"A book in which the author tells the story of his or her own life."
Bellamy doesn't look up from where he's lying in bed, the mattress hard like wood against his back and the pillow not so great under his head – it will make for an uncomfortable night, but it was the cheapest lodging they could find in the town, and they are short on money lately. He doesn't move as he rolls his eyes and mumbles the answer as the same time the man on the screen does.
"What is an autobiography?"
He grabs one of the passports lying by his side, idly flips through it until he stops at the page with the key information. Clarke Griffin, American, born on some random date eighteen years ago. Her picture speaks of many a sleepless night and long travel as she glares in front of her, head high and proud – she looks like she's trying to kill someone with her eyes alone, but Bellamy's picture isn't any better if he's quite honest. They'd taken the pictures late at night before meeting with guy who would falsify their papers for them, looking above their shoulder way too many times for it too look innocuous.
It was two weeks ago, and Bellamy still doesn't understand how they never got arrested for it because they weren't all too subtle about it. Not that he's going to complain, for they have papers now, and an identity, and no longer fear being questioned by the police if it ever happens.
"This Goddess is in charge of love and romanced endeavours."
He scoffs as he looks to the television screen on the little desk opposite his bed. Perhaps the room was expensive because of the television, come to think about it, but Bellamy has grown accustomed to the background noise it provides by now. And to its game programs, too, even if he took a liking in documentaries and other programs of the kind.
The door to his left opens, and he turns his head to it as he replies, "Who is Aphrodite?"
She stands in the doorframe, towelling her hair and ruffling it a bit in the process. The bathroom's light draws shadows on her face and turns her hair golden, and Bellamy finds himself staring for a second before he shakes his head and focuses back on the other passport in his hands.
Bellamy Blake, American, twenty-three. It's all so very official.
"This group of people travelled from England to Plymouth."
"Who are the Pilgrims," he replies in a heartbeat, his voice proud and confident.
The princess chuckles as she throws the towel over the back of a chair and moves closer to the bed to sit next to him, folding her legs under her. She wears the damn shirt the policemen gave them on their first day in the Land Without Magic, having grown somewhat fond of it through the weeks. 'To remember where it all started,' she had said once, and Bellamy understands the need to keep track of passing time, to make sure they never forget. It's been four months, already, and if feels like a second and a lifetime.
"You're bragging, now," she tells him, ghost of a smile on her lip.
Bellamy grabs the little card by his side and shows it to her in a flourish. "Gotta keep up with appearances, princess."
She wrinkles her nose as she studies the card that introduces him as a proud grad student of Ancient Greek history and mythology at the University of Wisconsin ("Go Badgers!"), but Bellamy knows her face has little to do with the card and a lot to do with the nickname.
He has learnt early on that the only thing she hates more than not being addressed by her royal title, is to be addressed by a wrong title. Which obviously means he does it all the time, since ruffling her feathers is so entertaining. The 'princess' nickname had stuck after a while, after a waitress had told them how cute a pet name it was – she had groaned and he has smirked and the rest, as they say, is history.
"Speaking of which," he goes on, handing her the second student card. "Why art history?"
She shrugs but remains silent as she stares at her own card between her fingers, and for a moment Bellamy thinks she won't answer at all. The man forging their papers had let them chose the field of their liking, and Bellamy had chosen the most logical one to pursue their researches about the curse without raising too many an eyebrow. The princess had chosen art, though he still doesn't understand why.
"I love art, is all," she shrugs again. "It doesn't matter if I don't understand the art in the realm, or even the different styles. Art isn't to be understood, it's to be felt."
She raises an eyebrow at him, as to dare him to say something to that, but her eye hold an new flame to them, passionate and loving, and so Bellamy knows better than to pock fun at what obviously is a interest of hers. He nods with the tiniest of smiles, before his eyes dart back to the television screen. But his will to answer the questions is gone by now, and so he watches the program in silence as the princess settles more comfortably under the blanket next to him.
She no longer denies him the right to sleep by her side, something his back is most grateful for, but nights spent together are laced with awkwardness with each brush of skin against skin that startles them away from each other. He's already slept with a woman before, of course, but never quite like that, never so platonically – hence how careful he is not to move too much, how painfully aware he is of his own body when the princess is in his vicinity.
"What are we to do tomorrow?" she asks, voice slightly muffled by the pillow against which she presses her face. She will be out in a matter of minutes, lucky enough to fall asleep easily when his own mind keeps him awake for hours.
"I'll go look for a job," he replies. "You can go to the local library in the meantime."
They had to trade off both her earrings to pay for the papers and, even if it was as vital as purchases go, now only have her bracelet and engagement ring left. Which obviously means they will need to find a new way of making money – hence the need to find a job. They're in this town for a couple of weeks anyway, waiting for some random professor in some random university to be back from his holiday so they can talk to him about their quest. Hopefully it will go more smoothly than with the other men they talked to before, and that this one will know something about witchcraft and magic instead of just trading in theories and false truths.
Bellamy isn't all that excited at the idea of having to find a job – even if traveling can be exhausting, he's taken a liking to not having to work from dawn till dusk, not having to wake up with the sun and go to bed with sore muscles. He's not looking forwards to whatever menial task he'll have to do, but he has a princess to feed and a roof over their head to pay for, so he will clean other people's hallways if it comes to that.
The princess hums her approval and, without moving for her lying position next to him, she reaches for the passport still on his stomach. She flips through it with a pout, deep in thoughts, before she asks, "Would that allow us to travel to that place oversea?"
One of the professors they met had told her of a place named Oxford, and how they could find the answers to some of their questions there – the place old and prestigious, the library full with manuscripts on every sorts of subjects.
"Yes, it would. Thought there's still the question of money."
She huffs and puffs, and Bellamy laughs in reply. Even irritating at times, her royal behaviour can be quite entertaining. She never had to raise a finger of her life, always given what she needed and wanted, and the reality check of this realm is always a painful one for her. Sometimes she would stare at their money, frowning at the bank notes as if they have personally offended her, or perhaps waiting for them to multiply all of a sudden. Bellamy knows it is hard on her – the not eating properly and the sleeping in mediocre motel rooms – but he can't find it in himself to pity her when this has been his life since the day he was born. (And even so, he was among the luck ones, what with his mother working at the royal castle.)
"Library tomorrow, then," she says, the pout audible in her voice. "Goodnight, Bellamy."
He glances at her, lids already closed, breathing evening, and takes the passport from her before he puts all their papers on the bedside table and turns off the television. He settles beneath the blankets too, before he replies, "Goodnight princess."
She kicks his shin, and he chuckles.
…
She sits at one of the stools, elbows leaning on the counter as she curiously takes in the scenery around her. With her hair falling loosely on her shoulders and one of those flower dresses she took a liking in, she almost looks normal, but Bellamy knows better – it's in the tilt of her chin, the pride in her eyes and how her back is always perfectly straight. It talks of hours with a preceptor, teaching her how to walk with a stack of books balancing on top of her head, it talks of beautiful gowns and heavy crowns, of the blue blood running through her veins.
She may appear like a normal girl.
She's everything but.
And he isn't the only one to notice, patrons looking her way every so often with lust and desire in their eyes. She's but a prey for them, a pretty body to toy with, and Bellamy's blood run cold at their hungry stares. It takes all his willpower not to throw a punch, because the job is good and the pay is decent; they need to stay here for another month, at least, and he can't afford to get fired over the princess's virtue.
"What can I get you?" he asks her, more to keep his mind busy than anything.
It's a dull, quiet night, the bar empty if not for those damn men and their wandering eyes, so he's been bored out of his mind for hours now. And then she appeared, a smile on her lips and a stack of books under her arm, brightening his evening with her presence alone. The princess has that effect.
"Apple juice will be fine," she replies with another of her soft smiles.
He nods and grabs a clean glass, then a little bottle of juice, pours it for her without another word. He adds a little pink umbrella on top of it, just because it makes her grin, and slides the glass closer to her. She grins alright, and hums appreciatively as she takes a sip.
"Did you find anything?" he says next, with a nod to the books piling by her side.
She shakes her head, little pout back on her lips. "Not really, no. I could probably write a paper about Salem at that point, though, if you're interested."
He grins at the mention of the witchy town. It's all they seem to find these days, more and more details about the sordid affair of woman burnt alive for crimes they most likely didn't commit. "We should head there. Maybe we'd actually find something tangible in Salem."
The princess gives him her most unimpressed glare, like he just told her they should go to the moon to find the answers to their question. Bellamy rolls his eyes and is about to ask her where they should be heading next when the front door opens in a bang and a group of women enters with loud giggles and easy chatter. With one last look for the princess, he moves towards the table they chose to occupy, bracing himself for what is to come. Bellamy doesn't mind the hungry stares of women – he might not be vain, but he is aware his body doesn't leave the fairest sex indifferent – but being at the receiving end of drunk women's advances can grow a little tiring after a while.
Tonight is no different, of course. One of them gapes at him while another leads on her friend's shoulder to whisper furious, and he's pretty certain two of them are blushing and all of them are picturing him naked right now. Bloody typical, but the pay is good and so are the tips, so he offers them his most charming grin as he leans forwards, both hands planted on the table.
"Evening, ladies. What can I get you?"
They all order those damn colourful cocktail that always take Bellamy ten minutes to get right, and he nods with a wink before going back behind the counter to grab a couple of glasses and even more bottles. He doesn't need to look up to know the princess is staring.
"Why are you…" She stops, ponders on which word to choose. "Wooing them?"
He laughs a throaty chuckle and shakes his head. "It's called flirting, princess. It makes them happy and so it makes them tip me well."
She frowns as she looks at the other women over her shoulder, then back at him, confusion pooling in her blue eyes. Surely she must have been at the receiving end of some wooing herself, what with half the lords of the Enchanted Forest wanting her hand in marriage and what with being engaged. But it amuses Bellamy greatly how puzzled a little flirting can be for her.
"Using your body for money isn't what I'd call flirting."
He laughs again, a little louder this time, as he pours alcohol in yet another glass. "We're not that desperate for money yet. But thank you, it means the world to know you think I'd make a good prostitute."
She blushes furiously and no amount of dropping her head and letting her hair fall in front of her face hides the red of her cheeks. All Bellamy wants is to lean over the counter and flick her nose, she's just that adorable in that moment – the impulse coming out of nowhere for he never had such thoughts about a woman, never felt the urge to act so adorably around them. But, as always, all bets are off with the princess, and so he forces himself to focus back on his drinks instead of doing something he would regret.
He puts all the drinks on a trail and goes back to the table of giggling women, letting the princess a moment to compose herself. True to his words, the group tips him more than generously, and he can't help but waves the dollar bills under the princess's nose when he is back behind the counter once more.
"See?" he says, a little teasingly. "Will pay for tomorrow's breakfast."
She scoffs, evidently upset that he was proven right, and grabs one of the books, flipping it open to a random page. That is Bellamy's cue to drop the matter, which he does as he moves to the other side of the counter to refill a man's tankard of beer. The rest of the evening happens in quite the same fashion, refilling and pouring drinks while the princess reads in silence, sometimes scribbling something in the little notebook that follows her everywhere. The group of women asks for drinks again an hour or so after they arrive, and Bellamy all too happily obliges. They leave soon after, surely to visit another bar down the street, and the bar settles back into its usual silence, only broken by the background noise of the radio.
Not for the first time, the princess stifles a yawn behind her hand, and so Bellamy takes pity on her as he grabs the motel key in his pocket. "I'm closing tonight. You should go to bed already," he tells her as he drops the key next to her glass on the counter.
"Don't act like I'm a child."
Oh, he wouldn't dare, all too painfully aware of the definitely not childish curves her flower dress barely manages to conceal. Not that he would ever say that out loud, least he wants a slap from her, so he settles for a roll of the eyes – they do that a lot around each other, and sometimes he wonders how they still haven't killed the other with the share amount of sarcasm and annoyance that exists between them.
"Believe me, I'm not. But you're falling asleep on the spot and I don't feel like carrying you all the way back."
Been here, done that. She isn't heavy, far from it, but his back was still aching the following day from carrying her sleeping form through town while she snored into his neck. Not an incident he'd like to happen again if he can help it.
The princess wrinkles her noise – either to the memory of her own weakness or to his ungentlemany behaviour, Bellamy isn't quite certain – before she downs her apple juice and grabs the key with a purpose. Her feathers are so easily ruffled, sometimes Bellamy doesn't even have to try, as she looks at him with defiance in her eyes and pride in the tilt of her chin. He wonders what she would look like, awake even in the dead of night and tipsy on cheap alcohol. Would she be like those women from earlier, too loud and too carefree, with an easy smile on her lips and hunger in her eyes? Somewhat, Bellamy can't picture that in her. It might not be a bad thing.
She gives him a parting nod as she gathers her books, holds them close to her chest as she makes her way to the entrance door. It's a small, quiet town, and the motel is just around the corner, yet Bellamy's stomach churns at the idea that she could run into trouble that late at night. But he also knows that she can hold her own, that she was trained to kill men twice her size and weight – she'll be alright.
So Bellamy focuses back on his job of serving and cleaning and serving again, until the clock above his head strikes three and he ushers the last patrons outside before closing the door behind him. His muscles are sore with exhaustion and too many an hour spent standing – his back hurting, his legs having seen better days – and so he drags himself down the streets and then up the stairs to their cheap, tiny motel room. As quiet as his heavy steps allow him, he sneaks inside, careful to wait a few seconds once he closes the door, for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. Then he gets rid of his shoes and pants and moves towards the bed.
The princess stirs in her sleep when he sits next to her, moving just enough so that her voice isn't muffled by the pillow against which her face is pressed. "Bellamy?" she asks in a whisper, voice heavy with sleep and eyes not opening.
"Yes, it's me," he replies just as softly, sneaking under the blankets next to her. "Go back to bed, Your Highness."
She only emits a hum of agreement before she presses her face back to the pillow, her breathing deeper and even in a matter of seconds. Bellamy is soon to follow her into slumber, too tired to let his mind wander and his thoughts keep him awake tonight.
…
He tries, and mostly fails, not to eye the office too inquisitively. It is unlike the other offices they have visited before, when meeting with various professors in various universities. This one is open and bright where the others were stuffy, almost empty where the other were filled to the rim with shelves and books and too many pieces of furniture for too little space. It's really basically just a desk and a computer, two notebooks and a pen sitting neatly next to it, and a bookshelf in the back. Pure. Empty.
The professor is a young woman whose name got lost on Bellamy the moment she introduced herself with a shake of the hand, but it's not the most important anyway. Her (potential) knowledge is.
Bellamy is startled by a kick in the shin, and so his eyes leave the only poster on the wall – something about the opera – to glare at the princess sitting in the chair next to him. Her legs are crossed at the ankles and her hands rest softly above a notebook on her lap, a smile on her lip as she chats away with the other woman. It comes so easily to her, the politeness and the clever discussions, that he lets her lead the conversation more often than not. Still, his focus would be appreciated, if the way she kicked his shin is anything to go by, so he looks back to the professor in front of them, sitting behind her desk with her arms folded on her chest. She looks casual about the conversation at head, like she's used to talking about magic and parallel realms on a daily basis.
"Like I told you over the phone," she tells them calmly, "I am an expert in the Wiccan religion. The kind of magic you're talking about is nothing more than Harry Potter stuff."
Harry Potter, the book about the kid with the glasses, Bellamy recites to himself. They've heard a lot about that bloody story since they started their researches. He's yet to put his hands on a single one of those books, but Bellamy already hates them with a burning passion. On principle.
(The princess scribbles down "wiccan?" on her notebook before looking up again. If she had glasses, it would be the moment she pushes them up her nose.)
"As for the parallels universes? That is way out of my field of expertise."
The princess isn't one to give up easily, though. "By in theory, would such a thing be possible? Curses and dark magic?"
"Yes. Without a doubt, yes. Most kinds of magic draw their strength from either the Earth or higher spirits, but that magic can be good or bad, depending of what you do with it."
"So cursing an entire kingdom could be possible, in theory?"
"In theory, yes. But that's not what you're really asking me, miss, is it now?"
The princess purses her lips, not even trying to hide how upset she feels in that moment. They've been walking on eggshells ever since they met with the first professor, a few months back, knowing fully well no one from the Land Without Magic would believe them if they started talking about, well, magic. They can't just go around telling stories of Dark Curses and Saviors and what-have-you without ringing a few alarm bells along the way.
"And what about the parallel realms?" she asks then, probably figuring it isn't worth the try.
The professor shakes her head. "Suppositions, nothing more. A few scientists have theories on the subject, but nothing is even close to being proven at that point. And it's obviously not within my domain of expertise."
The princess purses her lips once more, and shares a glance with Bellamy. All he needs is the tiniest shake of the head for her to understand the silence message he's conveying – they don't need to dwell on it all day, nothing useful will come out of this meeting anyway. As always. So the princess replies with an equally discreet nod before she focuses back on the professor in front of her with her brightest, most polite grin.
"Well, thank you for accepting to this meeting and for giving us some of your time, Professor."
The woman smiles, although sadly, like she wished she had given them the answers they came here for. Which is a nice thought, even if a worthless one. She stands up and holds her hand out for them to shake, which they do with more nice smiles and polite nods.
"Listen," she tells them as she goes for the door to her office. "I don't know what you are looking for, and why. But you seem to believe in it, whatever it is, so I do hope you can find the answers you're looking for."
They thank her again, even more so when she gives them the contact information from another professor in another university, saying he might help where she didn't.
The princess throws it away the moment they are outside, knowing fully well this professor isn't going to be of any help either – they visited his office not a month ago, after all. Then she looks up to Bellamy, eyes sad and empty and a little wet, and he squeezes her shoulder in what he hopes to be a comforting way. There's nothing much else he can do, at this point.
…
They move west in the summer. Long hours spent on uncomfortable buses, as they go through the notes they've taken of their readings and meetings with professors – they know them all by heart now, but it never stops them for scanning the pages one more time, for hoping this time it will help them find the missing piece to their mystery.
The bus stops in the middle of nowhere to fill its tank, and the princess wanders around while Bellamy goes inside the little shop to buy some snacks to keep them going until the night. He keeps glancing her way while he waits in line, the way she stretches out her arms to walk on a small wall, careful not to lose her balance and fall. She looks so young sometimes, a reminder to Bellamy that she is indeed young, barely a year older than Octavia.
He grabs the plastic bag and then strides back outside, only needing one shared glance with the princess for her to jump off the wall and follow him back to the bus. He holds his hand out to her so she can climb inside, and then follow her back to their seats. They munch on their sandwiches in peaceful silence as the bus crosses the country, and then share more theories before the princess's eyelids grow heavier.
The sun is still high in the sky when she falls asleep on Bellamy's shoulder, and he barely dares moving least he jolts her awake. With careful movements, he grabs a book in his backpack, some random novel they found in some random motel room, and starts reading to busy himself with something.
He's deep in the story when someone taps on his other shoulder, and he turns his head to a smiling old lady holding a box of cookies out to him. "Do you want some?" she asks softly, and he can only smile back at the small gesture.
"Yes, thank you," Bellamy replies as he grabs one of the treats.
The old lady shakes the box a little, the cookies rattling against the metal. "Take one for your little lady too. You two look so adorable together."
Bellamy flushes at the underlying meaning behind her words, but the princess is still asleep on his shoulder, fingers wrapped around his forearm, and he doesn't find it in himself to correct the old lady on her mistake. What would he say, anyway? That they're nothing but friends? That they come from another realm and he would never dream to court her because she's his future ruler? Even without that, she's so out of his league it's a little pathetic at that point? No, he can't say such things.
So he takes another cookie, his smile a little tighter, and thanks the old lady once more before going back to his reading. If he looks down to the princess and sighs softly, well, no one is there to witness it. A kitchen boy can dream, after all, it was never forbidden. And so, with such thoughts in mind, he adjusts his posture even so slightly so the princess's head won't fall down his shoulder, and focuses back on the book in his hand.
He reads for a few more hours, until the sky is dark outside the bus's window and his eyes hurt from trying to decipher the words with only the lights from the front of the bus. He gives up after a while and lets his head fall back against the seat, closing his eyes even if he forces himself not to sleep. They will arrive soon, anyway, and he'd rather be tired than groggy from a too short nap. It can only help with his mood, after all.
They soon arrive to their destination anyway, and then Bellamy is delicately rousting the princess from her sleep. Even without the lights on, she blinks up at him with confusion in her eyes, apparently lost as to where she is. Then realisation downs on her, and she sighs before she bents forwards to grab her backpack by her feet. He helps her up and then out the bus, fingers around her elbow for she's still half-asleep, and so not walking perfectly straight.
Once on the side of the road, he shares a tight-lipped smile with that same old lady from before – obviously charmed by his gentleman manners, mind you – before he grabs their travel bag from the bus's hold and drags the princess along to find shelter for the night. She all but drools on his chest as he deals with the woman behind the desk and pays for one night, rolling his eyes as the woman smiles knowingly at the scene, at his arm carefully wrapped around the princess's waist. That is two people in one day, which makes it two people too much.
Thankfully, the princess missed them both, and is deep in sleep when he tucks her under the covers of their bed for the night. He puts their bags in a corner and double-checks the door is indeed locked before he shrugs off his shoes, shirt and pants, follows her into the bed, and then sleep.
…
They find a studio to rent in some nameless town by the sea, a job in a bar to pay the bills, and more sand in their shoes that they know what to do with. The princess seems happier by the sea, laughing when the waves lick at her bare feet and drench the hem of her sundresses, smiling as she tilts her head to the sun and lets the wind blow in her hair. Bellamy can't say that he minds, loving the way her lips curve even when she doesn't mean too, and the pink that becomes permanent on the tip of her nose and ears.
His skin turns darker too, darker than it already was, and Bellamy can't say he minds either. They've been travelling, searching, for months now, and they finally allow themselves a well-deserved break before they grow mad – of each other or of their own minds, only time could tell. It's only a week or two, just to breathe and sleep, before they move south to the big universities they'll find there, move south and hope those professors will be more helpful than their colleagues from the east.
(Doubtful, but Bellamy knows better than to voice such a thought. One the princess shares, it is written all over her delicate features, but if they keep it silent, they can still pretend to have hope in their quest.)
The bar where he works closes on Sunday, and so he has no excuse as to refuse to spend the day at the beach with the princess, smiling softly as she shoves sandwiches, bottles of water and sugary snacks in her backpack with more determination that is asked of the task. She went shopping yesterday, now sporting a dress so long the hem brushes against her ankles and so thin it leaves little to the imagination as to the bathing suit she wears underneath. Bellamy's throat goes dry as he forces himself not to stare at the swell of her breasts or the little bows holding the bathing suit together at her hips – she'll be the death of him one day, but there are worse way to go.
She bought him a bathing suit too, the piece of clothing doubling as short pants, as well as a thinner shirt for him to wear in the sun. Very considerate of her, all things considered, even if he has no idea how she learnt his clothing size. He doesn't linger on such a thought, though, instead grabs the backpack and follows her outside the apartment.
It's a short journey to the beach, followed by hours of lounging in the sun and walking on the sand, waves lapping at their feet softly. It is all so nice that Bellamy could almost forget why they are here in the first place, forget it all about their impossible quest. If he closes his eyes, he can almost picture it – spending the summer here with her, powering on lazy days and juicy fruits, watching the sun set in the horizon and brushing the sand off her shoulders. It all sounds so idyllic, so far from the reality of their lives, that Bellamy allows himself such a beautiful fantasy, if only for a few minutes.
"Something is happening tomorrow," she tells him when they're both sitting in the sand, munching on their food as they watch the sun disappear into the sea.
"The bar is closed tomorrow," he adds, perhaps just to prove he knows, too. "Some kind of national holiday or party of sorts."
She nods pensively, and they both share the same thought – no matter how long they've been living in this realm, its customs are still foreign to them, forever will be perhaps. They will always be strangers, here, will never be able to make it their home. Not that they're planning to, anyway, but it is beside the point.
It is only the following day, when Bellamy sees the blue and red flags announcing the fourth of July, that he remembers having indeed read about that date and how important it is to the country they're currently in. Time passes strangely for them, a blur of long days and longer bus rides, so it does come as a surprise that this holiday is today of all days – how long have they been here? Does it really matter?
There is a party on the beach all through the day, with a bonfire and steaks cooking on a large barbecue, children screaming and running around, men acting like big stuffs around said fires and women speaking in groups of four or five. Bellamy and the princess are strangers in such a crowd, but an old lady thanks them for bringing the two bottles of juice they bought that morning as an after-thought, and soon they find themselves sitting on the sand with hot dogs in their hands.
The princess wrinkles her nose at a toddler eating mouthfuls of sand not far from them, and Bellamy can only laugh. She is used to grand balls and expensive gowns, not to the simplicity of parties thrown by commoners – Bellamy feels more at home here than she does, and it makes for a strange moment when she glares his way as if daring him to mock her. He never would (not openly, at least) so he shakes his head and rolls his eyes, and soon a tentative smile appears on her lips.
At some point, Bellamy can't even recall how, a bunch of children come near them with toothy grin and curious eyes. There is one girl, dark hair and blue eyes, who reminds him of Octavia so much his heart can barely takes it, and Bellamy leans towards her, asking in a fake whisper if she would like to hear a story. She nods all too eagerly, and so Bellamy sits a little straighter as he throws himself into the tale of Marian and the Merry Men, adding funny voices and expressive hand gestures to make his words more lively.
Most of the kids have gathered around them by the time he's done with the story, clapping cheerfully and asking for more, and so he does just that – stories of Snow White, of the warrior Mulan, of Zelena's greed. The children are enraptured by his words, but not as much as the princess. She hugs her legs to her chest, chin propped up on her knees, and listens with a soft smile on her lips and even softer look in her eyes, even if she must have heard the tales a hundred times when she was a wee girl.
They go back to their studio only when all the parents have dragged their offspring away from the beach, with no small amount of kicking and complaining from Bellamy's young audience. The princess takes a shower first, leaving steam on the mirrors and the bottle of shampoo opened when Bellamy steps into the bathroom after her. Scrubbing the sand off his skin takes longer than expected, but the cold water is a delight on his back and shoulder, washing away the exhaustion along with the dirt.
He slips into a pair of shorts and a simple shirt before he goes back to the main room, only to find the princess preparing a simple meal of tomatoes and cucumbers fresh out of the farmer's market – probably the top of her culinary skills, but Bellamy doesn't mind being the one cooking every night after she almost burnt down the entire place trying to make what was supposed to be scrambled eggs.
They're settling in for the night, she reading through their notes once more, he reading the end of his novel, when a loud sound startles them both and has them share alarmed looks. She's the fastest one to scramble to the window, Bellamy's feet barely touching the floor when her gasp fills the room, soon followed by another one of those loud sounds.
"Bellamy! Come and see!"
He does just that as she opens the window, leaning forwards to see better. She moves to the side when he comes near her, just in time to see the next set of fireworks exploding in the sky with reds and yellows. She gasps again, the sound happy and excited, and he can only smile at that, at how carefree she looks all of a sudden, the weight of the world no longer on her shoulders.
It doesn't last – it never does – and when the show is over and Bellamy looks down at her once more, it's to find tears pearling at the corners of her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. Alarmed and concerned, he puts a hand on her arm for her to look at him. "Are you alright?" he asks, even if he knows she's anything but.
She shakes her head with a sad little smile. "It's silly, I just – I miss home so much. There were always fireworks for my birthday."
Bellamy says, "Ah," and nothing else, because he has no idea how to comfort a crying girl, let alone a crying homesick princess. So he presses his lips into a thin line, thinking as fast as possible, racking his brains for something to say. The words tumble out of his mouth before he has time to think them twice. "Raven almost burnt down the entire castle for your sixteen birthday."
Which may not be the best story he has in store, not to mention Raven may kill him if she ever learns he told the story to one of the royals after they all swore to keep the incident between them. But the princess is looking at him with wide eyes, and the tale is too entertaining not to share, even more so if it is enough of a distraction for the tears to stop falling.
"She wanted the fireworks to be even more beautiful, since it was your coming-of-age birthday," he explains. "You know how she is with those things, always trying to enhance what is already working perfectly well. Anyway, she did try to play with the fireworks, to do gods know what. Long story short, Wick came along, and they started bickering about the details, and she got so upset at him that she lit up one of the rockets to prove him wrong. Right in the middle of the kitchens."
The princess presses a hand to her mouth so her fingers tone down the laugh bubbling out of her mouth – even with the social difference between royals and the downstairs crowd, Raven's rocky relationship with Wick, the castle's blacksmith, is known of all. She even shares a friendship of sorts with the princess, if Octavia's words are anything to go by.
"How have I never heard of this?"
"Well, it set a little fire in the kitchens, and we spent the best of the afternoon cleaning everything so nobody would notice the burnt wood. Raven was forbidden from ever touching the fireworks again, and Wick from starting a fight with her indoors. Oh, and one of Nathan's eyebrow burnt, too, so he pretended to be bed-ridden until it grew back because he couldn't bear for Monty to see him that way."
She's openly laughing now, and Bellamy stands a little straighter as pride surges through his veins at the way her eyes crinkle at the corners. He may get into trouble with Raven in a somewhat near future, but it will be worth it.
The princess doesn't thank him for the tale, not in so many words at least, but when they finally settle in bed for the night, she nudges his ankle with her cold toes, and perhaps it is enough as far as thanks go.
…
"Bellamy!"
He looks up from the cocktail he's serving – he can never get them quite right, no matter how hard he tries, and it needs all his attention – to find the princess entering the bar in a hurry, coming to stand right in front of him by the other side of the counter. The girl he's serving arches an eyebrow, and here goes his tip, but he doesn't find it in himself to care when the princess's eyes are so blue and wide and sparkling. She has a piece of paper in her hand, one she too happily brandishes in front of his face, and he has to hold a finger for her to stop for a second so he can do his job properly.
The girl glares at him as she takes the glass from his hand and, yes, she's definitely tipping him poorly after that. Whatever.
"What is it?" he asks as he focuses back on the princess.
"Good news!" she replies as she all but shoves the piece of paper in his hands.
They set up an e-mail address not so long after truly understanding how computers work, if only to contact all those professors they visited through the months. It's not something they use often, but the princess shakes it regularly from libraries' computers in hope someone will contact them and help with their quest. Which is exactly what happened, if the printed e-mail on the piece of paper is anything to go by.
It comes from one Maya Vie, who introduces herself as a college graduate working on a thesis about myths and fairytales, having heard of them from her thesis advisor. She says their story intrigues her, and that she may have information that could interest them. Bellamy arches an eyebrow as that.
"What kind of information could she have that her professor hasn't?" he asks, always one for pessimism.
"I don't know, but she doesn't live far and she wants to meet. What's there to lose?"
What, indeed, which is why they take a bus to Berkeley the following weekend, after a few more e-mails exchanged. If anything else, this Maya Vie sounds nice, so at least it would make for a useless but pleasant trip if her information turns out to be useless to them.
She waits for them at the bus station, bouncing on her feet a little too eagerly to Bellamy's liking, and smiling brightly when she recognizes them in the crowd of travellers. She's all grins and kind eyes when she walks towards them, and Bellamy is relieved when the princess's body tenses at the sight of the brunette girl. At least, and after all, he isn't the only weary one of the two.
The girl holds out a hand for the princess to shake, which she does carefully.
"Hello, I'm Maya. And you must be the Savior."
Bellamy's jaw goes slack.
