantic, feeling her eyes getting hot with tears again. As soon as Bellamy left, she had begun to panic again, and it was in this state that Octavia found her.
Octavia barely looked at her before pulling her into an embrace, soothing her gently.
"I had to..." Clarke muttered, repeating it to herself over and over, unsure if she was trying to convince Octavia or herself. She felt Octavia nod against her hair.
"I know you did. We have to clean you up before the others come down, alright?" she whispered, her confident tone, inspiring confidence in Clarke too. She nodded, and allowed Octavia to clean the ugly wound on her arm. They were silent for a moment, as Octavia bandaged Clarke's arm with obvious expertise. They heard footsteps in the distance, and Octavia looked at Clarke with oddly-intense eyes.
"Whether you did it to save him or yourself, you saved my brother's life. He won't thank you, but I will." She gave Clarke a smile filled with gratitude as she whispered "Thank you". Clarke returned her smile weakly before walking over to the now saddled Butterfly, stroking her soft muzzle and mane, plaiting it absent mindedly.
"I'll plait your hair for you later if you like. It's getting dirty, and you can't enjoy that." Octavia said straight-forwardly, pointing at the mess that was Clarke's hair. Clarke tried to run her fingers through it, and laughed at how they immediately became stuck.
"Thank you, I appreciate it." Clarke said, a little embarrassed that she hadn't thought of her hair since they left nearly five days ago. Five days. Not even a week. Had it only been that long? Her aching bones screamed that it had been longer, and she swore the waistband of her breeches felt looser. Her hand went to her chin, and the dry scab from four days ago was now gone, replaced with dry, flaky skin. The bruise on her forehead was still tender to touch, but barely noticeable otherwise. She didn't know how it looked though. To everyone else it was probably a delightful shade of green, or charming pus- yellow. All signs that time had passed.
Then there was her company. Friends her mind tentatively said as she looked at the people walking towards her. How could she barely know them, yet feel as though she knew them better than anyone she'd ever met? She supposed that it was because she'd seen the essence of who they were.
In court, everybody wore a permanent mask. A mask that was never removed, for fear that people would see the atrocities hidden underneath. You only knew the person, that the person wanted you to know. Even Clarke had put on an act, pretending to be the docile, gentle Lady that everyone expected her to be, while silently condemning them all to hell in her head.
Here, wherever here was, there was no reason to hide who you were. There was no pretending, no lying, you are who you are, and that's that. She'd seen more adventure, more hate, more passion, more reality in these last five days, than she had ever seen, in her whole life.
I want to help them, she decided as Bellamy helped her secure the sack of, no doubt stolen, food on to Butterfly. Whether Jaha rewards them or not, I want to make their lives better. That power would not vex her when she was Queen. And then, for the first time since Ark, did the reality of what she was doing hit her. Dear God, she'd have to marry Wells. Why did that thought sicken her so much more now than it did a week ago? A pair of brown eyes flashed across her thoughts in answer, and she felt herself blush. Ridiculous she thought, as they prepared to leave the Two-Faced Deer's yard.
She felt eyes burning into her skin, and found Murphy staring at the fresh bandage on her arm, already stained with patchy blood. She quickly pulled down the sleeve of her shirt, and watched his gaze flicker away with embarrassment. Suddenly two hands wrapped around her waist, and then her feet were lifted off the ground. Seconds later she found herself on Butterfly's back, the mare giving a huff of protest.
"Figured you could use a rest, Princess." Bellamy said with a grin, and Clarke forced the feeling of his hands on her waist from her mind. Of course then, all she was met with was the memory of his embrace as she cried into his chest, barely an hour ago, and then the feeling of her arms wrapped around his neck, as he pulled her through the river. She prayed he couldn't see what she was thinking. He seemed to misread her expression, and his face became solemn, placing a comforting hand on her wrist.
"Princess, who we are, and who we need to be to survive, are to very different things. What we are, and what we have done, do not define us. Remember that."
She nodded, ignoring her racing heart, and urged Butterfly forward, relishing in the way his hand stayed on her until he was forced to pull away.
Stupid Princess. He thought angrily, as he stared at the back of her irritatingly beautiful head. She was everything that he was supposed to loathe, and had been everything he had loathed, up until when... actually thinking about it he didn't know when his hatred for her had changed into... this. She was proud, and entitled and unworthily rich, though not really he reminded himself. How could he hate her now, knowing that she was selling herself to a man she hardly knew for the sake of her home and people? Stupid brave princess.
Even now, bruised and bloody, she held herself like she owned the dirt beneath her, like Butterfly was an Arabian mare, and that she was wearing indian silks and cloth of gold, instead of the dirty rags that hung off her thin frame. He held himself the same way, but for him it was to intimidate and belittle those around him. For her it seemed to come so naturally. A reflex action. A shield.
They were the same.
His eyes widened at the thought. Was that why he felt this need to protect her? She was his kindred spirit? He almost laughed at himself. Since when did he believe in faeries and soulmates, and whatever other nonsense the Grounder, that Octavia thought he didn't know about, told his sister? He made a mental note to discuss that particular issue with Octavia when he returned home, the dalliance had been going on for long enough, and would probably get them both killed in the end. He then began making a list of all the things that needed to be done back once he was home, and pretended he didn't notice every time Clarke glanced at him over her shoulder, irritated every time she didn't.
The knife missed its mark again. Clarke sighed, frustrated, before getting up, and locating the rusted dagger. Yes, she had kept her assailant's weapon, now using it as her own. The others had fallen into their exhausted sleep hours ago, but, as she expected, the promise of nightmares taunted her, and she had picked up the blade, determined to know how to wield it by morning, even though she knew that was impossible.
She reset herself into position, and aimed at the clumsily carved "x" in the tree opposite her. She pulled back her arm, and promptly dropped the knife when a now- familiar voice pierced through the sounds of the night and Jasper's odd snore.
"Your grip is wrong." Bellamy teased, watching her with his arms folded. Though his face was mostly in shadow, Clarke knew, with very little doubt, that he was giving her that goddamn expression again. The one that made her feel as though he was laughing at her, and surprised by her at the same time. She could never tell if he was taking her seriously or not.
"Is it?" Clarke said defeated, picking up the knife and aiming it again. She heard him approach her.
"Here." he said kindly, with the patient voice of a born teacher, as he wrapped his hand around hers fixing the knife in front of her.
"You are gripping the handle, when what you should be doing is holding the knife steady by placing your thumb here..." He said moving her thumb so that it pressed gently into the blunt edge of the knife.
"Doesn't your grip feel firmer? Now when you throw the knife..." He said pulling her arm back, and then throwing the knife with her. They both stared dumbfounded as the knife flew passed the tree landing in a patch of grass yards away. They both burst out laughing, falling into each others arms. One of the others stirred at the noise, and they hushed each other into silence, the desperation of trying to be quiet only making everything funnier.
"Well, it did seem to miss more accurately this time..." Clarke whispered, breathless from the laughter, before noticing that his hand still hadn't left hers, and that his other hand had found its way onto her waist. Every sound they made seemed amplified by a thousand, Clarke was sure that her heartbeat would wake everyone. Their breath mingled like it had the day she cured him, and Clarke found herself, brushing away the hair from his forehead. He raised their entwined hands up to the moonlight, inspecting the way her hand fit into his, as though it fascinated him. He let go, his hand falling to her cheek, stroking it with the back of his fingers. Clarke felt her eyes flutter closed against her will, knowing now that all it would take was one of them moving closer, she could already taste his breath on her tongue...
He pulled away abruptly, clearing his throat and shoving his hands into his pockets.
"You, um, need a better knife, I'll go see if I have a spare with me. Try to sleep, if we move fast we can have you back to the city in two days, Princess." He muttered, almost as if she wasn't there, marching back to the group and settling himself in his usual place between Octavia and Miller.
His nickname for her had struck her more painfully than any hit she had taken so far. She knew what had happened, she had forgotten her place, he had forgotten his, and he had just reminded her, in the most effective way possible, that there were some lines they couldn't cross. He had been the honorable one. Thank God he had been, otherwise she would have been unfaithful to Wells before they were even married. She should have felt beyond relieved, but why did she feel like she could cry?
That scared her even more. She never cried over Finn. Sure, she hid herself in her room for weeks, but that was more out of shame and embarrassment than anything else. Then, she was sad over what could have been. What excuse did she have now? She was like every maiden in every ballad she had scoffed at, pining away over the handsome scoundrel that saved her life.
Now she felt angry. He was the reason her life was in danger in the first place! If it were not for him, she would be safe in Jaha's palace, warm, well fed, comfortable. She would not be mourning a life she could never have, because she wouldn't know it existed. Her biggest problem would be forgiving her fiance, and she would be asleep right now.
She practically threw herself on the ground between Octavia and Jasper, and fell asleep, completely resolved to hate Bellamy Blake.
A/N: See, when I write inner monologues, they end up taking up most of the chapter. I felt like they were necessary here though. I'm so sorry I'm late again, I was going to update yesterday, but my family tempted me away with Anastasia and buffalo flavoured Hunky Dorys. I wouldn't be surprised if elements of Anastasia worked their way into this story because GOD I love that movie. So yeah, hope you enjoyed and please leave a review if you did.
