Before I start, I just want to personally thank all of you who are still reading this story. I'm sorry for not being able to reply to each comment in the review section, but there aren't even enough words to describe my gratitude for your beautiful and motivating words. So thank you, thank you, thank you!

Now onto the part you've all been waiting for . . .

Here is the special fourth chapter of Nowhere Found II ! I hope you guys enjoy it, I have a feeling you will :)

i.

Clarke remembers the first time she washed blood from her hands.

She was thirteen, so young and innocent, terribly limited to the knowledge of inequality in the Ark. There was no vision of a rebellion in her mind, no idea of a life grander than the one she was living.

She was thirteen. Her parents were alive. She was content.

Until she felt the warm substance of another person's blood on her skin.

It was her ninth day assisting her mother in the medical bay, the room bursting with red due to a recent (yet hidden) riot in the camp square. Her mother explained it was merely an accident that occurred, involving citizens who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

There was a man Clarke remembers, a 49-year-old with a deep wound in the veins nearing his neck. His voice was hoarse when he spoke to her, telling her that she looked like one of his children. But his injury was too severe and his heart seemed too good, and so his blood was the blood that burned her skin the most.

Hours after, Clarke and her mother returned to their cabin, their hands soaked with crimson.

"You did the best you could," her mother whispered that night, and her voice was so soft it only made Clarke cry harder. "Everyone has lost a patient."

Clarke shook her head. "He was a father. He was loved."

"Love doesn't save everyone, baby."

It doesn't, of course it doesn't, not as Clarke currently bends over the stream of a river, scrubbing Finn's blood from her body, washing the wounds on her shoulder and thigh. Not as she strips Finn's clothes and pushes his corpse into the river, wrapping the material of his shirt around her injuries.

She rubs her fingers roughly against her skin, but the blood remains, present and aching.

Her sob echoes the woods as she washes her body of Finn's existence. The boy who once smiled and laughed, now drifting into the nothingness of the lake. The boy loved, the boy who was loved.

But, as her mother stated, love doesn't save everyone.

It certainly didn't save Clarke from the hundreds of people she led to their death, or to the patients she had that she couldn't recover. It didn't save Clarke from sinking her knife into Finn's body, metal scrapping against his bones.

As she rocks onto her back, pulling her shaking knees to her chin, she realizes it. Because no. No, love didn't save Clarke.

Love destroyed her.

ii.

Bellamy grips the axe steadily in his hand, lifting his arm towards the heat of the sky.

The sun is burning on his skin, a constant reminder of the walking corpse he has become, of the living body that is filled with emptiness. He breathes deeply, eyes concentrating on the thickness of the tree in front of him.

There's a pause, and silence, and he throws the axe, the edge slicing roughly into the depths of the trunk.

"So that's how it works, huh?"

Bellamy winces, shifting his glare towards the direction of the voice. Jasper appears beside him in the woods, his hands tucked in his pockets, mouth perked into a smile that fails to become genuine.

Bellamy sighs. "What do you want, Jasper?"

"Octavia just finished cooking the rabbits," he announced, leaning on the balls of his feet. "It's time to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

Bellamy walks forward, his feet scrunching along the grass as he approaches the tree. They've been unsuccessful in finding any shelter, and there's been visible frustration in the remaining survivors, so tired and hungry. Frustration that Bellamy can't solve, not with his words or actions.

He removes the axe from the bark. Jasper is still there when he turns around.

Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest. "I didn't ask you to - "

"Do you think Jaha is still alive?"

Bellamy swallows thickly. He's thought about it, of course he has. He's thought about the the questions surrounding Jaha's status since the day of the massacre. He tightens his hand around the handle of the axe, looking at the boy who stands across from him.

"Yeah," he confesses. "I do."

Jasper glances at his feet. "Do you think he's going to keep killing people?"

Yes. "Maybe."

"Do you think he's going to kill us?" he presses.

Bellamy sighs. He walks towards him, twisting the axe cautiously between his fingers. He can see the fire that burns from the campsite in the distance, Octavia talking with Wick and Monty as Raven and Lincoln cook their food over the flames. The apprehension in Jasper's gaze is almost as heated and dangerous.

"He's a fucking coward," Bellamy tells him, and the words seem to relax him. "He wouldn't step foot outside the walls. He's probably in another God damn camp. Still governing lives."

Still ruining lives, he wants to say, but Jasper already looks drained with worrisome.

Jasper gulps, his eyes misting with emotion as he rubs his palms against his pants. He looks weak, exhausted, a craving for something larger than the days they're surviving. They've been outside for way too damn long.

He clears his throat. "Okay." He studies Bellamy for a moment, wet eyes scanning hard ones. "Well, if you're hungry . . . "

Bellamy nods. "Thanks."

And then Jasper smiles, his lips not reaching his eyes, leaving a burning sensation of doubt as he returns to the campfire.

iii.

She's been walking for hours.

Hours amongst hours of painful movement, of difficult steps taken by weakening legs. Her body caves inward, back curving and aching as she forces herself further into the woods, further into the unknown.

Further away from Mount Weather, from Cage and Finn.

Clarke whimpers as she continues to walk underneath the moonlight. Her breathing is shallow and unclear, clothes damp with blood and wounds stretching with each stride. If she doesn't find medicine, any medication or treatment, she'll fall into the depths of grimness, into the hells that will swallow her body below.

She'll die. She's dying.

Clarke releases a shuddering breath as she braces her against a tree. The pain has lessened, yet feeling nothing is worse than feeling pain. There's a numbness that spreads throughout her body, coaxing, waiting for her final moments, waiting to cover her skin with the longing memories of who she once was.

Once was, or once is, because there's so many different developments of Clarke Griffin.

And she doesn't like the Clarke Griffin she is now.

Her palms lean into the tree, feeling the rawness of the nature around her. There's an indent of bark that scratches her fingertips, and she narrows her eyes, her gaze searching the carving in the brightness of the moonlight.

She shakes her head when she see's the three words indented in front of her.

"Follow the Reapers," she whispers.

Clarke closes her eyes. She thinks of Cage's interrogation, the aggression in his voice when he demanded information on the Reapers. The frustration in his movements when he tortured her for her lack of knowledge.

Reapers. Reapers, Reapers.

She tries to think more, tries to figure it out, but then her wounds start to pulse again, and she has to keep walking.

iv.

"You ready to go?"

Bellamy glances at Lincoln, his pack hung heavily over his shoulders. His expression displays a variation of eagerness, of growling stomachs and hungry throats, and Bellamy nods, gripping the axe in his hand.

"It's early morning," he says. He runs his fingers through his disheveled hair. Too long. "We should start hunting in the north."

Lincoln hums in agreement. He touches his pack, removing a dagger from one of the pockets and placing it on the inside of his belt. The creatures are fast in the woods, too fast to waste bullets. The knife is a clean kill. Almost delicious.

There's a cracking of branches, and Octavia approaches them, her knuckles rubbing against the shadow of her eyes. Her limp is a mere distraction now, still noticeable, only hurts a little when she runs. She yawns as she stands beside Lincoln, her hands lingering on his shoulder.

"You leaving now?" she asks. Her voice is hoarse with sleep. She's one of the only ones awake.

Lincoln grins at her. "We'll be back soon."

Octavia nods, curt and rigid, yet there's a hint of gratitude in her gaze. She leans forward, fingers clutching onto Lincoln's shirt as she presses her lips shortly against his, a simple image of a kiss between warriors.

Bellamy looks away. His heart feels suddenly heavy.

"You two grab us something big," Octavia mumbles as she pulls away from him. Her smile fades slightly when she looks at Bellamy, a sensitive grin replacing her features. "Be safe, big bro."

Bellamy touches a strand of her hair. "You too."

She grins, her gaze settling between the two men, bodies permanently stained with bruises and blood. She sighs as she returns to the campsite, her eyes scanning the sleeping bodies that lay silently on the grass. His little sister, taking on her own responsibility.

Lincoln breathes deeply as he turns to him. "Alright," he mumbles, fidgeting with his pack. "Let's go grab something big."

v.

They find another tree marked with carvings.

Lincoln rests his hand against the trunk, his fingers tracing the indent of the words. They're larger, more visible, maybe even more recent. They seem to have been carved more desperately, as if the message hasn't affected as many people as they'd hoped.

"Reapers," Lincoln whispers. He shakes his head, wiping a pile of sweat from his forehead. "Do you think it's a sanctuary?"

Bellamy shrugs his shoulders. "I think whatever it is, it's another chance."

"A good or bad chance?"

Bellamy doesn't respond. He doesn't fucking know.

He remembers the stories his father used to tell him of the outside, of the wildings and monsters who lived beyond the wall. He always assumed the stories were created for nightmares and for campfires, that the camp is only surrounded by the wall because they prefer to keep everyone in an organized system.

It never occurred to him, not until recently, that maybe monsters are real.

That maybe the Reapers are the monsters. Or maybe they're the heroes.

Maybe Maybe Maybe.

Reapers Reapers Reapers.

Bellamy breathes deeply. His brain hurts. They've been hunting for a couple of hours, the sun settling heavily on their skin, the responsibility weighing heavily on their minds. They haven't been able to capture an animal, not even a damn squirrel, and the atmosphere feels as if it's thickening in humidity.

"Reapers." Lincoln tastes the word once more on his tongue, shaking his head. Bellamy thinks his brain might be hurting, too. "They keep marking the damn trees. Seems as if they're - "

There's a rustling of leaves, a breaking of twigs, and Lincoln pulls out his dagger.

Finally. Something big.

Bellamy swallows thickly, glancing at Lincoln. He gestures towards him, his fingers pointing to the source of the noise. "Round it from the other side," he mouths, and Bellamy nods, stepping away from him and further into the forest.

He's quiet, painfully silent as he walks along the padded ground. There's another noise, a whimper, and it's close, nearing his path of the woods.

He lifts his head, his eyes scanning the area over the tall grass. He sees indenting footprints in the soil, large and damp. There's a rustle again, echoing from behind a thickening tree, and he leans his back against the trunk.

Bellamy pulls out his dagger and turns towards the creature.

The glaring of the sun blurs his vision as he shifts his body. The rustling stops, the whimpers becoming laboured as the figure notices his presence. Bellamy grips his dagger, narrowing his eyes into the distance.

His chest tightens. His lungs become solid.

There's an image from his dreams, of blonde hair and blue eyes.

And blood.

Blood and blood, so much fucking blood.

"Bellamy . . . "

The sound of his name overwhelms him, the voice of the words erupting a ringing inside his head. He can feel his pulse thickening beneath his flesh, pounding and harsh, creating the sensation of being alive.

It doesn't make sense. Is he alive?

The figure steps forward, and the sun shines heavily amongst that beautiful face, that beautiful girl.

Bellamy drops his dagger. "Clarke?"

She stands in front of him, an angel or a demon, her body caked in blood and gore. There's clothes that wrap around her shoulder and thigh, damp with crimson, and the fire in her gaze has faded into exhaustion.

"Blake," she whispers, and she sounds pained. She sounds real. "About damn time."

She breathes deeply, achingly, and collapses to the ground.

No.

He might be dreaming, might be dead, but he runs towards her anyway.

There's a breaking in his chest and a heaviness in his legs as he lowers his body beside her. As he lowers his body beside Clarke. He touches her face, fingers clutching familiar skin, and she coughs, bright blood spilling from her lips.

The sun is prominent on his back and the blood is cold on his hands. And this is real.

Clarke is alive.

There's another cough, and her body shakes with torment in his arms. She cries out, those beautiful blue eyes clenching shut, and Bellamy feels those torturous emotions he thought he would never feel again.

He releases a shuddering breath and yells Lincoln's name.

"Bell," she mumbles. She sounds scared.

And he screams Lincoln's name even louder.

There's a response, and he can hear the returning of Lincoln's footsteps throughout the depths of the forest. Bellamy tightens his arms around Clarke's body, wiping his fingers across the crimson on her lips.

"Clarke." His voice is hoarse and drowning with despair. "You've got to stay awake. Come on. Please."

She mutters a soft apology, her eyes closing, and Lincoln appears before them as Bellamy screams her name.

vi.

Clarke's unconscious when they bring her to the campsite.

Her body is limp in Bellamy's arms, her face hidden in the crook of his neck. He holds her close to his chest, the ringing in his ears an increasing volume as Lincoln shouts for the survivors in the distance.

"Where's the first aid kit?" He keeps his hands on Clarke's wounds. "We need a fucking first aid kit!"

There's a rustling of bushes, and Octavia appears in the opening of the woods. The concern in her gaze fades into a blazing heat, a fire in her eyes, and she cups her mouth with her hands.

She shakes her head when she looks at Clarke's body. "How is - "

"Octavia!" Bellamy yells. "First aid kit. Now."

She nods viciously, running towards the depths of the forest. Bellamy follows, his arms aching with apprehension as he enters the campsite, the group of survivors standing abruptly when they notice girl in his arms.

"Holy shit," Jasper murmurs.

Raven pushes him to the side as she steps forward. She gasps, her lips curling inward at the amount of blood that surfaces her body. She presses her fingers against Clarke's wrist, and he can see her eyes shifting in focus.

She swallows thickly. "What happened?"

"I don't know." Bellamy lowers his voice. He's pleading now. "Just do something. Please."

Raven nods. She orders them to lay her down, and Bellamy lowers himself to the ground, the heat of the eyes around him an additional tension in his chest. Lincoln slowly peels his hands from Clarke's wounds, his fingers soaked with blood.

Octavia returns with the medical kit and kneels beside them.

She curves her body towards Clarke's mouth. "She's shallow," she whispers. She removes strands of blonde hair from her face. "Still breathing."

"Let's keep it that way," Raven replies.

She leans forward, removing the bandage of clothing that wraps around Clarke's shoulder and thigh. Blood pours openly from her wounds, and Bellamy almost cries in relief when he notices the depth, notices it could be worse.

But, fuck, she's lost so much blood, and the despair continues to grow in his stomach.

"We need to give her stitches," Raven states, and Octavia nods, searching through the medical kit. "Some drugs to help with pain and - shit."

Bellamy's chest tightens. "What?"

"Her cuts." She gestures towards the entrance of her injuries. "They're stab wounds."

Wick shake his head. "Who the fuck - "

There's a trembling of skin, a humming of protest as Clarke's body begins to move beneath their hold. Foam appears at the opening of her mouth, replacing the blood on her lips, and her frame violently shakes, her eyes still closed.

Raven pushes Clarke onto her side. "Fuck."

She says something about a seizure, something about having to act fast and carefully before she has another one. Something about praying, and hoping, something about life and death.

Bellamy doesn't remember. He stumbles, the ringing in his head reaching it's end as he collapses against a tree, sobbing into the bark.

Clarke Clarke Clarke

Maybe Maybe Maybe

Life is just so fucking cruel.

vii.

She lives. Clarke, somehow, by all prayers, fucking lives.

Bellamy sits on the hillside of the woods, his arms resting on his knees as the fire grows around him. The depths of the forest has since decreased with her screams, the sound of insects and moonlight replacing her torment.

It's been hours since he found her, and his brain is still blurry from the idea of loving her again. His Clarke, still breathing, still keeping his warmth as they sit amongst the remaining survivors, the people who kept her alive.

There was so much pain. So much blood. But she lived.

She was never dead. Was never gone.

Bellamy sighs. He glances at her sleeping form beside him, body still stained with the aftermath of blood and stitches. He doesn't know what Raven did, what Octavia did, but they saved her.

Saved her from a threat they didn't even know existed.

It terrifies him, the idea of something, someone inflicting harsh depths of pain on her. Someone beyond the walls, beyond the outskirts of the Ark. He looks at her, and she looks so content as she sleeps, so peaceful despite the chaos and destruction.

God he needs her.

"How is she?"

He lifts his head towards Octavia, who settles beside him on the grass. "She's alive," he tells her. And now, this time, it doesn't hurt to speak of her.

Octavia smiles. She glances at Clarke, her eye softening in the darkness as she analyzes the scars running along her skin. Octavia breathes deeply, wiping at the reflection of crimson on her hands.

She shakes her head. "She's a tough son of a bitch."

"Yeah," Bellamy mumbles.

"It's a God damn miracle."

Bellamy swallows thickly. A miracle. A God damn miracle. He remembers the last time he saw her, how sweet her lips tasted, remembers the moment he thought she was gone.

But she was always alive. His survivor. He should have known.

He grins, the first time in a while. "She's a God damn miracle."

Octavia raises her eyebrows. She nudges him, her shoulder bumping his, and he shakes his head. She was always aware of his feelings towards Clarke, even before he was. His little sister, so damn intelligent.

There's a howl of a wolf in the distance, and Octavia sighs, her smile fading.

"Bellamy," she murmurs, and she knows that tone, knows that look in her eyes. "Her wounds - "

"I know." His hands clench into fists, because, God, he can't even imagine what Clarke experienced before he found her. "I don't want to rush her," he says.

Octavia leans forward. "We have to know what we're up against."

Bellamy breathes deeply. There's so many damn questions, so many unanswered worries of life and the outside and the Reapers. So much concern of the person who stabbed Clarke, of the person who tried to kill her.

He clears his throat. "She'll tell us when she's ready," he whispers.

Because, with her, they have that now. They have time.

Octavia looks at him, her lips curving into a deep frown. She sighs heavily, leaning towards him to press a gentle kiss on his cheek. She wipes at his skin, and Clarke's blood is still visible on her fingers.

"Get some sleep," she tells him.

Bellamy nods, but he doesn't sleep, doesn't shift his gaze from Clarke's motionless body beside him.

Clarke Clarke Clarke

You're home. I'm home.

viii.

She wakes up screaming in the late hours of the night.

It's loud, and torturous, her pleads for forgiveness echoing throughout the forest. She cries of regret, sorrow and pain, her arms shifting towards the sky as the nightmare overwhelms her.

Bellamy winces, crawling towards her. "Clarke." He leans over her and shakes her shoulders. "Clarke."

She opens her eyes, gasping for air as the sky appears above her. She jolts into a sitting position, and a hint of pain flashes her gaze at the rough movements. Desperate hands clutch at Bellamy's shirt, fingers digging into his skin.

"I didn't mean it," she whispers.

Bellamy touches her cheek. "It was just a dream."

Clarke shakes her head. She pulls him closer to her, her eyes streaking with terror, and he wants to minimize the fear, wants to make it all okay. He captures her face between his hands, wipes away the tears when they begin to fall from her gaze.

"I didn't have a choice." Her voice breaks with each word, with each breath. "I didn't want to, but I had to. I had to."

She closes her eyes, her mouth tightening as she leans into him. Her lips press against his skin as she presses her nose into the crook of his neck, and he shudders, from her revelation and her closeness, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

"You're okay," he tells her, and she has to be, oh God she has to be. "You're okay. You're safe."

She releases a shuddering breath. "He - he was so - "

"It's alright." He runs his hand through the tangles in her blonde hair, tracing patterns onto her back. "You don't have to say it," he murmurs.

Clarke sniffles. She shifts her body, pulling away from him to lean her forehead against his. She's so close, so real, and he touches her cheek, feels the burning warmth beneath his skin despite the chilliness of the night.

He missed her. He missed her so damn much.

She closes her eyes, her chest rising as she sighs heavily. Her fingers touch the stitches on her shoulder through her shirt, and she whimpers, her other arm wrapping around his shoulders.

"Stay," she whispers. "Please."

Bellamy gazes at her, at the bruises forming her face and the despair staining her eyes. She looks like a broken warrior, tough yet fragile, and he hates himself, hates himself for not being there, for not replacing her torture with his own.

A feeling of regret glazes through him, and he knows, she knows, he won't let anything happen to her.

And so he nods, his forehead rubbing against hers. "I'll stay."

Clarke exhales deeply, her fingers clutching his hair as she lowers herself onto the ground. She lays underneath the stars, her body curling into him, sensing the sweet scent of his presence.

He watches as she falls to sleep, her breathing regulating, and he stays awake and thinks of the images scaring her memories.

His mother used to tell him that in order to prevent nightmares, he must slay his fears when he's awake.

And he will for her, he'll do any damn thing for her.

Because she's here now, still breathing, and that's reason enough for him.

Okay guys! That's the fourth chapter, I really hope you guys enjoyed it! And I hope you guys are excited to see these two lovebirds back together! I know I am. I missed writing about their desperate love for each other :)

What do you guys think the Reapers are? Do you think they're good or bad? You'll find out soon.

I'm planning to write maybe another four chapters of this instalment, before possibly writing a third and final instalment. I'll let you know if anything changes!

Anyways, enjoy your week, enjoy your life, and I'll probably be posting the next chapter again within a week. Love you guys, can't wait to read your reactions!

Happy Bellarking! xoxo.