Okay, I figured it was time to finally wrap this story up. I might do an epilogue, because it doesn't necessarily end where people might want it to, but I tried to end it in a way that the next pieces are implied and tie into the opening episode of season 2. I didn't want to write a bunch of chapters of them on the ground, because the focus was the Ark, so I'm hoping this will suffice. I didn't edit it really yet, so I might come back and add some things, but for now I figured it wouldn't hurt to post. Thank you to all who have read this story. I'm sorry this conclusion took such a long time coming.
In the Ark, there were moments when fear seemed to suck the very air from the room, leaving her to suffocate in its absence. Dimly was Clarke surprised that, for all the air the ground offered, fear had the same effect here, too.
She didn't need to look at him to see it in his eyes; she could feel it, his fear, his panic, spreading as rapidly as she'd always imagined fire to.
She reached a hand out to him. "Bellamy-"
He jerked away, eyes fixed on the graves surrounding them. "No. No, I didn't come all this way for my sister to be -" his words snapped in half, swallowed up by rage. By that fear. He couldn't seem to look away.
Clarke's heart twisted painfully. She placed her hand on his shoulder again and this time, he didn't buck it off. "Bellamy, listen to me. We don't know if she's here."
He looked at her then, startling brown eyes more terrified than Clarke had ever seen them. His shoulders seem to fall, burdened with that invisible weight of possibility. "We don't know she's not."
"You're right," Clarke said bluntly. She tried to push away the image of Wells.
Bellamy squeezed his eyes shut.
"But," she went on, "we can't just assume either. Your sister is a survivor, Bellamy." Pressing her hand to his cheek, she coaxed hm to look at her rather than through her. "We don't know what's happened here," she said firmly. "For all we know, your sister is out in the woods somewhere. Alive. Let's not underestimate her just yet."
Clarke watched as the resolve built in his eyes. The fear was still there, but she watched him force the wave of it back enough before he drowned in it. He stared back at her, the rays of light playing like small sunbursts in his gaze. They reminded Clarke of the bridge window back on the Ark.
"And if she's alive?" Bellamy said slowly, never looking away from her. "Neither of us know anything about tracking. Where do we start, Clarke?" He cast his attention at the forest surrounding them, as if taking in its size. How many miles of trees were there? And that was only one part, one facet of the abundance that was earth. How many mountains were there? How far could Octavia have gotten by now? How much time was she given to?
Clarke gritted her teeth, frustrated at yet another obstacle. Nothing came easy. The ground held just as many questions and possibilities as the stars had. Maybe more. "I don't know," she admitted. "We'll just have to start where we are. We can wait a day, and then-"
But Bellamy was already shaking his head, the muscles in his jaw feathering. He started in the direction of the woods, boots crushing dead leaves. "No. I'm done waiting around, Clarke. Not when we're here and I can finally do something."
"Bellamy"-
From beyond them, a twig snapped.
Maybe it was the after effects of the landing that sent instant tension shooting through her limbs, her spine already stiff before she'd taken another breath. For one absurd moment, the memory of glacial blue eyes flashed across her mind. But no, Soren was a ghost left in the sky. Who else was there to chase her now?
Bellamy stopped. His shoulders went taught. Clarke turned towards the direction of the sound, empty hands aching for some sort of a weapon. Then again, the earth was probably full of them, judging by the graveyard they'd found themselves in.
She was already eyeing a promising stick, weighing how much time she would have to grab it, before the unmistakable sound of someone approaching lit the remainder of her instincts on fire.
Their approach was slow, their steps gradual. And Clarke realized they must have been here the entire time, standing within the refuge of the trees to their left, waiting.
Clarke caught the glint of sunlight on metal.
And then she was staring, into the face of a beaten young man, his cheeks adorned in scratches and caked in grime. His dark brown hair was a tangle of dirt and dried blood. Her eyes captured his vivid blue ones before dropping to the gun he held in his hands.
The idea of defending herself with a stick evaporated. Clarke knew no rock, nothing on the ground could suffice against a bullet. She lifted her palms, heart suddenly in her throat. On the lines of her periphery, she saw Bellamy do the same.
"Easy," Bellamy said, his tone warning.
"Hey," Clarke tried calmly, forcing her voice to be steady. She tried to lift her gaze back to those bright ones, shining out from the man's dirtied face. They'd been on the ground for less than a day, and already they found themselves on this side of a gun. "Hey, it's okay. We're not here to hurt you," she soothed. "Are you . . . are you part of The Hundred?"
The man looked wearied, but not enough to let his guard down. If anything, it seemed to make him more tense, his grip over his weapon taut, like wire. He answered with his own question. "You two from the Ark?"
Clarke nodded.
Bellamy had different ideas, his words edged in acid. "Where else would we be from?"
Now was not the time to argue, but before Clarke could add anything, to her surprise, the man actually smirked. The expression reminded her of a petulant child. "You'd be surprised," he mused sardonically. "I know I was."
Clarke was about to ask him his name. The question was on her lips when another sound of rustling unsettled their already precarious calm. The smirk on the man's face disappeared, and he gripped the gun with newfound fervor. He cast a single glance over his shoulder and Clarke tried to follow his line of sight, but whatever was on the other end disappeared in the trees.
She stared so intently, she almost thought the form that appeared around a boulder was a trick of the shadows.
She was already on guard, but Clarke felt it rise impossibly higher. No, it was not a trick.
What more was there? For a split second, that stick idea was again appealing to her, but she refrained, exchanging an apprehensive look with Bellamy. No, she was apprehensive. Bellamy was furious. And yet, when the second intruder came into view, her hair pulled back into a knot of a ponytail, big eyes drawn in exhaustion, Clarke found she no longer cared. The idea of threats dissolved, and she stared at the woman before her, red jacket caked in dirt, one bloodied hand gripping a gun as the other braced against an injured thigh.
The name left Clarke in a shocked exhale. "Raven?"
The woman had enough strength to manage a very weak laugh. "And here I thought my survival rate was impressive."
They stared at each other, and Clarke raked her eyes over the wound. Before she could instruct her own legs to move, she was beside Raven, helping her take a seat on the mossy ground. Bellamy was beside them in the next instant, bearing some of Raven's weight who was biting her breaths in pain. "And Shooter, too," she grunted, appraising Bellamy in surprise. "Though I might-have to rethink that title-in present company."
Clarke vaguely wondered what she meant by that, but decided not to ask.
"Great." the mystery man chided in faux enthusiasm. He lowered the tip of his gun a fraction. "You all know each other."
Clarke's hands were already on her torn pant leg, a tourniquet placed just beneath her knee. The fabric was sopping scarlet.
"What happened?" She asked quickly, exploring the pant leg seam. She could feel Bellamy's wariness at the other man's presence but didn't look up as she looped her fingers through a hole and in one quick motion, rented the cloth.
Raven gasped at the jolt, the pain momentarily stunning her. Already Clarke could make out the small hole, dried blood encrusting the ridges, and knew the answer before Raven coughed it out.
"Got myself shot."
Clarke heard Bellamy's intake of breath. The fear. The anger. "So much for peace," he muttered.
The truth of his words hung in the air. "How old is this wound?" Clarke asked.
The concentration in Raven's face was evident, her chin jutted in stubbornness. But Clarke wasn't fooled by her bravado. "Happened the other day. A present from the guy standing over there."
All eyes flashed to the man in question. He'd evidently decided it safe enough to balance his gun against his leg, but when the attention fastened on him, he lifted his hands palm up in surrender.
"Why would you do this?" Bellamy snapped before Clarke could.
Why would anyone do this?
The man was silent a moment, his expression impassive. Almost bored. "Is now really the time to rehash old history?"
"A day really qualifies as 'old history' to you?" Clarke asked, unable to keep the disgust from her voice. Why try to?
The man smirked again. It was a mirthless smile that never reached his eyes. "A day on this ground can do more damage than a lifetime on the Ark." Again, with that boredom.
Clarke thought of everything that had passed on Ark. The explosions and running. The pain and betrayal. She thought of how often they had toed the border of life and death, as delicate and unassuming as thread between her fingers.
And just like that, sudden, vibrant rage lit into her chest, the fury of its presence catching her off guard, nearly making her steady fingers shake for the first time. Fire coursed through her, burning to a degree that could have matched Bellamy's. All the cost. All the fight to get back to the ground and for what? It certainly wasn't to find people hurting each other, not when there was enough air for everyone to breathe, water to drink, and resources to consume. What here could justify more needless destruction?
Thoughts of the Culling swept over Clarke, the nightmare of a solitary hairpin a solemn reminder of the price paid to be where she stood now. No. They couldn't come so far, lose so many innocent people, only to drag the brokenness on the Ark down and scatter it across the earth.
If things were going to continue the same way, what was the hope in coming at all?
Raven's voice turned venomous, her gaze narrowed in a glower. "Let's just say we didn't exactly see eye-to-eye on some things." Clearly forgiveness was still rocky terrain.
"Would you mind putting your weapon down?" Bellamy asked, his voice steel, words leaving no room for suggestion. "Before I take it from you? I'd like not to add another grave here," he spat. "Not today."
The man-Murphy-eyed Bellamy in that lazy, alarmed way of his. "Well, because you asked so nicely," he murmured. Slowly, he lowered himself enough to set it across Raven's lap before standing up once more. The two men watched each other, the animosity tangible. Then Bellamy stepped away and returned most of his focus to Raven.
"Where are the others?" Clarke asked, her tone oddly robotic compared to the rage that coursed through her, burning her. The dichotomy would've been comical if it weren't so tragic.
"Octavia Blake," added Bellamy. "Have you seen her? Brown hair, blue eyes. She-"
Raven was already nodding, biting her lip as Clarke worked. "Yeah. Met her. Last I saw she was with a grounder."
Clarke's mind went blank, the term resounding around her.
"Grounder?" Bellamy said, the shock in his voice mirroring what Clarke felt, the word foreign in its implication. By nature impossible. "As in . . . others?"
For a moment, Clarke's hands stilled, thrown by what she was hearing. She quickly shook herself and got back to work.
"Raven nodded again, the action appearing easier than talking. "As it turns out, we're not as-special as we thought," she said, her words clipped from the pain. "We could've all died on the Ark, thinking humanity was gone. Turns out it's still-going strong. Still angry. Still-broken, though."
The leg was a mess and Clarke had to bite back her own sound of frustration. This wasn't a clear shot. This wasn't a neat wound. What she was looking at was unmistakable damage that time would likely not heal.
"Raven . . ." she spoke the words slow, choosing them carefully. "This isn't something that I can fix. But there are doctors. Abby's here. She's injured. But she would still be able to help with this. More than I can," she added.
Raven saw through her explanation. "That bad, huh?"
Somewhere a bird sounded, the song catching in the breeze and winding its echo around them. Again, Clarke was struck by that juxtaposition, such a stark, unsettling contrast of war and world, like a masterpiece stenciled in tears.
Clarke pursed her lips and let her silence be answer. No point in lying.
She saw the acceptance in Raven's brown eyes, followed by resolve. This mechanic would not go gently.
"She left with a . . . a grounder?" Reiterated Bellamy. He said the word as if he were tasting it and found it to be bitter.
Raven bit her lip and nodded. "Yeah. They're . . . together, I think. Not that I know much about anything." She covered her wince with a halfhearted shrug. "I kind of arrived late to the show."
The sound of Murphy's scoff carried to them. "She's got that grounder wrapped around her little finger," he remarked.
What happened next occurred within the blink of an eye. Bellamy snatched up the gun from Raven and now had the barrel trained on Murphy's chest, his finger poised over the trigger. He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Bellamy was a statue, in position and ready to fire.
Clarke's breath caught in her throat. Dread washed through her, cooling her blood. "Bellamy."
Any humor that had been on Murphy's face a moment before was long gone. In his eyes was only fear. "Woah, woah-hey, wait! Wait!"
Clarke resisted the urge to stand between them, hands still on Raven's leg. "Bellamy!" She said his name pointedly, hard enough to know she had his attention, even if his eyes refused to turn to her. "Stop," she told him. "This doesn't help anyone, and it definitely doesn't help Octavia." And softer, more gentle, "Please."
One long moment passed, Murphy's hands in the air, Bellamy's hands on the gun. Clarke's heart pounded but she willed herself to stay calm.
"Wanna help me out, Raven?" Murphy snapped in her direction, never looking away from the gun.
Raven bit back another gasp as a lance of agony shot through her leg. "Kind of preoccupied with something else from you to help much, Murphy."
Clarke looked between them all once before settling her eyes on Bellamy. She knew he could feel her gaze and she held it. She held it and waited. Please. Not like this.
Finally, and still without a look in her direction, Bellamy motioned the barrel of the gun towards the campgrounds. "Why don't you go stand guard or something?" He suggested to Murphy in a voice carved from iron. "And keep far away from me. Wouldn't want to accidentally pull the trigger or anything."
Clarke's blood was cold now. Unlike before, at this proximity, it was a shot he would not miss.
Murphy kept his hands raised as he stumbled in the direction Bellamy gestured in, never turning his back. "You want me to stand guard without a weapon?" he asked.
Clarke stared at the man, taken a little aback by his boldness. Was he brave, she wondered, or just stupid?
Bellamy did not lower the gun. "If you see anyone, yell. Loud. We'll hear you." Bellamy flicked the barrel again until Murphy flinched and finally complied.
Clarke let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, watching as Bellamy waited until Murphy was far enough that he was nearly out of sight. Only then did he sling the rifle over his shoulder and crouch down on the other side of Raven, fixing his undivided attention on her.
Clarke looked across from her to him, catching the emotions that raged in his dark eyes. Confusion. Fear. Anger. Desperation. But above all that, sorrow. As clear to her as glass. "Octavia and the grounder, do you know where they went?" He asked, his voice suddenly, uncharacteristically quiet.
That tiredness in Raven's features seemed to compound. She hesitated, her expression pensive. It was the softest Clarke had seen her in her entire exchange with Bellamy. "There was a war here. A lot of things happened . . . " a haunted look entered her deep brown eyes, distant and unfocused. She blinked. "Others . . . they came."
Bellamy's brows drew together in confusion. "Like the grounders?"
She shook her head. "Not the same grounders. They were . . . different. They took people."
Clarke stopped long enough to analyze Raven's face, the ghosts Clarke herself could not see that the woman beside her seemed to be staring at now. "Who did they take?" She asked gently.
Slowly Raven's attention turned to her, rounded with the memory. "Everyone."
Silence enveloped them, punctuated only by that distant birdsong. It sounded eerie and unearthly now.
"But they didn't take you?" Clarke whispered.
"No. I stayed in the drop ship. Then I heard the explosions."
From the Ark, she inferred.
"And Octavia wasn't taken, either?" Bellamy asked, that desperation filling his voice, spilling over his anger. "That . . . grounder is with her?"
Raven nodded once. "He's kind of been protecting her. Or so that's what Finn told me. Out of everyone's odds . . . I'd say hers are the best."
"Who's Finn?" Clarke asked. Grounders. Finn. Others. All these names were as foreign to her as the world underneath her feet.
Another wave of pain twisted Raven's face and she clamped an involuntary hand over her kneecap in an effort to keep still. "Boyfriend," she bit out.
The piece of information was so jarringly normal that it sounded utterly out of place here, with a genius girl and her bullet wound. "Was he taken, too?"
Raven shook her head, lips pressed together so tight they formed little more than a thin line. "I don't know."
"And all those . . . graves?" Clarke had difficulty forming the word. Another foreign concept, being buried in the earth.
"Courtesy of this paradise," mused Raven caustically. "Well, some of it, at least. It's hard to keep track of everyone in a war. I had enough time to get down here in the pod, radio back, and meet the others before we're all suddenly trying to prepare for a grounder attack. I was making bombs to secure this place. When the smoke cleared and people left the drop ship, they didn't come back." She made a poor attempt at trying to mask another burst of pain behind a shrug. "That's all I know."
"'Grounder attack'," Bellamy repeated, the desperation in his voice climbing with his frustration, like sparks exposed to pure oxygen. "And my sister is with one right now."
"He's different," Raven rasped. "They're not . . . I don't think they're all the same. Besides, it's not like we've all had much of a chance to sit down and get to know each other."
"Hard to do that after going straight to war," said Bellamy. He raked a hand through his hair and stood up, unable to keep still.
"Well, we do know two things," Clarke said. They needed to stay calm. Stay rational. Nobody came this far to die in a needless war. She didn't watch all those people on the Ark give their lives willingly to see their sacrifice only help perpetuate more death. No.
"I think it's safe to assume that wherever Octavia is, right now she's in good hands. And I also know that we need to get you, Raven, back to the Ark's crash site. They're the ones who can help you. This . . . this is beyond my abilities."
Clarke's gaze flickered back to Bellamy's. He was looking at her, understanding the implication of her words, and visibly rebelling against them. "I can't just leave my sister out there, Clarke."
"And I'm not telling you to."
Surprise flickered across his face.
"What I am telling you is that Raven needs help. I'm just not sure if Murphy and I are strong enough to get her back ourselves."
That frustration lit in his eyes, darkening them like a spark to timbre. He took a step closer and pitched his voice low, a growl. "You're insane if you think I'm leaving you with him."
Clarke knew how pliable Bellamy's resolve was, because it was anything but. "Give us a minute," she told Raven before she stood up. Walking around her, Clarke closed the distance with Bellamy, adding another meter for whatever privacy it could afford. "Bellamy, if Raven doesn't receive medical attention soon, proper medical attention . . . she might lose her leg. Or worse, her life." Clarke gave a small shake of her head, worry knotting her stomach. She did not want her first day on the ground to be spent watching someone who had helped them die.
"Can't we just send that guy to go and bring back help?" he asked, not bothering to mask his derision at the mention of Murphy.
But Clarke had already considered it. "That would still take more time. Time Raven doesn't have. And we both know what the odds of Murphy getting help and coming back without being interrogated first are." Slim was too generous an estimation.
That battle raged again, drawing swords between Bellamy's brows. His gaze drifted from hers to the surrounding area beseechingly, as if something would proffer a solution. But the trees stayed silent. Even the songbird held its peace.
It was clear the last thing he wanted to do was go back, despite knowing what they both did, and that was that there was nothing else to be done. Not here. And not without it potentially costing Raven her life.
Clarke could practically see him weighing their options. The fact that they didn't really have any. An ache stabbed at her chest as she watched him struggle. After coming all this way for his sister, battling his way through the infantry of stars, defying death over and over, he was being asked to wait. Again.
And he could say no. A part of Clarke wondered if he would, and that part couldn't blame him for it either. But if it were an easy decision, there wouldn't be that silent war going on inside him. No. This wasn't about him choosing her over his sister. This was about him deciding if he wanted a hand in saving Raven's life, or in taking it.
Clarke reached forward and clasped his hand, weaving her fingers through his. Reassuring. Comforting. "We're not going to stop looking for Octavia. But if Raven is right, and your sister is out there, she would've seen the landing. And if she loves you the way you love her . . . she's going to come looking for you. And I think it would be easier for her if we were there when she did."
Bellamy's pained gaze searched hers, fragments of sunlight painting galaxies in his eyes. He wore his torment openly there, like two windows cracked enough for her to catch a glimpse of the wounds inside. There Clarke could see that he'd heard her. That he'd understood. And in that moment, she was struck again with that revelation of how far they'd come. That the same man who not too long ago had threatened to kill her was now . . . someone else to her entirely.
It didn't matter how many days had elapsed since Bellamy first crawled into that storage locker with her. For what limited time they'd known each other, it had inevitably changed something. Choosing to survive with someone, trusting one another to help stay alive, had formed between them some unseen, unyielding force. How strange it was, the strength of a bond born out of pain. It was as impossible to reverse as a comet retracing its steps across the nebula.
Eyes still on hers, Bellamy gave a curt dip of his chin, that fire of his unabated. "Fine. But if you're wrong-"
"Then I'll be right back out here looking with you," she swore.
Begrudgingly, he relented. Turning back in the direction of Raven, he gestured to the rifle on his arm. "But I'm keeping this."
Clarke had never seen the stars from this vantage point. She'd never lain against cold ground, gazing up at the tapestry of space that filled every corner of the sky. It was as new to her as the aroma of pine and the cool night breeze. As new as the fresh air in her lungs.
The Ark had been yesterday, and yet it felt like a lifetime ago. When Clarke looked up, she didn't feel like she was seeing a place that had once been her home. Even for her whole life, she was able to recognize the ark for what it had been; a waiting room. A rest stop. It was never meant to be the answer, and she thought the only reason the place over her chest ached right then was because of the echoes that metal behemoth held that she'd never see again. Halls her father had walked down with her. An old couch they'd piled on. A small bed he had tucked her in, as he whispered to her stories of hope that had burst with the brilliance of the sunlight she had never seen.
Now, all of it was gone, the debris of her memories burning out in the atmosphere.
She didn't know how long she'd been lying there. An hour? Two? But she heard him before she saw him. Clarke didn't look as Bellamy stretched out on the space beside her, biting back his quiet groan of pain. The explosions on the Ark and the landing had left the both of them sore; Clarke's head still pounded dully from the mild concussion she'd suffered. Ghost pains of that other lifetime.
She didn't need to ask what had kept him awake. Clarke doubted he would sleep until he received any word on Octavia.
"Weird, huh?" he murmured from beside her. "Seeing it like this."
Clarke nodded in agreement, tracing constellations with her gaze. "There were times I didn't think we'd get the chance." She remembered what it was like to be in those stars, with nothing but the fabric of the spacewalker suit separating her from a painful death. How many people had been launched into the cluster of lights she gazed at now? How many of them were fathers to little girls?
At that reminder, thoughts of her mom began to swirl in her mind, but she quickly shoved them away. That was a problem far less immediate, and for another time, when Clarke would be willing to talk. She wasn't yet sure when that day would be. If it would ever come at all.
"Well, if you hadn't found me in that storage locker, you'd probably be having this all to yourself," said Bellamy.
"I think we both did our fair share of saving each other."
"Think that'll be the case here?"
I hope not, she thought. It wasn't because she didn't want to save his life anymore. It was simply because she was hoping down here would be different, and they wouldn't find themselves in that position. But then Raven's words returned to Clarke, her mind conjuring images of war. The memory of those graves. And she knew enough to tell that the earth, like the stars she'd nearly drowned in, was not kind.
"I think that depends on who we want to be here," she said quietly, her voice pensive.
Bellamy was quiet for a moment. Long enough for Clarke to glance over at him. His eyes were on the stars, but they were unfocused, thinking. "Something tells me you're not just talking about everyone from the Ark."
Clarke sighed. She'd been thinking about it for awhile, in fact.
Before coming out here, she'd asked Jaha as much as he'd known about that military bunker. Getting information, she'd told herself. But even she knew it was more than that. The Hundred had been sacrificed once already. Would they be a second time? Collateral damage in the war to get to the ground? The life of the Ark survivors was already built on the bones of those from the Culling. Clarke didn't want to add The Hundred to that pile, too.
"They're just kids, Bellamy," she said. "It's not Kane's first priority to help them, even though they're the ones who know the most about this place. Somehow they survived this long, and we don't know how." Despite Jaha seeing her point on that matter, he'd been unwilling to make any final decision until he'd received more information. Translation; they knew close to nothing, and couldn't act blindly. But despite no definitive plan of action, he had expressed whatever support he could afford, because as often as Chancellor Jaha had separated fathers from their children, he was eager to find out if his own son was alive, and if so, in what condition.
"I can help take you as far as my very limited resources permit," he'd told her earlier that afternoon, once she and Bellamy had gotten Raven back to the crash site. "But unfortunately, that isn't far. I don't know what you'll find when you get there. But if it's my son . . . fathers will go to great lengths if it means keeping their children safe."
Clarke had looked at him levelly, knowing all too well the truth those words rang with.
"The council sent them here to die," Clarke continued now, beside Bellamy and beneath the stars. "But they miraculously didn't, at least not from radiation. And despite all that, all they did, they still have no one." No one willing to help, and no one willing to fight for them.
But Bellamy was already protesting. He pulled himself into a sitting position, looking down on her. It was a bright enough night for her to make him out clearly. "We can't just jump into a war we know nothing about," he replied, his tone suddenly sharp. "I came for my sister. She's my priority, Clarke. Not those kids they sent down. I'm not endangering my life for their sake."
Clarke swallowed. She knew Bellamy enough to have expected Octavia to be his first and foremost concern. She'd even suspected that this would be the last thing he'd be willing to do, second only to stop looking for his sister. But that didn't make her heart squeeze any less. It didn't numb her fear.
This was different than what she'd done on the Ark. There, what she was doing had been clear. She'd never expected to make it this far. But now that she had . . . could she really turn her back on the small group that could be credited for how she was here now? Could she turn her back on Wells, who might not have been among those buried in that graveyard?
Clarke placed a hand over Bellamy's, his fingers rigid. "I wouldn't ask you to."
He shook his head, visibly agitated, even in the lowlight. "This isn't the Ark. The Hundred aren't people in line to be culled."
"But they're still people," Clarke said softly, as if anything above a whisper would untether the constellations overhead. "And like those on the Ark, they deserve better than this."
"Do you know what your odds are?" he challenged, tearing his hand from hers. He turned away from her, putting space between them as he stared angrily at the dark tree line. "On a planet you don't know, with people you don't know, with an enemy you don't know?" He shook his head again. "You're more likely to die than you are to save anyone, Clarke."
"I can't do nothing, Bellamy."
"Do you even have a plan?"
"No decisions have been made yet."
His attention snapped back to her. "What does that even mean?"
"It means I don't know the next step yet, but that I'll be there to take it when I do." She stared at him, wanting him to see. To understand. "I can't just allow more innocent people to die, Bellamy. That's my priority."
A cricket chirped. Somewhere a night bird cooed. Nature, blissfully ignorant of the wildfire in this man's eyes.
"And I guess you expect me to just watch you walk blindly into something you know nothing about?" he asked sarcastically. "This isn't the shaft you crawled through. Or when you left to go find out about the culling. This is different. We're . . ." he trailed off, uncertain. "Guess that answers my question," he muttered after a long stretch of taut silence.
"About?"
"Whether we'll still be trying to save each other's life down here."
Clarke scrutinized him. He didn't look any more relaxed. In fact, everything about him seemed wound, ready to spring into action. "You said you weren't going to risk your life for this."
"I said I wouldn't risk my life for them, and I won't. But someone's gotta be there to make sure you don't do anything particularly stupid." He snatched up a loose rock and hurled it into the distance.
"And you'd risk your life for that?" She couldn't keep the shock out of her voice. Was he really the same man who had been threatening her life only a little while ago?
"I think we've faired decently up to this point because of it." He shrugged, his lips pursed into a thin line. "Why stop now? Our chances of survival are clearly better when we're in the same place, if the fact that we're still alive isn't proof enough for you. It is for me."
That pang in Clarke's chest lessened some. "So that's that?" she asked, still incredulous. "After we find Octavia, you'll help me get to Mount Weather?"
At the mention of his sister, some of the tension seemed to leave his shoulders. Those hard edges softened a fraction. He saw that she was still putting Octavia before anything else, and that fact affected him, deeply.
Closing the distance between them, Bellamy reached for her hand. He mustered up a the ghost of a smirk, though a part of it seemed sad. It wasn't hard for Clarke to guess why; being back in this situation was reason enough. To be facing potentially another fight, not yet a full day after the last one had finished.
"We're partners, aren't we?" he asked quietly.
I thought you said personal things didn't matter. We aren't partners, right?
Clarke smiled at the contrast. Those lingering remnants of heaviness scattered, washed away by the assurance of Bellamy's hand in hers, strong and sure. Idly, his fingertips trailed up her wrist to settle gently above the mostly-healed cut she'd inflicted on herself that day before sneaking into Medic. Another memory, still fresh to her body but seemingly ancient in her mind. Lightyears ago.
And now they were somehow here, together and alive.
For what felt like the first time since stepping off the Ark, Clarke allowed herself a moment to simply take in the beautiful, impossible fact of that.
Tomorrow may not be the day they start another battle to survive, but one day soon it could be. And she didn't know what kind of life would come next, if this new world really did offer any semblance of peace. Maybe that hope was nothing more than a brittle dream they would later find shattered, as broken as everything else seemingly was.
But for this moment, on this night, seated next to Bellamy and beneath a navy-blue sky, Clarke allowed herself to be just a girl on the ground for the first time, breathing in the smell of earth and out the echoes of stars.