Octavia.
Her own name echoes through her mind.
Octavia. It always matched with Bellamy, didn't it? The two of them were never apart.
She remembers the weight of her sword in her hand, the day she moved through the battle as if she was dancing, her moves swift and quick, slaying, killing without a stop, as she could hardly breath. She had heard Lexa's and Indra's voices in the midst of the fight, calling out for people and shouting orders. The commander was that furious, wasn't she? It was her revenge against the Ice Nation, the price that had to be paid for Costia's death. And since Mount Weather had been taken down a few weeks before, Sky People and grounders worked hand in hand to plan that attack. She was so sure, O. The warrior she was felt right in her element, ending lives quicker than thoughts.
She remembers scanning the icy battlefield searching for familial faces. She had overseen Clarke's, with her jaw soaked in blood, Kane's with a gun on his shoulder. But Bellamy was nowhere to be seen. Though, she didn't have to worry. Her brother and her both fought like lions and growled like wolves. He was fine. He had to be. So dancing through corpses she did, slicing her way to the king of the Azgedakru.
She remembers facing him and turning pale. He was a warrior himself, and she was not ready to face such an enemy yet. She remembers her own shout. emAi laik Okteivia kom Trigedakru, and I will end you!/em She remembers his mocking laugh as the sword he held sliced the air towards her, and how another voice echoed to her ears before a body blocked the way between the weapon and her as a shield ade of flesh. Don't touch her!
That awful sound of steel cutting through muscles, veins and bones.
She remembers it all too well, the way Bellamy's voice was quiet and tender as her tears rolled down her cheeks. Her tearing the king's sword from the hand she cut off, unaware that the battlefield had gone silent, one of the leaders fallen. Her ignoring the whimpering of that dying man and hating him with every fiber of her being, because if it wasn't for him, her brother would not be so cold in her arms.
She remembers cradling Bellamy in her arms and letting herself cry, as if the tears could heal the wound that had divided his chest and clean their bodies soaked with blood. She remembers the words he whispered before closing his eyes and being terribly, awfully still while she was begging him to stay. To not leave her alone. More on her own that she had ever been.
The words still burn in her mind when she pulls her brother's body closer to her when people try to take him away from her. He's mine, she hisses. Don't touch him.
That is what he had said.
That she was his sister.
That she was his responsibility.