Octavia's dark hair shone blue and her smile showed all her teeth as she stood with arms outstretched, alight with the insect's coloured wings. It was the most beautiful sight Bellamy had ever seen; his sister, happy.

"Oh, Bell, it's wonderful!" The girl giggled, spinning in circles, her hair fanning out around her and the butterflies flying away in a cloud. "Hey!" she laughed, as she stopped her spinning, almost tripping over roots in her dizziness. "Hey, come back!" And she began running through the trees, chasing butterflies as they flew away.

"O, wait up!" Bellamy's heart constricted and his feet urged him forward after her as her tiny frame disappeared past tree trunks and bushes, her white dress fading into the darkness. "Octavia?!" Bellamy's voice tore through the darkness, his hands scraped at bark and leaves as he ran after her. Where had she gone? The forest was dense, but she had to be close. She had to be close.

"Bell!" He heard her squeal with delight. Just beyond that tree. He rushed forward, using his arm to swing around the trunk, expecting to grab her with his free hand, and tickle her until she collapsed into a giggling heap on the floor, or lift her up and throw her over his back as she beat him with little fists and laughed and laughed and laughed. But she wasn't there.

"Oh-oh Be-eelll," Octavia's voice teased him from the shadows, the way she did when she would hide from him in their tiny District Twelve home. But he would always find her, squeezed between cupboards or under the bed, he always found her. But not here, here there was only darkness and trees that jumped out to send him sprawling and Octavia's laughs as she ran away. Even the butterflies had gone, leaving him with no direction, with his heart pounding hard in his ears over Octavia's taunts.

"Come on, Bell! You never have time to play anymore!" Octavia whined.

"Octavia!" Bellamy wanted his voice to sound commanding, but it was strained and weak and full of terror as a sense of dread settled in his stomach. This was bad. Very bad. "Octavia, where are you?" Her giggles attacked his ears, as loud as his hammering heart beat as he span around, searching for her, grabbing at thin air in his desperation.

"Come back to me Bell, promise," She spoke softly over his shoulder, but when he turned, there was nothing there. A scream ripped through the forest, a high-pitched girl's scream, so full of pain that Bellamy felt as though his insides were being torn out.

"Octavia!" He cried, his voice hoarse as the scream still sounded in his ears. "Octavia!" She screamed again as he ran and the earth lunged up to meet him. His face smashed into the floor.

Bellamy jolted awake, his breathing erratic and cold sweat beading on his forehead.

"Bellamy," Charlotte hovered over him, "Are you okay?"

"Octavia?" He mumbled, frowning as he blinked at his surroundings. The forest wasn't dark, it was bathed in the grey light of early morning, and though it could hide any number of killers, it was much less frightening than the forest of his dream. Largely because of who wasn't there. Octavia, she's at home, he reminded himself, safe as she can be, back in Twelve.

"No, Bellamy," Charlotte frowned, "Octavia's not here." She swallowed, her brown eyes sparkling with moisture, "It's you and me, remember? You said," The girl looked so young and so frightened. Pain stabbed at Bellamy's chest. He pulled himself into a more upright position and took her hand in both his own.

"Yeah," He nodded, biting his tongue, "It's you and me," He smiled weakly at her before rubbing his eyes, trying to shove the dream away. Charlotte is here, and look how terrified she is. Protect her. "Anything happen while I was out?" He asked as he reached into their backpack and chased his sleep away with a drink of cool water. They had found a stream at long last, the day before had brought luck with it, and they had refilled their water bottle time and time again, revelling in quenching their thirst, as well as washing the grime off their faces.

The sores were still present on their skin, a reminder of the poisoned fog. They stung when Bellamy touched them and he was aware that they were filling with dirt and infection, but he had no bandages to cover them, no antiseptic to wash away bacteria. So they made do, and tried to ignore the pain as they moved.

Bellamy insisted on checking Charlotte's sore arms regularly, as well as pressing a hand to her forehead in a feeble attempt to check her temperature. The girl was not in full health, that much was clear, but Bellamy put that down to malnourishment, lack of sleep and a whole ton of stress. She didn't have a fever, nor was she on the brink of death, and Bellamy supposed that was as much as he could hope for.

Charlotte licked her lips as her eyes darted over his face at his question.

"I heard something," She admitted in a whisper and Bellamy grabbed her wrist and bent his head to look into her eyes.

"What kind of something?" It came out as more of a growl then he had meant, he wasn't angry at the child, she had done nothing wrong, save for not rousing him earlier. But he was so afraid all the time, his emotions often came across wrong.

"A person kind of something," Charlotte met his eyes then, and they were full of anxiety. "I think we should go,"

Go where? He wanted to ask her, but she was just a kid, she was under his protection. He was supposed to be the one making the hard calls, looking after her. He knew that, and he knew he was doing a lousy job of it. It was just so damn hard.

A scream broke through the woods then, making them both jump and Bellamy instinctively threw his arms around Charlotte, as if that might protect her from harm. But no foe appeared through the trees, no Career jumped out to attack them. Only the scream carried on, low and mournful and so painfully sad that it tore at his heartstrings. This was no scream of terror; it was a scream of pain, of deep, resounding sadness. And his feet were carrying him towards it.

"Bellamy!" Charlotte hissed as he swung their pack over his shoulder and headed toward the source of the sound. The initial scream had transformed into an orchestra of wailing and sobs. "What are you doing Bell? Come back, please," The girl hurried along behind him, her hissing turning to pleas. Bellamy stopped with a sigh in his throat and offered Charlotte his hand.

"I just want to see, we won't get too close," He assured her, gently squeezing her palm.

"But why?" Charlotte frowned. Bellamy didn't have an answer for that, so he turned around and kept walking.

The sobbing didn't let up as they approached, careful not to step on twigs or rustle leaves as they went. Bellamy wondered if it would be friend or foe they found. Stupid, he cursed himself, everyone here is a foe. Everyone except Charlotte, and she was his to protect. So why was he leading her into the hands of another tribute? Bellamy couldn't even answer his own doubts; he just had a niggling feeling at his stomach that pushed him onwards. The sound of the crying girl was too much for him to bear. Perhaps it was his nurturing instinct that he had gained from caring for Octavia all those years, an instinct that had only strengthened when he took on the role of Charlotte's protector. That thought stung him, some protector.

Perhaps it was a trap, laid out to appeal to his weak side, his desperate need to protect the powerless, but whatever it was, he was about to find out.

Bellamy held out his arm to get Charlotte to stop as he snuck up to the source of the sound, his knife clutched in his fist, his breathing low and his heart thudding anxiously. Crouched on the ground, behind clusters of bushes and the trunk of a tree, Bellamy peered past leaves to see what it was, who it was, that was making that awful, heartbreaking sound. He swallowed painfully when he saw her.

She sat facing away from him. Two bodies lay on the ground beside her, dark blood staining their chests and stomachs and the earth around them. One was the boy from District Six; Bellamy could see the number on the sleeve of his shirt, the other he couldn't see, for he was cradled in the girls lap. Her golden hair was a mane about her shoulders, flecked with dirt and blood and sweat and her little form shook visibly as she crooned to the dead boy.

Bellamy's stomach twisted. He should leave, he should take Charlotte and run and never look back. Never think about this girl or her dead again. But he didn't, couldn't. Because if he did, the scene would never leave his mind, not when he saw her face in the sky or death took him, not ever. He shifted uncomfortably, and a twig snapped under his weight.

Bellamy cursed, Charlotte gasped, and the girl's head snapped around, revealing a face smattered with blood and wide wild eyes, eyes the colour of a stormy sea or a sky as it threatened to rain.

"Who's there?" The girl snatched a knife up from behind her and pulled the boy's body tight against her chest. Her hands were covered in blood. Bellamy sighed, he could leave, should leave. Instead, he stepped out from his hiding spot and into view.

"Clarke," He bent down to her height slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, with one hand outstretched to show he wouldn't touch her. "You remember me, Clarke?" Clarke's eyes darted over his face in fear. She thinks I'm going to kill her. The knife was still clutched in her fist, the other wound protectively around the body of the boy from her District. He followed her gaze from him around in a circle, looking for others.

"Where is the little girl?" She licked her lips nervously as she glanced around.

"Charlotte?" Bellamy called to the bushes where she was still hiding, "Come here please," It was a long-shot he knew, this plan that was rapidly forming in his brain, but he could see it so clearly. Clarke could help them, the open sores on his and Charlotte's skin were a reminder of just how incompetent they were, Clarke could potentially heal them, or offer up treatments for any other injuries they would encounter. And in return, she wouldn't have to go at it alone; she'd have protection, the comfort of other human beings around her. Three was better than two, wasn't it?

Charlotte slunk across to him like a cat pressed against a wall. He wasn't sure which girl was more afraid of the other, though with Clarke covered in blood and looking half mad, Bellamy thought perhaps she had the more fearsome appearance.

"It's alright," Bellamy reached out to her but the little girl's eyes were fixed upon the bodies of the dead boys. Bellamy had been trying not to look. "Clarke won't hurt us, will you?" He tried to make his voice comforting, the sort of voice he would use when Octavia had done something wrong and gone to hide from their mother's wrath, the voice that would coax her back into his arms. Clarke's blue eyes brimmed with tears but she blinked them back furiously as she gnawed on her bottom lip.

"We can help each other, you, me and Charlotte. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You wouldn't have to be on your own," Bellamy tried again. He didn't have to do this, he didn't have to do any of it, he could've left when Charlotte said, and whatever happened to Clarke would've been nothing to do with him. But he didn't think he could bear the guilt if she died now. Unwittingly, Bellamy had made her a part of his group, one of his girls, someone who he had, however foolishly, committed himself to protecting, and he couldn't back out. Later, he would say he had saved Clarke for her usefulness, for her intelligence and mental strength and all the things she could do to help him and Charlotte. But in that moment with his hand outstretched to her in a peace offering, watching her full lips trembling with the effort used to keep from crying; Bellamy wanted to save her, only because he couldn't bear not to. Because anyone that fragile, that sad, deserved saving.

"It's a trick," Clarke swallowed, "You're going to hurt me,"

"Princess, if I'd wanted to hurt you, I would've done it by now," Bellamy scoffed, but his voice softened when he saw the pain flash across her face. He wiped his hands on his trousers and stood, linking grips with Charlotte, and keeping his other arm outstretched to the girl on the floor.

Clarke looked between the grey face of her District partner and Bellamy, before she tentatively pushed the dead boy's hair back from his forehead and planted a kiss against his skin. She eased his weight from her lap as she murmured something unintelligible.

She reached up and fit her hand into Bellamy's, as he hauled her to her feet. Her hand was warm and slick with blood, but her grip was strong, and when she looked at him, so were her eyes.

Bellamy knew they needed to get away from the bodies so the hovercrafts could come and collect them, and he knew he needed to get Clarke away from her District partner before the grief consumed her altogether. She dropped his hand as soon as she was standing, but she didn't drop his gaze.

"Come on, Princess, Charlotte found us a stream not far from here. You can get yourself cleaned up,"

Bellamy scanned the forest; in his hand was the spear that had belonged to the District Six boy. He had asked Clarke if he could take it, before picking it up off the floor. The girl had replied with a shrug. "It wasn't mine," She had used it to stab the boy after he had killed her District partner, and Bellamy had tried very hard to ignore the mess she had made of his stomach when he grabbed it. The smell still haunted his nose.

But it felt good to have the spear in hand, once he had wiped the blood from the metal. It wasn't as good as his old bow back home, but it was better than the knife had had secured at the Cornucopia. He could throw it if need be, the knife was only for close handed combat.

Behind him the girls giggled and splashed in the little stream. It pleased him to see that they got along, and that Clarke was more than the emotionally destroyed shell she had been when he found her, but the noise they were making worried him. There are tributes around who want to kill you! He wanted to scream to make them shut up, but he couldn't bring the words to his lips. So he kept his mouth sealed in a frown as he stood with his back to them, keeping watch. Keeping them safe.

He was still a little apprehensive about his decision to collect Clarke as an ally. She had proved useful so far, offering them some of her rations, letting Bellamy take the spear and creating a paste out of chewed leaves that soothed the sores on their skin. It wouldn't heal them, she said, she didn't know how, but it would make them hurt less. She didn't seem as if she would turn on them, and Bellamy deemed himself a good enough judge of character to trust her, but still...in the games, you were never sure when you were safe, never sure who was on your side. He bristled slightly as a breeze rustled the leaves around him and he strained his ears, trying to detect any sounds of human movement the wind had concealed.

"That's enough," He warned, his voice a growl as his heart beat began to speed up. Was that footsteps? Running?

Behind him Clarke was talking Charlotte through the process of making the soothing paste. Too loud. A twig snapped somewhere and Bellamy's grip on the spear tightened. An animal? Or a tribute? "I said, enough," he hissed, spinning around to face the girls. "Be quiet,"

Both girls had wet hair and expressions somewhere between fear and confusion. In his worry, Bellamy almost didn't notice how beautiful Clarke looked when the sunlight caught her hair just so. With the blood and grime washed away her skin really was the loveliest colour.

"You know," He muttered, "I'm going to regret saving you if you don't shut up,"

"Saving me?" She snorted and her features rearranged into a frown. "Bellamy," Her eyes widened in alarm at something he couldn't see. He spun on his heels to face the two tributes who, though a little worse for wear, still looked formidable, as they approached. He gripped the spear so tight his knuckles turned white, making a mental examination of them as they drew nearer.

Careers. The boy and girl from District Four. Tall and willowy both of them, not built for strength, but certainly not weak. They both carried spears like he did, the girl with a net built for ensnaring people, but there could be any number of weapons concealed within their clothes. Where's District Two? He swallowed and glanced around, expecting the brutes to barrel out at him from behind a tree.

"Shit, Bellamy go, they're after me," Clarke darted to Bellamy's side, a weapon back in her hand, and her lips set in a grim line of determination, so different from the broken girl she had been just an hour or so previous.

Bellamy hadn't asked Clarke what had happened to her so far in the games, but he had guessed that her break off from the Careers wasn't a pleasant one. The looks on the approaching tributes faces confirmed that.

The girl looked like she was ready to bite the Princess's head off; the boy was looking worriedly at Bellamy. Bellamy straightened up as he stared down the boy. Back off, his dark eyes warned. They had come to claim Clarke, only to find she wasn't so easily dispatched, and she wasn't alone. No doubt they had expected her to be with her District partner, that much was clear in their eyes, but instead they had found her with new allies.

A part of him screamed to run, to do as Clarke had said; take Charlotte and get the hell out of there, leave Four to their Princess. You didn't have to take her on as an ally, you don't owe her anything, a selfish part of him urged, a part that valued his own skin over hers and Charlotte's over both of them. The little girl was close behind him, peering through the gap between Bellamy and Clarke's bodies. She gripped Bellamy's jacket with one fist, and a knife with the other.

"Go on," Clarke glared at him, "Or you really will regret saving me," It was an attempt at humour, Bellamy knew, but it was so strained that he could barely detect the joke. "They'll kill you," Clarke's face softened as she lowered her voice to a whisper, "They'll kill her," She nodded to Charlotte and Bellamy's breath caught painfully in his throat. His legs wanted desperately to run, to take Charlotte and go, go, go. So why couldn't he? He inhaled through gritted teeth, his eyes fixed upon Four who were only metres away and solidly avoided the stare of the girl next to him.

"Not happening, Princess," Bellamy bit back the impulse to laugh. "Where would we go? Besides," He risked a glance at her, "I didn't get you all cleaned up just to let you die," She almost smiled.

"Clarke!" The girl from Four grinned wickedly as she drew closer, only about three metres away. Bellamy's heart beat faster with each step she took. "Where's Wells?" The girl pouted in mockery and Bellamy could feel Clarke tense beside him. "Couldn't look after him after all? Or maybe you were the one who bumped him off?" She cocked her head with a false frown and Clarke all but growled.

In a fit of gallantry that surprised all three of them, Bellamy stepped in front of Clarke, sweeping her behind him with his arm so that his body formed a shield between the Careers and Clarke and Charlotte. The girl from Four snorted her surprise.

"What's this? You've got a new boyfriend already? Are you playing happy families with your District Twelve buddies? Mummy and Daddy and their little whelp? How sweet," The girl's voice was sickly and dripping with sarcasm as she clapped her hands together at the sight. Clarke pushed Bellamy's arm aside and stepped forward.

"Leave them out of this, Anna. It's me you want," She balled her hands into fists at her side, one hand still clutching her weapon. Bellamy swallowed, his muscles ready to spring into action. Fight or flight. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He had a feeling which one it might be, there was no way he was going to get through the games always running, he'd have to stand and fight someday. He'd always known that, but it didn't make it any less frightening.

Technically, they outnumbered their opponents, though Bellamy doubted Charlotte had much fight in her, and there was no way he was going to let them close enough to test it anyway. Charlotte was his protégée. He needed to keep her safe. Keep her safe, Bellamy, keep her safe. He warned himself. Keep them both safe, came another thought, unbidden.

"I want all of you dead," the bitter District Four girl, Anna, narrowed her eyes. "The more of you I kill, the less there is standing between me and getting home. I hate you most Clarke, but I'm not prejudice," She smiled sweetly, a smile that made Bellamy want to knock all of her pretty teeth out.

"Atom," Clarke said softly, shifting her gaze to the District Four boy, who had been standing motionless and silent whilst his partner gloated. Atom shook his head with an almost believable sadness.

"You left us, Clarke, I wanted to be allies, it was you," He sounded as though he were telling off a disobedient child.

"You wanted to kill me!" Clarke's reply was shrill. "You beheaded Monty! You wanted to kill Wells, you - " She broke off, looking past the tributes from Four, her eyes narrowing and a crease forming between her brows in confusion. "What the -"

The Careers twisted their heads at her words and Charlotte whimpered slightly; for twisting past branches and slithering across the floor in a way that was horribly familiar were the mauve grey tendrils of poison fog. Bellamy's arms itched desperately at the sight. I can't be in that again, he remembered the feeling of helplessness, of not being able to move his limbs as the mist slowly burnt through his skin, no, I won't, I won't.

Four were figuring out the dangers of the fog from its unnatural finger-like wisps and the fact that this was the Hunger Games and any damn thing you touched was out to kill you. And Bellamy didn't want them all to be running in the same direction, and he definitely didn't want to fight through the fog. In some ways the mist approaching was a God send; it was a distraction at the very least. But it didn't make them any safer. Out of the fire and into the frying pan.

"Clarke, we gotta go," Bellamy instinctively grabbed the girls hand and dropped it like it had burnt him when he realised what he was doing.

"What is it?"

"Poisoned," Charlotte piped up, "It's what caused our sores, it burns you and you can't move," Clarke nodded.

"Right," She bit her lip, "How do you outrun it?" She looked between Bellamy, Charlotte, Four and the fog; she would've looked silly had it been in lighter circumstances. Bellamy cast one last look at the Careers who were beginning to run and knew that they had to move, fast.

"You don't," The morbid words tumbled from his lips and Clarke's eyes darkened like a storm was coming in. He wound his fingers tight through Charlotte's and set his teeth. "We know a place where we can hide,"

His legs were weak when he collapsed inside the tiny cave. His breath came in short pants and there was a burning gash on his forearm where he had scraped his skin against the rock on the way into the feeble refuge.

"Let me look at that," Clarke said breathlessly, nodding at Bellamy's injured arm. Bellamy watched her wipe the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, watched her give the last of her water to Charlotte, watched her as her eyes darted to the entrance of the cave every five seconds. What she was more afraid of, the Careers, or the fog, Bellamy didn't know.

He shuffled forward awkwardly, holding his arm out for her inspection. Her fingers were cool as they probed his wound and her face was full of a scientific concentration, all human feeling replaced by focus for the task at hand. And why should there be feeling? Bellamy thought bitterly, you're strangers, allies at most. He winced as she prodded the torn flesh. Don't get used to her, he warned himself, because she can't stay. It's you and Charlotte; there can't be a third, not in the end.

"You should remove this," Clarke touched the ribbon gently and Bellamy made her gasp with the speed of which he withdrew his arm.

"No," He cradled his arm to his chest, locking his finger and thumb about his wrist to form a protective cage.

"It's teeming with infection," She ran her hands through her hair, the golden locks already dirty again from snagging branches and tumbles to the floor. It was true; the ribbon was barely recognisable as red anymore it was so caked in dried blood and dirt. It made Bellamy's heart ache, to see it so damaged; something so innocent, tarnished. It made him think of Octavia, and the childhood that was being ripped away from her with every glimpse of Bellamy on screen.

"My sister," He swallowed the rest of his words, shaking his head. The feelings were too painful to sift through, and they were much too private to be sharing with The Princess. He didn't owe the girl anything; he had saved her life hadn't he? She wasn't getting any of his precious memories. The games couldn't taint them; they were the only thing he had left.

"Give me the bandage, I'll wrap it myself," He could hear the gruffness to his voice; see it in the hardness of Clarke's eyes and the quiver of Charlotte's bottom lip. The girl was squeezed on the other side of the cave to Bellamy, her knees hugged to her chest as she sat beside Clarke. She looked at Bellamy almost fearfully and he wanted to scream.

For a moment, Clarke looked as though she might protest, but then she reached into her pack for the bandages before folding her arms across her chest and avoiding his gaze.

When they finally emerged from their hiding place, Bellamy was exhausted. His limbs were cramped from sitting in the same position for hours and his head was pounding from the tense atmosphere. More than once in the last few hours he had watched his allies wipe away barely concealed tears. When Charlotte cried, she had huddled next to him and he had stroked her hair. When Clarke cried, she had smacked her cheeks until they were pink and looked anywhere but him.

She was the first out of the cave, eager to get away. Bellamy gripped his bandaged arm, he knew he'd done a shoddy job, and wondered what on earth had possessed him to go over to her that morning.

He watched her back and the way she reached up behind her to braid her hair, the way her shoulders were high and firm, refusing to show weakness.

"Do you really think she can help us?" Charlotte's voice whispered through the air, small and soft as a mouse. Bellamy turned to look at her upturned face, her cheeks patched with dirt, her lips slightly parted in question and her eyes wide and seeing right through him.

"I hope so, kiddo," He sighed, ruffling the little girl's hair. "I hope so," He tried for a smile, but there were more pressing matters at hand than a moody girl from District One. They hadn't heard a canon whilst they were tucked away in their cave, which meant the tributes from Four could still be around. Bellamy hoped that they had run far away before succumbing to their wounds, let them die far away from me. There was a faint trace of the mist's cloying smell still hanging in the air, suggesting it had blanketed the area completely. They wouldn't have survived that, he reasoned, they must be far away by now. But he remained on edge.

The forest was too quiet. Where are the animals? No birdsong filled the air; no animals scurried across their path. The only sounds were the soft crunch of their footsteps and their breathing. And Clarke's shrill scream that pierced the quiet even when she clapped her hand to her lips to stifle it.

"Clarke!" Bellamy pushed into a run, his spear in his hand and his heart in his throat. "Oh my god," Bile rose in his throat and he had to bite his tongue to avoid the urge to vomit when he reached her and saw the cause for her screams.

Lying on the earth before them, looking more corpse than man was the boy from District Four. His skin was littered with the same sores that afflicted Bellamy, but ten times worse. Where his skin was not raw and shiny red, it was peeling away from his flesh, turning grey and stinking something foul. His limbs twitched of their own accord and his chest shuddered up and down, up and down, with ragged, wheezing breaths. His lips were cracked so deep, Bellamy thought he would've choked on his own blood and his eyes had formed a film of milky white where his irises had once been bright blue-green.

"Charlotte," Bellamy warned, "Don't look," but she was already there by his side, her mouth contorting in horror.

"Oh, god, Atom," Clarke stepped forward, kneeling beside the dying boy. Her eyes were brimming with tears until she blinked them back and exhaled deeply, putting on a brave face. "Where's Anna?" She bit her lip, but when the boy's lips moved, the only words he could utter were a spluttering plea for mercy.

"Kill...me..." Blood trickled past his lips and his breathing was half moans. Bellamy wanted to turn away, to clutch Charlotte to his chest and hide his eyes like Octavia would when something bad happened. 'If you can't see it, it's not real', he could hear her voice in his head. But it is, O. It's all real and it's all wrong. He clenched and unclenched his fist, letting the sting of his nails in his palm numb him to the horrors before him.

"Hey, now," Clarke reached out gently and pushed the boy's dark hair back from his ruined face. Bellamy's heart ached to watch her do it. She moved with the gentle hands of a mother, the delicate touch of a healer. He watched her smile sadly. "It's going to be okay, I'm going to make it okay," Her voice was barely a whisper, drowned by the wheeze of Atom's breath, as she stroked the locks of his hair.

And then she did something Bellamy could never have predicted. She began to sing.

"Hush a-bye, don't you cry. Go to sleep my little baby," Her fingers stroked his burnt skin.

"When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses," Her voice was low and wavering with tears. The sound haunted Bellamy's ears. He wanted to curl up in a ball and hide or run, run, run away.

"Way down yonder, in the meadow..." Clarke's free hand was wrapped around a tiny dagger, the sunlight glinted silver on the blade as it glinted golden in her hair.

"Birds and the butterflies, flutter round his eyes, go to sleep my little baby," The knife dragged across his throat, drowning him in dark blood.

"When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses," A canon boomed Atom's last heartbeat as Clarke finished her song and the birds took up their own chorus in the canopies above.

Bellamy watched with words thick in his throat and goose bumps on his skin. Clarke stood from her crouch and turned towards him. He wanted to say something, anything, but there was nothing he could do. So he stood lamely, as she strode past him and away through the trees; leaving him with Charlotte and the dead boy, wondering who exactly Clarke Griffin was.

A/N This chapter took me a very long time to write, but yes Bellarke?! I even made a little cover image for the story, yay!

The song Clarke sings is the one she sings to Atom in the show (I think). It's called 'All the Pretty Little Horses' by Becky Jean Williams. It's very sad and pretty, check it out.

I hope you all enjoyed this, I know it's a dark story and I can't even promise that it will get happier because it is of course the Hunger Games and its horrible. But if you're into that, then keep reading! Please leave me some reviews, to let me know what you thought of the chapter and of Bellarke's interaction, or maybe even your theories for what's to come! Thank you for all your support and feedback! - J x