Bellamy

Standing tall beside Clarke, hand clasped around hers, Bellamy listened to the Queen of the Ice Nation growl on and on about control, power, about the Sky People being relocated to her lands, about installing Clarke in Lexa's place, and he knew then- any semblance of alliance that Clarke had built here was just a means to an end for the queen. Even Clarke seemed to be realising that as she said, "Yes, I'll fight you. What you're planning is wrong."

When she said that, he squeezed her hand. He had been afraid when he'd seen her, that defeated look in her exhausted eyes, her weak but insistent pleas that he trust her, stay here, that the queen was on their side. Now he could see that she was realising the truth: they had no allies here. The queen had tortured her, she had manipulated her, and now she was going to use her.

But Clarke, strong as ever, rose above all that and defiantly refused. He could have kissed her. Now they would get to go home. Now they would be safe again.

He watched as the queen became enraged, watched as the guards advanced on them. All he could think about was Clarke, that this couldn't be for nothing, that she had been tortured and abused for weeks and he hadn't been here to do anything about it. But now he was here, and he'd be damned before he'd let anyone touch her again.

Shoving Clarke behind him, he spread his arms out and cocooned him to his back, wishing sorely for his gun as the guards advanced. His hands- his only weapons- tightened into fists and he knew he'd die before he let anyone take her from him now. There was a line, and these people were way over it.

The guards reached him and he threw his fist out, catching him in the jaw. His hand closed around the man's neck and squeezed while his other arm stayed between them and Clarke, as if that flimsy barrier could somehow keep her safe. But his arms and legs, his hands and feet, were he had, and he fought and fought, punching and grabbing, shoving and kicking.

He fought hard, but it was over fast. There were four of them and one of him, they were warriors raised to fight from childhood, and he'd had a couple years of guard training on the Ark. It wasn't a fair fight, not by a long shot, and soon he was being picked up and hauled away from Clarke, forced to the ground on his stomach, held in place by feet and hands. His teeth chewed concrete as they bashed his face into the ground, trying to force the fight out of him.

"Please!" he heard Clarke yell. "Don't do this."

"This was your choice, Clarke," he heard the queen respond. "I thought I had your loyalty, I offered you reward after reward, but now you spit in my face. Do you think I would let that go unpunished?"

Bellamy continued to struggle, trying to get up, but one of the men wrenched his head up by his hair and punched him hard across the face so he saw stars. He met Clarke's eyes, trying to convey to her, run, go now, get out of here, just run and don't stop- don't look back. But even as he tried to relay that message, he knew she wouldn't go.

There was a long moment where no one moved, no one spoke, and he and Clarke just kept each other's eyes. He wasn't consciously trying to convey anything to her now, maybe he believed they were both going to die and he wanted her to give her strength. He felt his heart pounding in his chest- he didn't want to watch her die. The thought was horrific, made him sick. He struggled again, but again he was subdued.

He watched Clarke look back to the queen and he saw in her face that she was formulating a plan, maybe one last-ditch effort to save them both.

Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted in his neck as something foreign and cold was embedded in his flesh, and he knew he was being injected with something. He tensed, making the pain worse, but the guards were holding his head like a vice, and all he could do was grunt through gritted teeth as he felt a cool liquid invading his veins.

Suddenly the coolness disappeared and was replaced with a burning, searing pain that started from the puncture mark and spread out over his whole body until he felt like the entirety of his skin was on fire.

Then everything went dark.

.

Eyes opened, then squeezed half-shut against bright lights, heart pounding, skin beaded in moisture, a fever pulsing beneath his flesh. A sudden boiling in his throat, head turned sideways, retching and vomiting up an acid rush of blood, aftertaste of iron, nearly choking.

Hair thickened into chunks, dripping, plastered with sweat onto mottled skin, vision blurry, delusions swimming before his eyes, haunted tableaus pushing him towards insanity, disembodied arms grabbing and pulling him under.

Then, long periods of nothing, time stretched to forever, room quiet and dark, the faraway murmurs of voices. Taking comfort in cold tile pressed against cheek, feeling hot breath, quick gasps against the floor, curled up, knees weak and turned into his stomach, back trembling, an unquenchable thirst, a hunger from the depths of his body, despair like a relentless pressure, closing in.

Shaking, shuddering, painful spasms of muscles, limbs alternating between tightening and trembling, rigid and release. Pain like sparks of fire along his body, unnerving crawling sensations of insects against his skin, then turning inward, burrowing down, scrabbling into his flesh and digging deeper. Panicked, urgent breaths, gasps of pain and dread, fingernails scratching into his skin, clawing deep, rivulets of blood creeping down to pool on the cold tile, sticky against his skin, heart pounding, head aching.

Someone beside him, kneeling, whispering in his ear, unintelligible behind the boiling blood liked a waterfall through his brain. Needle pushed into his neck, sharpness and pressure at the same time, coolness and fire, then incredible relief spreading outward through each cell of his body, pleasure better than any he'd ever felt. An ecstasy running through his veins, silencing all thoughts and fears, leaving him blissful and unaware, his curled up body heavy and lethargic, slow and dull, his worries far away and half-forgotten.

Time stretching away from him, phases repeating- pain, pleasure, oblivion, pain, pleasure, oblivion- but otherwise no measure of passing hours, days, weeks, years, no concept. No way of knowing.

Men coming in, holding chains, locking them heavy around his wrists. Clarke is brought to him and her face is a collection of horror- big eyes, mouth dropped open, cheeks bathed in tears. He heaves in huge breaths as he smells her fear growing, and he clenches his fists, eyes fixed to the floor, all his power focused on not moving- if he stands still, if he doesn't go anywhere, he can't hurt her. Even when promised what he craves most, he doesn't move.

Instead, they shove her closer, tell her she deserves this, that she has to obey if she wants to be safe. He hears bursts of conversation, not always able to focus on the words- someone is angry, someone has taken Lexa's body, Clarke is inspiring unrest in Polis, and the queen won't stand for it- this is her punishment, to be here with him, to see what they can do, the power they hold over all of them.

Concentrating every ounce of strength and discipline on not hurting her, she makes it difficult when she raises a hand, then impossible as her fingertips alight on his skin that is already crawling, already oversensitive and raw. There is nothing like awareness, nothing like choice or control, as he whips his head to the side and sinks his teeth into her arm, wrenching back with her flesh, her screams only driving him to do it again and again.

Beaten back with clubs and forced away from her, he crashes into the wall and grunts in pain, raising his arms. Clarke is dragged from the room and he is left alone in a pool of her blood, his body broken and trembling, his mind wild with disjointed thoughts- how badly did he hurt her? Was that really her arm, or was it her neck? Did he kill her? Would she ever forgive him?

Red quiets all those thoughts, and the ecstasy that follows is filled with promises- causing pain is his swiftest road to the drug. As long as he obeys, he will be rewarded. Don't think, just do. The drug is all that matters.

Long hours of pain and suffering, his body shaking with need, crying out from the pain of cravings, the yearning so intense it makes him scream in agony, pound on the walls and yell for more, no longer thinking of anything but the drug. All other thoughts seem far away and inconsequential.

A sudden presence, breath added to his own, quick gasps of fear, quickened heartbeat pounding from across the room, skipping like a rabbit. Warm body like a beacon, drawing him in, screams of fright like music, the promise of Red droned through a speaker, Red in exchange for silencing that heartbeat- bliss in exchange for death.

Soft gasps of fear, the acrid smell of sweat erupting in the little room, feet scrambling, useless attempts at escape. His feet much faster, his movements much quicker, the distance closed between the two of them with pinpoint accuracy, even in the darkness.

A face coming into view, an arrangement of features- here a mouth, there a shoulder, hair hanging in braids, beard thick, eyes wide in terror, hands up trying desperately to fend off, to defend. Nails raking into warm skin, screams growing louder now, terror turned to choking dread. Arms grabbing, nails digging, head bowed to bite cheeks, salty tears against his tongue, jaws working, teeth tearing at tender lumps of flesh.

Hands holding, teeth moving downward, lips closing over that pulsing source of life- jugular torn free, ripped from the neck, blood thick and brackish, coating his face, congealing in the hollows of his throat. Limp body beneath him, eyes gone cold, mouth slack, he lets the unknown Grounder fall to the ground and rocks back on his heels, mumbling. No speech, no thoughts clear enough to make speech come properly now, no need of it.

Men come in, and he knows that they bring his reward, that he should not attack them, even as he counts out the rhythms of their heartbeats, knows just where to strike. He remains on his knees, chest heaving, anticipation growing, waiting for his prize. Turning his head to the side, exposing his neck, feeling that sweet release with that deep stab of the needle, the Red rushes through him and he falls to the ground again, nothing but a lump, a heap of ecstatic stupor.

Then more time, no meaning to any of it- pain, pleasure, oblivion- until the door opens again, and again someone is thrown into the room. He doesn't move from where he sits against the wall, just listening- enjoying the sound of quickened heartbeat, of scrabbling feet, hands clawing for a way out, desperation growing thick in the air and then deflating into submission, resignation to the fact that there is no way out, no escape.

It is when this desperation hits that he launches himself, like a predator towards its prey, honing in on that panic like bait, hearing tears starting, hearing the catch of breath and panicked, half-swallowed sob of, "Please!"

Something familiar in the voice registers somewhere in the deepest part of him, but his body moves anyway, closing distance, knowing that through this vessel of human suffering lies his release- he needs only quiet it first, reach out with hands and teeth and shut off this life, and then he will be given what he needs.

He sees Echo's face before his and recognises her, knows it's her, knows that he will kill her now- has no reaction to that fact. All he sees is the Red, nothing else matters. His feelings for this woman are buried deep inside a body that is straining for the drug, and her death seems like such a little thing to exchange for something so good.

"Bellamy, please!" she yells, terrified, crying, shrinking away from him and making herself small, cowering in fear against the wall, in this room with no escape, where he bears down on her like a growling, salivating monster.

He watches her collapse to the floor and coil her body, trying to curl into herself, as though she could find a way out by holding onto herself, see herself through this if only she doesn't let go.

The worst part is that he knows her, feels the affection he has for her, understands what she's done for him, what she means to him, and doesn't care.

"Don't do this!" she yells, sobbing, terrified. "Fight it!"

He grabs her, watching as her face collapses, watching the knowledge sink in that this is it, there is no getting out. He feels her soft body crumple in his grip as he throws her against the wall, watching her sink low, eyes dazed, body broken.

He yells at her, tries to tell her he is sorry even though he isn't, but his mouth doesn't cooperate, the words coming out in a garbled, yelling, meaningless mess. The frustration this causes only makes him want the Red more and in the next second he's on her, his fingers digging into her neck, hands squeezing, watching as her eyes roll back in her head.

Once she is unconscious he leans down and tears out her throat, his tongue bathed in her blood, staying there as the rhythmic pounding slows, slows, slows, and then stops. It's done. He pulls back, licking her blood from his lips, swallowing it down like an appetiser before leaning back from her body.

In the soft, muffled pause between this moment and the next, he looks at Echo's body and feels a keening sense of loss, of grief and guilt that hurts so bad he feels wrecked by it. He wants to hold her, whisper apologies into her ears until she wakes up, to make her live again.

Then the guards come in, Echo's body is removed, he turns his head to the side, and everything turns, again, to blissful oblivion.