Bellamy thinks that maybe he was a bit harsh with Clarke. She wandered around camp the rest of the day after their heated exchange, keeping to herself mostly, watching silently as the remaining members of the one hundred go about their day. Sitting quietly in the mess hall during dinner, she faintly smiled at Raven's sarcastic remarks as Attie napped in her lap. She was there, but not fully present. He could see the gears turning in her head as she sat quietly.
Clarke's cot is empty when he wakes this morning. A note left on his bedside table tells him that she's dropped Attie off at the med bay with her mother for a checkup. The missive ends without emotion, letting him know she's going out with a hunting party and will be back in three days.
When he goes to collect the child, Abby is reluctant to turn over the giggling little girl. Bellamy gets a flash of what Clarke's mother was like before. For a brief moment she's the woman who once laid a cold cloth on his forehead when he'd been hot with fever as a child, the woman who hummed softly as he hallucinated monsters, hands cool and soothing.
Abby smiles knowingly at him when he asks her if she can watch Attie for the day. There's too much to do here for him walk around with a wiggling baby strapped to his chest, and he thinks maybe it would do her good to spend more time with the child. Bellamy and Abby aren't exactly easy with one another, but the child's presence is a tenuous thread of connection. Attie washes away the awkwardness with her gurgles and squawks.
Two days pass slowly. He works himself harder than usual, scraping down big logs and digging post holes. His muscles ache, exhaustion dragging him down by the end of the day. His quarters are too quiet once Attie drifts off to sleep. He thinks he can hear his heart beating in the silence, the thump and whoosh of blood racing through his veins echoing in his ears. He's used to hearing Clarke faintly snoring on the other side of the room, the occasional whimper breaking the even pattern of her breathing.
Her threadbare blanket lies askew across her cot, dirty clothes haphazardly kicked underneath the thing. Out of sight, out of mind. Clarke has more important things to worry about than dirty laundry and making her bed. The thought makes him smile, and he crosses to her side, collecting the debris and tucking the corners of the blanket under the edge of her thin mattress.
Attie coos, the sound like an alarm in the silence. Bellamy stands beside her makeshift crib. She's asleep on her tummy, curled up into a little ball. He resists the urge to pick her up and hold her close. She's sleeping fine, cradling her close would be more for his benefit than hers. He settles reaching down and brushing his knuckles against the crown of her head.
The child is growing. It's amazing to him. Her copper curls getting longer, chubby cheeks round and smooth against the tip of his finger. Freckles are still speckled across the creamy skin. She likes it when he sings to her, and he finds comfort in the simple melodies. Withdrawing from her side, he gets ready for bed, humming to himself. His eyes close, and he wonders how Clarke is sleeping out in the open air.
Bellamy spends most of the third day hauling water and splitting firewood. The ache in his muscles is a pleasant distraction from the hollow feeling in his chest. Bellamy starts to worry when the sun begins to set. The fiery red glow bouncing off wisps of clouds sets his stomach to churning. Clarke still isn't back. A faint nausea creeps up when the possibility that she's left for good barges into his thoughts.
The mountain has been secured, and more than half of the people in camp Jaha are ready to set out tomorrow on the day long hike to their new home. Clarke thinks she doesn't have a place here, but Bellamy knows that things will fall apart if she leaves.
That should be his biggest concern, but it's not the future of camp Jaha that makes him restless. It's the idea that she'll take off and hurt herself again and he won't be there to bring her back. Even that fear pales in comparison to the thought that she'll leave and simply choose not to return.
These thoughts surprise him, fluttering so close to the surface as they are. It's like he's been waiting for this since he dragged her back the first time.
The dinner bell rings, and people begin to pack up whatever work they're doing, the beehive hum of life winding down for the day. He should go to the mess hall with everyone else, take advantage of the fact that Abby has Attie for the evening, and sit down and talk with his friends. It's been a long time.
But he can't drag himself away from the main gates, watching as tired yet happy people trickle back inside. He tenses when the hunting party slips through the entrance, bows strapped to their backs as they tiredly haul their game behind them. His heart flutters expectantly, pounding in his chest like he's just sprinted across a field. His eyes scan the crowd.
Each time he catches the golden tone of blonde hair, he twitches a little, nostrils flaring in irritation when it's not her.
Just as the night guard is about to haul the gates shut, he hears a distant yell. Coming from the same direction is the faint glow of a single torch. The flickering orange orb is advancing at a slow but steady pace. He squints trying to see who it is, but in the failing light the distance is just too much for his eyes.
Springing into action, he urges the guards to swing the gates shut in spite of the call. "Better safe than sorry, fellas."
Springing up the wooden ladder to peer over the wall, he carefully runs along the catwalk, hitting a series of switches that connect to the emergency floodlights. The field below them is illuminated. He makes a mental note to swing by and let Raven and Monty know how well their setup works.
When the mystery caravan approaches, he can see two horses, a ramshackle cart being dragged behind the larger one. The travelers are draped in light fabric, thin sheets of it tucked just so around their faces for protection from wind and sun. Bellamy immediately knows where they're coming from. He motions to the guards to raise their weapons, mouthing "safety on" silently.
When the newcomers are within earshot Bellamy lets out a firm command. "Show your faces and state your business!"
There are two people on the larger horse, one tucked right in front of the other. The smaller of the two reaches up and whips off her head wrap, and Bellamy's eyes finally light on the blonde hair he's been searching for.
"Clarke?" His voice cracks embarrassingly as he yells her name, unable to hide his relief.
"Bellamy? Is that you? Open the gates."
The guards stir into motion, and the gate begins to creak before Bellamy yells, "No, stop!"
They do stop, Jackson staring at him with a confused expression. "What's the holdup, Blake? It's Abby's daughter."
He lowers his voice so it doesn't carry. "It could be a trap. She could be a hostage. Who knows what or who is in that cart they're pulling. You know, like a Trojan Horse." At their blank expressions he grunts in frustration. Was he the only one who took advantage of the thousands of books stored digitally on the ark? Jackson was probably too busy pouring over anatomy books. History and literature were, unsurprisingly, pretty low priority floating in space. Those with an inclination for these subjects were expected to pursue them in their free time. It was the only advantage to being as unimportant as he was up there.
When there's no response, he simply pushes them out of the way and re-secures the gates. "Trust me."
Clarke's voice is brittle and exasperated when she calls up again. "Bellamy?"
It's only now he sees that, in addition to Clarke's companion rider, there's a small figure perched on the other horse, and a rather large man walking along beside them. "Who's with you?"
Clarke opens her mouth to respond but before she can say anything, the man behind her whips off his head wrap and yells, "Damn it, Bellamy. Get off your power-trip and let us in. I can barely feel my ass!"
Bellamy grinds his teeth at the sight of John Murphy. "Who else?"
Murphy mutters something, and it earns him a sharp elbow in the ribs from Clarke. Swinging one leg over, he slides off the horse, dust settling around his feet as he walks over to the two strangers. Bellamy watches the exchange, straining to hear what's being said.
Murphy's voice does not carry to Bellamy's perch, but he can see the hand gestures being made. Murphy points to the guard's crow's nest and then at Bellamy's position on the wall. The tall hooded man shakes his head in refusal, and Murphy's hand gestures get a little more vehement.
In the midst of this discussion, the solitary rider spurs his nimble little beast forward, trotting to the foot of the gate before stopping and lowering his hood.
Bellamy can see that it's a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, staring defiantly up at him. The short newcomer squints blindly at the glaring lights, unable to discern the silhouettes behind them. "My name is Tig, your people sought us out and convinced my father to come here. Now you deny us entry?"
The boy isn't yelling, but he projects his voice so that it carries confidently over the gate. A telling lisp on all the sibilants is the only effect of what looks to be a severely cleft palate.
Whatever twinge of sympathy Bellamy feels is tempered by a wave of irritation. Clearly Clarke ignored his arguments against getting mixed up with the grounders' less savory customs. He sets his jaw and yells out one last inquiry. "And what's in the cart?"
The boy's taciturn father pulls a stained canvas from the little cart, revealing the sparse accoutrements of a nomadic life, and not, as Bellamy had half expected, hidden marauders. The tension winding around his frame begins to unravel and he gives the signal to open the gates.
A/N: still really enjoying writing this story. The feedback I've gotten is extremely encouraging, and really makes my day. Thank you so much.