A/N This update is long, long overdue and for that I'm sorry. But I hope you enjoy it all the same! - J x

Warnings: Language and wounds/gore/danger

Bellamy wasn't sure whether he believed in God, but when he woke and found his little band of allies had made it through the night, he murmured a thankful prayer. The possibility of a God existing in Bellamy's mind was doubtful, for how could a God let his people live in starvation, how could a God condone the killing of innocent children for sport each year? But with his days numbered, and that number decreasing rapidly, he found himself clinging to the idea that there was something waiting for him on the other side.

Back in Twelve, Bellamy's mother was part of a small group who still believed in an ancient religion called Christianity. They would bless the sick by smearing water on their head and clasping their cool hands, but Bellamy never saw it work. The sick died, water blessing or no. There was no proper medical service in Twelve; only the apothecary and her daughters. They tried their best, but the stream of starving children and injured miners were too much for their hands, and no amount of praying from Twelve's devout could make a difference. But they practised the art all the same. On the Sabbath day, Bellamy's Mother would light a candle in their tiny Seam home and close her eyes as she mouthed words that Bellamy could not hear. From time to time Octavia would even sing hymns their mother had taught her. She had a sweet voice, like a little bird, and when she begged Bellamy to sing with her, he hadn't the strength in him to deny her.

Once, someone even put up what they called a Christmas Tree in the square in front of the Justice Building. It was a great pine, that took ten men to transport, and it towered over the people. They decorated it with hundreds of tiny candles; a fire hazard, and a tremendous waste of supplies to Bellamy's eyes. But when he saw the flames reflected in his sister's eyes, casting warm glows across the people's upturned faces, lighting joy within them, he thought perhaps it wasn't a waste after all.

The Peacekeepers had arrived in the end, to tear down the tree and whip the instigators, but it had made the people happy while it lasted. And every year, Octavia would ask him about the tree, and why they couldn't put it up again. When she got old enough, Bellamy told her what had happened to the people who had put up the tree and her big blue eyes had filled with tears because why would they hurt them, Bell? They just wanted to make people happy.

But she carried on singing the hymns, and occasionally, Bellamy would even join in.

Bellamy missed the sound of his sister singing, but that was just the start of a long and heartbreaking list of the things he missed. He missed the way she begged him to braid her dark hair, and the long months it had taken him to learn. He missed the toothy grins she had given him, and the gap where, for almost a year, her front tooth had stubbornly refused to grow. He missed her big blue eyes and the things they saw when she looked at him. She, and maybe she alone in the world, was proud of him.

He missed everything about his little sister, even her tantrums and her pouts, because they were a part of her, and she was something special. His heart ached at the thought of her, and the knowledge that she was turning from a child into a strong, young woman, and he may never see the result of that transformation. His little sister would grow up; have a life, no matter what happened to Bellamy in the arena. It should've filled him with relief, to think of her, safe and happy. But it only made him feel an undeniable, crushing sadness. One that demanded his whole attention and almost had him hunching on the floor under its weight.

It was too heartbreaking to succumb to it, so he pulled his sleeve down over the wreck of his ribbon and instead, set about filling their water bottle at the stream. At least that was something useful. Something to keep them alive.

Just take it day by day, Bellamy. He told himself as he dropped a purification tablet through the mouth of the bottle and watched it fizz into nothing in the water, ignoring the way his vision blurred with moisture.

A hand touched his shoulder, light as a feather, but it was enough to make Bellamy's head snap round, ready to fight. The Games had done this to him, made everything a threat, made every sound or shadow or barest touch chill him to the bone. But it was only Clarke.

She pulled her hand back, hovering awkwardly, centimetres above his jacket until she let it fall and hang at her side. Her eyes looked at him with concern beneath a furrowed brow. They were more grey than blue today, sad and pale and devoid of life. There was a scratch on her cheek that Bellamy hadn't noticed before and her golden hair stuck to her forehead with dirt.

He might have hid his tears from her, but what was the point? He had seen her on the brink of loss; the girl knew enough of sadness to know when another person was suffering from it, so why hide? Instead he blinked up at her lamely, until she crouched beside him.

She smiled slightly as she took the bottle from his hands and deftly screwed the cap on, a simple task that his shaking fingers had not been able to manage. Pull it together, Blake. Bellamy swallowed as she handed the bottle back to him and their fingers brushed. Her hands were so small and soft compared to his own, but there calluses in places where she had gripped things over and over again. He found that he liked the small display of imperfection on the District One Princess. She was tough, tougher than he had first thought, but he had realised her strength when she took his hand and he took her on as an ally. It would've been so easy for her to drift into grief, but what is easy is very rarely what is right, Bellamy knew.

"Thanks," He said gruffly, coughing lightly and blinking until the tears had disappeared from his lashes. He didn't need to hide his pain from the girl, but he didn't need to make a show of himself either. He scratched his neck uncomfortably as she looked at him, with eyes as big and blue as Octavia's, and as penetrating.

"How did you sleep?" He said finally, lifting his head to meet her gaze. Her eyebrows lifted at his question and all of a sudden she began to laugh, just as she had the night before. Her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes creased up at the corners as she grinned.

"Spectacular, thank you," Bellamy watched her tuck a strand of dirty hair behind her ear as she pressed her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from smiling.

"I don't like your tone, Princess," He chuckled lightly, enjoying the way the tense muscles in his face jerked up, allowing him a smile. That was twice Clarke had made him laugh in the mere time she had been with them. Somewhere else, that fact may have seemed insignificant, but in the Arena, a place of pain and sorrow, a smile could go a long way.

Bellamy looked at Clarke, the way her cheeks flared up again as she noticed his eyes on her, the way her lashes fluttered in rapid blinks, the way her teeth picked at the same spot on her lip again and again. Her lips were pink and full, but there was an angry red patch where she chewed. Bellamy liked it, the little things about her. She was very pretty, even with her blonde hair a mess and her eyes rimmed with shadows. A light in the darkness, Bellamy's mother had said often, in reference to her God, and the thought reached Bellamy's mind now, as clearly as if she were saying it in his ear. Clarke with her smiles and big eyes and complicated, beautiful mind, was a light in the darkness of the Games, where beauty and light were running low.

But that was stupid, Bellamy dragged his eyes away from her, she was just a girl. And soon, she'd have to die. He looked behind them to where Charlotte was curled up in her jacket, her little body rising and falling with even breaths, her face pale against the earth. If Charlotte were to live, to go home, Clarke would have to die. Unless you died, a small voice crept unbidden from the shadowy parts of his brain, but he pushed it aside. He hadn't signed out on life just yet. He hadn't given up on the promise to his sister.

"Should we wake her?" Clarke spoke softly, having followed his gaze to the sleeping, little girl. She looked at her with sympathy, and Bellamy knew she would protect the girl if she could. But it wasn't the same as what he felt. Charlotte was his responsibility, his to look after. He had promised her that he would get her home, and he had promised Octavia that he would come home too. He huffed out his breath.

"No, it's the most sleep she's got in days," Bellamy dragged his eyes away from his protégée. "You stay with her, I'm going to hunt." Clarke was a distraction, from the real goal. The Games weren't about making friends, they were about staying alive, about keeping the ones you loved alive. Clarke would help him do that, but there was only so much she could do.

Better not to get attached, Bellamy, he stuffed the water bottle into his pack. Clarke and Charlotte had one and he'd need it if he got separated. She won't be here forever. The zip whooshed a satisfy sound as he locked it into place and hauled the bag onto his shoulder.

He stood, and Clarke followed suit, and Bellamy wondered briefly whether it was a good idea to leave Charlotte with her whilst he hunted. He didn't think Clarke would turn on her, but she was safest with him. No, she needed her sleep, he wouldn't go far. It would be fine.

Bellamy picked up his spear and set his teeth as he watched over the child, anxiety pooling in his stomach.

"Clarke," He said gruffly and the Princess turned to look at him, "If anything happens to her, I'll kill you," Bellamy spoke with a dark face, shattering any moment of happiness he thought he might have shared with the District One girl.

She was nothing to him, not like Charlotte was; he couldn't allow her to be. He scowled and turned away, pretending he hadn't seen the hurt in those deep blue eyes.

The bird died quickly, with Bellamy's knife in its neck. It was a slow creature with the appearance of a turkey. It was a small prize, but an easy kill, and there were tons of the things waddling about. It wouldn't feed them for long, but it was better than returning with nothing.

The thought of returning made Bellamy nervous. He had been careful not to go far, but if she hadn't screamed, he wouldn't have heard her. Would he return to their feeble camp and find Charlotte with her throat cut? No. He would've heard the canon.

But what if the fog had returned and the little girl had been turned into a living corpse like the boy from District Four? Or perhaps the remaining Careers had ambushed them and dragged them away. Maybe Clarke had run off with all the supplies whilst Charlotte was sleeping and left her for dead.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. The thoughts raced through his head with the pounds of his heart. How long had he been gone anyway? Thirty minutes? Or more? Bellamy ran the rest of the way back; the turkey-bird thudding against his back where he had attached it to his rucksack and the spear slick with sweat in his hand.

An animal scampered away from him in fear as he crashed through the undergrowth, not even caring who heard him. He was panting by the time he reached their camp, spear held out in front of him, ready to face an attacker.

But all that faced him were his two girls. Charlotte sat cross-legged, gnawing on a strip of meat as Clarke knelt behind her, fastening two long braids into the little girl's mousy hair. Clarke smiled when she saw him, but it was smug smile, not the true grin he had seen her wear earlier.

"Guess you don't have to kill me yet, Bellamy," She tugged lightly on one of Charlotte's braids before she stood up, folding her arms across her chest. Bellamy swallowed a lump in his throat as his heart rate calmed down, eyes flicking between the two girls who were both very much alive, and as well as could be, under the circumstances. His tongue darted out to lick his lips anxiously as his breathing returned to normal. Clarke raised a brow at him in question.

"I killed this for you," Bellamy unstrapped the bird from his back, and tossed it the distance between them into Clarke's arms. A childish, stubborn part of him was annoyed that she didn't drop it.

"How kind of you, Romeo," Clarke's tone dripped sarcasm as she called him a name that Bellamy didn't understand. He guessed there was more time for reading in District One, where you weren't fighting for your life every goddamned day.

"Just cook the damn bird, Clarke," Bellamy sighed and sat down beside Charlotte before he could glimpse the annoyance on that pretty face.

Tendrils of smoke spiralled above their heads and Bellamy smiled at the story Charlotte was telling him. It was some sort of fairytale, about a beautiful girl who was kidnapped by a beast. At first she was afraid of the beast, but in the end, they fell in love. And the beast turned into a handsome prince because of the girl's love.

Bullshit, in Bellamy's opinion. A way for pretty girls to think they had the power to change someone, and a way for bad people to believe in their redemption. A lie. People weren't just good and bad, Bellamy knew life was more complex than that. And he knew that one good deed didn't wipe out all the wrong, not even if you turned out to be exquisitely good looking. It took time to change a person, and sometimes not even then. And love couldn't wash out the stains of someone's sins through a kiss. Looking at Clarke bathed in orange firelight, he wished it could, but then he remembered how stupid that was.

Bellamy was sure that there was only one person in the world that he really, truly loved. And she was in a pokey house in the seam with her dark hair loose around her shoulders, because the ribbon she used to tie it up was disintegrating around Bellamy's wrist. His chest ached at the thought of his sister, and the knowledge that she would have loved Charlotte's fairytale. It was much more to a little girl's tastes than any of the ones he had ever told her.

He loved Charlotte too, but it wasn't the same. He needed her to be safe, like he needed breath or blood pumping through his veins. But he knew; as he listened to her tell stories with her eyes shining and her lips parted in the wonder of her imagination, that she would never replace his sister. He had been trying to fill the emptiness inside of him, the loss of his sister, by protecting Charlotte. But he couldn't be the big brother she needed, no matter how much he wanted to be. And the guilt tore through him.

But he couldn't tell her that, he couldn't tell anyone. So when tears stung his eyes, he blamed it on the smoke.

The bird he had caught had gone down well; the meat was chewy but it was full of protein to keep them strong and the wood Clarke had gathered gave it a sweet, smoky taste. The Princess had managed to keep her eyes averted from Bellamy the whole time they cooked and ate; he could tell she was still fuming. A part of him felt bad for snapping at her, but he squashed it down, caring for her was out of the question, he had already decided that.

He watched her pick at the bird's charred flesh with quivering fingertips and her head snap up, her little nose wrinkling. What is it this time? Bellamy rolled his eyes at the complaint he could sense brewing inside of her.

"The smoke," She began, her teeth picking at the loose skin on her bottom lip once more.

"That's what happens when you light a fire, Princess," Bellamy sneered, but he found himself sitting up straighter anyway as his head darted around.

"No," Clarke replied, she didn't even sound annoyed, and that worried Bellamy more than if she had stalked towards him with her knife. "That's not campfire smoke," He followed her gaze through the trees where a thick, black cloud of smoke was approaching fast, filling his nostrils and the gaps between branches. The smoke didn't coil and writhe like a living being the way the poison fog had done, but it was moving much too fast to be a campfire out of control. Bellamy's stomach twisted painfully and the bird he had just eaten threatened to make a reappearance. Game Maker Fire.

"We've got to go," His voice was low and calm but his mind and heart were racing with the sick thrill of danger as adrenaline pumped through his veins. He didn't realise he had risen to his feet until he looked down to see the others below him.

"Go where?" Clarke pulled Charlotte to her feet as the two girls hurriedly picked up supplies. For a second, Clarke's hand paused on Charlotte's forehead; where it stroked back a loose strand of hair, and Bellamy grit his teeth. It was so difficult to dislike her when she did things like that, when she let her good nature shine through. What hit Bellamy the most, was that she didn't even mean to do it, light just radiated from her, whether she meant it to or not. Stupid, he warned himself, not the time.

"Game Maker traps are just going to lead us into another threat," She continued as she stepped up behind him. Her hand hovered awkwardly beside his arm, as though she might touch him reassuringly, before she remembered she was supposed to be angry. Heat flared through him as he watched the smoke grow darker.

She was right, game maker fires were designed to flush out tributes, draw them together when things got boring. The fire wasn't meant to kill them, merely draw them to another tribute who would make the death more exciting, but if the fire picked one of them off, no one in the Capitol would weep. Bile rose in Bellamy's throat. Was that the crackling of flames? Or were his ears playing up? If his heart beats weren't so loud maybe he could hear properly.

"I know," He settled on, tearing his eyes away from the trees, turning to the frightened faces of the girls he needed to protect. He had sworn to himself he would protect them. Charlotte, who was all alone in this world, who needed him. Even Clarke. She needed him too, needed his comfort. And try as he might, he couldn't turn his back on her. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood and clamped his hand around the ribbon on his wrist. "But we can't stay here,"

Bellamy's chest heaved with his pants as they skidded to a stop.

"I think," He spluttered, looking over the two girls before him, "I think that's far enough now, it's not burning through anything more," He turned his head to confirm what he knew to be true, that the Game Maker fire had stopped somewhere behind them. They were out of its range, but what new terror lay ahead of them?

"That was lucky," Charlotte sighed, "Lucky we didn't get burnt," Bellamy didn't answer. If he was right, and he was sure that he was, luck had nothing to do with it. They had outrun the fire because someone in a control room in the Capitol had meant them to. Something else was coming for them. He just didn't know what.

He wanted to dry heave onto the earth to get rid of all the smoke he had inhaled, he wanted to lie down on the floor and sleep. He wanted to be home. But he couldn't, so he kept his eyes twitching nervously around the forest and his hand wrapped tightly around his spear. Was someone rustling those leaves? Or was it the wind?

"Bellamy,"

"What?" He jumped back in alarm at the call of his name, but it was only Clarke, holding out a bottle of water to him, the cap already unscrewed. She looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes were wet with moisture, but neither of them mentioned it. Her lips were parted slightly, Bellamy watched them tremble as the breath whizzed in and out. There was a beauty mark above her top lip that he hadn't noticed before.

"You need to drink, you might have inhaled a lot of smoke," Clarke thrust her hand closer until he took the bottle from her grasp. Bellamy licked his lips, his mouth was very dry.

The cool water felt nice on his tongue but his heart was still hammering, his eyes dragging themselves away from Clarke in order to scan their surroundings.

"Thanks," He swallowed as he looked back at her. He shivered as their fingers brushed when she took the water back. Bellamy withdrew his hand sharply and ran it through his hair; it was knotted with dirt and wind. He felt odd; maybe he had inhaled more smoke than he thought.

To his side, Charlotte watched him with a wide eyed curiosity. Her thin lips curled into a half smile and she gave the tiniest nod of her head. It was in Clarke's direction. Bellamy pressed his palm to his eyes, god, his head.

"Clarke," He winced at the way her name sounded, almost like a moan. Blue eyes narrowed and Bellamy's tongue felt stuck in his mouth. His own eyes darted past trees, looking for threats. Something was coming, for surely that was why his heart was beating so loud. It couldn't possibly be anything else.

"I – I'm sorry about earlier," The words felt thick like honey as he tried to squeeze them past his lips; he hated apologising, hated admitting he was wrong. Octavia said he was stubborn, but then again, so was she. The silence after his apology felt like a weight in his stomach as he watched Charlotte watching him and Clarke watching the floor. Eventually she looked up, and she was almost smiling.

"It's okay, I know why you said it," She tucked her hair behind her ears and looked down, a pink flush creeping across her cheeks. When she met his gaze, there was no evidence it had been there at all. "I think we should set of again, I have a bad feeling about here,"

Bellamy nodded, he felt it too. Goosebumps were appearing on his forearms and the hair on his back stood up abnormally. Something was wrong; this wasn't the time to be feeling anxious over awkward apologies. There was only time for survival in the games, nothing else.

He reached out his hand to Charlotte, his eyes still on Clarke as she stepped backward, and the ground gave way beneath her.

Two screams rent through the air; Clarke and Charlotte's voices bursting through the quiet as the leaves and earth fell away, dragging Clarke with it. Bellamy's own scream never passed his lips but it was loud in his mind, as loud as his heartbeats and the rush of adrenaline that surged threw him as his hand flew out of its own accord, and gripped tight around Clarke's wrist.

Her scream cut off at the contact, replaced by a low moan of pain as gravity and Bellamy pulled at her body hard in opposite directions.

Bellamy's arm shook with fear and the tension of supporting Clarke's entire body weight with one hand. His heart was racing but he was frozen, could only stare wide eyed into a face that reflected as much fear as his own.

"Help me," It was her plea that broke him, surged him into action and he dropped the spear in his free hand to wrap both around her arm, pulling her up with force that he was sure would dislocate her shoulder; he didn't have any other choice, he couldn't see how deep the pit was, or what lay at the bottom, a dislocated shoulder was better than death or whatever awaited her below.

"Can you haul yourself over the edge?" Bellamy's voice broke on the words, "Then I can reach you, Clarke," The girl's eyes were wide and glassy with horror, "It's okay, I won't let you fall, come on, come on, Clarke," His voice rose with hysteria and his body was shaking violently, he was going to drop her.

No. He grunted and pulled as Clarke thrust out her elbow to gain a grip on the edge of the pit. Bellamy's heart lifted in relief as her forearm made contact with solid ground and he crouched down to haul her up, until she screamed again, in pain, not from fear.

"My leg," Tears pooled past her lashes and her face contorted, "There are spikes, I got cut, I-"

Bellamy's eyes widened as he peered past her into the darkness of the pit; wooden stakes sharpened into points as long as his forearm and wider than his fingers jutted out from all the walls at odd angles, designed to puncture and ensnare. Designed to kill. But not on my fucking watch.

A grunt escaped him as he used all his strength to drag Clarke up and over the edge, his teeth grinding as she whimpered in pain; his doing. His head hurt at the thought, but still he kept on yanking until her entire body was back on flat ground, curled up and heaving with sobs and laboured breaths.

"Clarke, Clarke," Bellamy moved to her side, pushing strands of golden hair back from her face, "It's going to be okay," He crooned in a voice that he had often used to chase away Octavia's nightmares, but his eyes were drawn to a trouser leg soaked through with blood even as he spoke. They needed to bandage it, and fast. His mind was racing as he stroked back her hair, whispering and pleading for her to stay awake as her eyelids quivered. Was it from the loss of blood? Or were the spikes contaminated? The wood could've splintered and be stuck inside her flesh. With all the blood he couldn't see, or tell how deep it was.

"Shit!" Bellamy cursed, throwing his pack onto the floor and pressing his hands to the mass of red on Clarke's calf. "Don't die on me, don't you dare!" He wanted to press his palms into his eyes and make it go away. He wanted to scream.

Instead, he ripped away at the material of her trousers, needing a better look at the wound. But what would looking do? Looking didn't fix her, didn't save her life. His heart thudded, he didn't know anything about fixing a wound, he should've listened to her. Should never have let his stupid pride get in the way.

She was going to die because of him.

Blood stained Bellamy's hands; making his skin slick and warm and making his palms shake in fear. The ribbon around his wrist was sticky with gore again. Filthy, he thought, teeming with infection. He should've taken it off when Clarke had said. But he couldn't bring himself to. Couldn't lose his connection to home, to Octavia, or he feared he'd lose her forever. Like he was about to lose Clarke.

"Bellamy," A small, scared voice pulled him from his panic and his eyes darted to Clarke's face which was turning pale and grey, but the only thing coming out of her mouth was her shallow, wheezing breaths.

His head whipped up and fear brought the taste of metal to his mouth. Charlotte. He had been so preoccupied with Clarke's wound that he hadn't looked to see if she was alright.

Her tiny face was streaked with silent tears and pressed to her throat was a small, glinting blade, held by a lanky boy with greasy hair and blood on his knuckles. But it was the sadistic smile that curved his lips which scared Bellamy the most, and the way his eyes sparkled with glee as Charlotte whimpered in his grasp.

"What are you gonna do Bellamy?" The boy from Seven cocked his head and pressed the knife harder against Charlotte's skin until the girl let out a sob.

"Leave her alone," Bellamy growled. He didn't know what to do. The spear was just out of his reach, the boy could slit Charlotte's throat before Bellamy's fingers even grazed the handle.

The rush of his own blood was loud in his ears as his eyes darted between the two girls facing death. Charlotte's brown eyes were wide with terror. Clarke's lashes brushed her cheeks. Was she breathing? Bellamy swallowed. My fault, his hands were shaking, they'll die and it's my fault.

"Or what?" the boy drawled in reply. "They're both going to die, you know. And then I'm going to kill you too,"

Bellamy felt sick, sick with fear and rage and exhaustion. He couldn't think his way out; it was too much, too hard. Clarke's body was limp and bleeding out beside him on the earth. Unless he stopped the bleeding soon, she would die, and maybe still then. Charlotte's tears marked tracks down her pale cheeks and filled him with a sorrow that he had not felt since Octavia had told him goodbye.

Unshed tears stung his eyes but he knew he couldn't give this boy the satisfaction of seeing him break. You're the bravest person I know. A little girl's voice from far away filled his head, louder than his erratic heart and he remembered the knife tucked into his belt.

The boy from Seven smirked and something filled Bellamy with an urgency that boiled his blood and drove him to his feet.

"Did you hear that, 12?" The boy was shorter than Bellamy, and thin, but he had the sadistic look of a person who wants to kill, who revels in it. Bellamy wanted to slice his face off, starting with his wormy, grinning lips. "I'm going to kill you, and your little allies. That one's already on the way out," He nodded to Clarke dying on the floor and Bellamy ground his teeth.

"Let's make it good, shall we? Give the audience a show?" Charlotte began to cry harder and the boy laughed a mocking nasal sound. It was no longer blood filling Bellamy's veins; it was rage and passion, white hot and fierce; a desperate desire to end this boy's life, and save his allies. His friends.

"Like hell." Bellamy pulled the knife from his belt and growled.

And then he lunged.