Bellamy lurched forward, as if he could somehow prevent the arrow from hitting her from this distance, if he just moved quick enough. Once it registered in his mind that the arrow was not destined for her, the relief that coursed through his blood was almost sickening. Better anyone, than her. He counted three beats of his heart between the moment the arrow met its target and the moment heads began to turn to him in the chaos. In those three heartbeats, two words repeated in his head, seeming to match the thump-thump of his heart. Not her, not her, not her.
He felt someone push into him, and instinct kicked in. It took him all of one breath to add the bow in his hand, the chaos of the people and the missing space beside him together. He knew in this pandemonium that the truth would play no part in his judgment, and it took him a second breath to start running. He threw the bow to the ground, and began to shove the crowds out of the way, not caring that every movement he made was a sign of guilt. His chest was on fire, his eyes burned, and his heart fought against his head. Every step was a step towards where he had to go, and a step away from where he wanted to be.
Finally he was down the alley, and could see the inn approaching. He ignored the startled looks the few drunkards hanging around the front gave him, and practically crashed into the stables. He leapt onto his half saddled horse, and urged him out the doors, just as the heavens opened, releasing its freezing tears onto the earth below. He half remembered that he had no food, no supplies, no nothing except the sopping clothes on his back, and the leather-bound dagger in his left boot.
As he thundered towards the city gates, he imagined the mob that was already swarming, baying for his blood, his flesh, his head in exchange for the soul he, or rather that they thought he, had just claimed, and he wondered if she would be leading them, or if she would feed herself to the horde, to try and sate their hunger for his blood.
The gate warden's shout of protest disappeared as quickly as it began, as Bellamy bolted through the gates. His relief vanished quickly, as he remembered that no matter how much distance he put between himself and the city, between himself and the king, his life would never be the same again.
Someone had made sure of that.
God works in mysterious ways. Clarke had heard the phrase muttered in some way or another, enough times that it was the first thing that crossed her mind when the arrow had descended from the heavens. As Wells' blood spilled over her fingers, runny in consistency after mixing with the icy rain, she felt that God's ways were not mysterious in the way she had previously thought. No, they were mysterious in their cruelty, in the violence of His actions. How could the all-merciful Lord that was preached from the alter, desire for this to happen?
She ran beside the knights that held Wells, half helping them carry him through the corridors of the castle. She heard Jaha shouting from behind her, his voice muffled with the screams of the ladies they passed and the prayers of the courtiers who ran with them.
Bile rose further into her throat, every time she glanced back at Wells' face. His mouth was slack, his dark skin already tinged with grey. It was the glassiness of his endlessly staring eyes that made her want to scream that it was no use, why were they running for the master of medicines, when it was too late? She'd seen death before, she caused death before, and she knew it now. Wells was gone.
She woke screaming, her hair slick with sweat, her nightgown stuck to the small of her back. Pulling the drapes aside, she swung her feet out of the four-poster and padded softly towards the window seat. Was it still considered a nightmare, she wondered, if the events of the nightmare had actually occurred?
She hadn't slept the first night, standing vigil in her bloodsoaked gown, as if her presence by his corpse might call him back. She was pulled away by her maid, at around noon the following day. What was her name again, Mary? May? Maya. A nice girl. Thoughtful. Sincere.
Clare knocked the pillows off the wooden bench, and then lifted the seat, revealing the hollow storage space underneath. She moved aside her cloak and riding habit, her fingers brushing for a moment against a pair of gloves, their huge size a constant reminder of who they really belonged to, until her hands met with their target.
She had expected the nightmare. She was always one for repeating the events of the day in her sleep. She just hadn't expected them to come so soon. She closed down the lid of the window seat, and then climbed onto it, pressing her hot cheek against the cool glass. It was soothing for a brief moment. She turned her face so her forehead pressed against the pane. Opening her eyes, she found it was dusted with white. Somewhere between that bitter morning and now, the rain had turned to snow. She wondered absent-mindedly, if Bellamy had made it out of the city. Where would they be now if she had left with him? Would they be married? Would Wells still be dead?
She bit back a sob that threatened to escape, drowning it with a mouthful of Monty's moonshine. It burned, but somehow the burning eased the pain a little. She fell asleep that way, flask clutched to her chest, head pressed against the window, counting the snowflakes that danced behind the thick glass, and wondering what God had prepared for her now.
"Lady Clarke!" A voice whispered with urgency. Clarke opened an eye, blinking the blurriness into clarity. Maya was shaking her, her face filled with blind panic. Clarke ignored the pounding in her head, and the ache in her neck, pushing herself off the wooden bench. Maya was already draping a wrap around her shoulders, half leading her to the door.
"Maya, what's happening?" Clarke mumbled, her voice still filled with sleep. Maya sighed, and pulled her into an alcove in the hall. There was a heavy pause as a gaggle of maids flounced by. Clarke's brow furrowed in confusion when she noticed the chamber pots and wood baskets in their hands. The candles were still flickering and Clarke suddenly noticed the chill that kept dancing over her skin.
"What time is it?"
"A little after sunrise. I'm sorry to have woken you, but his majesty asked for you." Maya muttered, as she began to lead her down the hall again.
"At sunrise?" Clarke asked incredulously, before the answer dawned on her.
"Oh...", she whispered, suddenly feeling the urge to lower her voice, "I'm not supposed to be visiting him, am I?"
"His physicians feel that seeing your grace may bring him unnecessary guilt, or..." Maya trailed off into ashamed silence.
"Or he might blame me. If there wasn't an engagement, Wells wouldn't have died." Clarke finished. It wasn't as if the thought hadn't crossed her own mind. Maya shot a look of pity back at her.
"We do not know that for certain. The assassination could have been planned for another time."
Clarke blanched at her casual tone.
"It was an assassination then?" She mumbled, hating how her voice wobbled. Maya nodded.
"There was several descriptions of a man carrying a bow, though, the descriptions of his face vary."
Maya paused for a moment, seeming to be deliberating over something. She reached a decision, turning to her, and began;
"Lady Clarke I feel I must warn you, some of the descriptions match the man who brought you here. Your other handmaids and I witnessed him leaving you that night, we saw your distressed state. We have all decided that if you think that he might have killed Prince Wells out of jealousy we will still keep your secret if you so desire."
Clarke felt all her blood drain from her at once. Bellamy kill Wells? The idea of it was unthinkable, unbearable... the thought couldn't be entertained, not be anyone, not for a second longer.
"No, Bellamy wouldn't do that, he's not a... a murderer."
Maya didn't look convinced, but nodded. She curtsied, gesturing towards a battered looking wooden door. Clarke whispered her thanks to Maya's retreating back, before heaving open the oak door.
She appeared to be in one of the castles many turrets, if the cooler air was anything to judge by. An observatory perhaps. A cough brought her attention to King Jaha leaning heavily on a paper laden table. He gave a short laugh, knocking the papers around with the back of his hand.
"Letters of condolences. As if kind, false, words make a difference."
Clarke approached him gently, like one would a wounded horse.
"I'm sure the words are true m'lord," Clarke said kindly, "Wells was beloved by all who met him."
Jaha gave her a sad smile.
"That, is obviously not true. Somebody wanted him gone."
He let out a heavy sigh, turning his head to the candlelight. Clarke could see how much he had aged in the past days. She felt sure there were more lines on his forehead, more grey in his hair. Nobody could claim to love their son more than Jaha did.
"You're too good for this city Clarke. Too pure. You should return to your mother, as soon as the snow passes."
Clarke let out a quiet sigh of relief. She knew that a king who respected his son less, would take the nearest woman who could still give him a child, being her in this case. She didn't really believe that Jaha would do such a thing, but a desperate man will do desperate things. She shook away the thought, as Maya's words about Bellamy began to repeat through her mind. She lifted her face to look at him again.
"Why did you call me here, your Majesty?" She asked carefully. Jaha nodded, regaining his train of thought.
"I thought you deserved to hear your fate from me. I am abdicating. I cannot continue as King, not like this, it would not be fair to my people."
Clarke's stunned silence lasted only a moment, before she was on her knees, scraping her skin on the cold stone floor, even through her nightdress.
"Your Majesty, I must object, your country needs you now more than ever. They are already grieving the loss of a most beloved Prince, you would have them lose a King too? If your Majesty should leave now, it would throw the state into such chaos, God himself would only know what would happen to it."
She took his weather beaten hands in her own, not caring that she was disgracing herself with her begging.
"Must I remind your Majesty that he has no other relation, no other heir to take the throne in his place? Who does his Majesty intend to rule in his stead?"
Wells smiled, though it brought Clarke little comfort.
"My Chief-Adviser, Dante Wallace, shall take my place, as is custom in such situations like this. I had never intended for my family's legacy to be cut so short, but such is the will of God."
He laughed again at Clarke's scoff. Clarke couldn't help but wonder if he laughed so much to hide the tears that threatened to spill. His expression suddenly became serious.
"You are destined for something great Clarke. Dante has a son, Cage. If you feel you are still meant to be Queen someday, it would perhaps still be in your best interests to finish the season here."
The stopped suddenly, hearing trumpet fanfare from far below.
"That will be Dante now. He traveled even through the snow to be here. You needn't fear for the future of your country Clarke, her fate is in good hands. All you need worry about is Grounders, your future, and finding the bastard that killed your fiance."
He bent forward, placing a kiss on her forehead.
"God be with you, child." He said as he left through the door.
"May we meet again." She answered, as a sense of impending doom firmly took root in her heart.
A/N: sooooooo sorry I've been away for so long! Thank you all so much for your reviews and follows! Exams and study tend to take up a lot of time, and some stuff went down in school causing some exams to be brought forward. Believe me it was rough. I just have one week left now, and then holidays, which means back to an update a week, probably more so bare with me! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, And as always please leave a review with your thoughts and theories, I love hearing what you think!
