Princess of the Ground

Clarke had her elbows braced on her knees, her breaths shallow. She glanced around her dark tent, thankful no one was around to witness the shaking. Sweat beaded her temple, and although she'd just wiped a dirty sleeve across her face, the sweat had reappeared. Despite it, she shivered.

The 100 barely ate, barely slept—least of all Clarke Griffin. It had taken a large toll on her to be everywhere at once, always on the move, always making sure the others were well before herself.

Another Grounder raiding party had hit their camp, leaving the dropship a wreck, supplies littered across the damp ground, food opened and smashed.

Raven Reyes had been cornered by a Grounder. She'd been backed into a tree, and just as she raised an arm in an attempt to protect her face, Clarke had shielded the girl with her own body.

The Grounder had been armed with a wooden stick, metal shards sticking out of it. He'd hit Clarke three times with the blunt end, but on the fourth swing, the metal shards had come screaming through the air, piercing her side. She screamed, her whole body curling around the wound site, but when the Grounder ripped the weapon out, it sent Clarke to her knees.

"Clarke!" Raven yelled, scrambling to her side. "Are you okay?"

Clarke nodded, breathing heavily. "I'm good. We have to fend the rest of them off." She glanced over at a Grounder knocking over a crate of pots and pans. "We have to keep them from destroying all our food!" she groaned, struggling to her feet.

Raven placed her hands on Clarke's shoulders, holding her down. "I'll handle this. Stay put. That Grounder hit you hard."

"I'm fine," Clarke ground out, her right arm still wrapped around the left side of her body. "I can help."

"Then tend to the wounded," Raven said, her dark eyes shadowed. "We can't risk you getting hurt further."

Clarke opened her mouth to argue, but Raven was already running off to the center of the camp.

Now, after tending to the wounded—luckily only four in total—here Clarke sat, fighting for every breath.

She hadn't taken her hand from her side, so although she couldn't see the wound, enough blood had spilled between her fingers to guess the extent of the damage. Her shirt had been soaked through, including the waistband of her pants. Once in a while, Clarke's fingertips would slip and stab an entry wound, pulling a sharp hiss from her. No, it certainly wasn't good. She was scared to get up because even sitting down, dizziness threatened to pull her into unconsciousness.

Footsteps approached from outside her tent.

Clarke tried to get to her feet hurriedly, but when black crowded the border of her vision, she succumbed back to the edge of her cot with a groan.

"What, are you taking a breather, Princess?" Bellamy Blake teased, his deep voice gravelly. He swaggered into the tent, his thumb tucked in his waistband. Although his face was streaked with dirt and his eyes looked tired, the arrogant mask remained in place.

Clarke closed her eyes, sighing. She couldn't keep this injury a secret. Hiding it would be stupid—not to mention probably suicide. Of course, it just had to be Bellamy who walked in. She turned ever so slightly, the side of her head still mostly facing the young man. "Bellamy."

Bellamy's brows pursed and he shifted his weight onto his other foot. "What's wrong?"

She took another shallow breath, her lungs catching painfully.

Bellamy stepped closer. "Clarke?"

At last, Clarke steadied her left hand on the cot and pushed herself around fully.

Bellamy's face—tanned, dirty, and now more angular than it had been—paled. He quickly closed the space between them, his large hands reaching for Clarke's blood-soaked side. "What the hell happened?" His dark eyes were frantic, though his voice remained calm, if not a little angry. "Why didn't you tell anyone about this?"

"I'm the camp doctor," Clarke whispered. She didn't have the energy to force her voice any louder. "I take care of everyone else first, remember?"

"Is this the first time you're sitting down since the raid?" Bellamy grimaced as he peeled Clarke's blood-covered hand away. "Sorry," he whispered. After another moment, he glanced around the small space. When he didn't find what he was apparently looking for, Bellamy shrugged his jacket off and pulled his shirt over his head, pressing it into Clarke's side.

Clarke hissed, her muscles tensing. "I haven't looked at it." Bellamy raised a brow. "The wound," she said, wincing. "I haven't been able to take my hand away long enough to look at it."

"You still didn't answer me," he said a little softer. "What happened?"

"Grounder."

"Not to sound like an ass right now, Princess, but no shit." He adjusted the pressure of his hand. "I need to know what I'm dealing with when I take this shirt off."

Clarke sighed, closing her eyes, her cheek pulling up in another drawn-out grimace. "He was going after Raven. I put myself between them. He had some sort of wooden club." She swallowed. "The last hit punctured my side with the metal shards ground into the club's head."

"Shit," Bellamy hissed. He looked away, shaking his head slightly. He blinked four times. Then, he glanced back up at Clarke. "We have to look at this. I don't know much about medicine, but I'm pretty sure if one of those shards punctured something, you could have internal bleeding."

"That's what I'm hoping hasn't happened."

"I don't give a damn about hope," he growled, chucking the bloody shirt across the tent. "We're looking at this right now."

"Bellamy—"

"Clarke." Bellamy lifted a red palm, silencing her. "You'll have to talk me through this. I don't know enough to give a diagnosis." He eyed her, his features still stony. "Are you alright?"

"I'm awesome," Clarke croaked.

"Now isn't really the time for sarcasm, Princess."

Clarke swallowed the pain and the urge to scoff at the comment because any movement bigger than shallow breaths had blackness creeping at the edges of her vision. "Grab my medical bag," she whispered, inclining her chin at the corner of the tent. Bellamy obeyed. "You'll first need to clean the wound. After it's clean, you need to make sure there are no shards in the wound sites. Then, and only then, can you stitch me up." She flopped her head back down, the act of simply giving instructions using all the energy she had left.

Bellamy rustled through the small bag, but he paused and looked up, brow furrowed. "No pain pills? No anesthesia?"

Clarke's chest shook. The closest thing she allowed to a chuckle. "I'm a healer, Bell, not a doctor. And we're not on the Ark anymore. We don't have the luxury of numbing the pain."

Bellamy's jaw muscles twitched.

She clasped his jacket sleeve weakly, though there was fierceness in her tone. "I'll be fine. But the longer you sit here, the more blood I lose." She took a short breath. "I need you, Bellamy."

After a long moment, he met her gaze and nodded.

He moved deftly with a gentleness Clarke couldn't ever recall seeing before. After making sure she was as comfortable as possible, bottle of alcohol in hand, Bellamy looked at her. Although he forced the barest of smirks, Clarke could sense his unease. He wasn't a healer; he was a soldier, a guard. And she'd placed her wellbeing in his hands. Which could be the stupidest thing she'd ever done—and possibly the last. But seeing the steadiness in his hands, the strength that lay there, she knew he could do it.

At last, Bellamy lifted away Clarke's torn and bloodied shirt, drawing a sharp breath from the latter. He, too, sucked in a breath. "Holy shit."

"How bad is it?" Clarke asked, keeping her head reclined, saving energy.

"Well," he said, head tilted, "I can't see any of your organs, but there's at least a dozen puncture wounds, some deeper than others. Some have sliced through muscle." His eyes found hers. "This doesn't look great, Clarke."

"Doesn't feel too great either," she groaned.

"Here," he said, dangling a clean cloth near her face. She shot him a confused look. "Bite on it."

With a trembling hand, Clarke obeyed, wadding up the cloth and shoving it between her teeth. She certainly didn't want to bite through her tongue by accident.

Before she could even get a sound out, a stinging fire burned inside her. Clarke gasped, every muscle practically seizing at the extent of tension running through her body in answer to the alcohol Bellamy poured into her wounds. Through the blood roaring in her ears, she thought she heard him apologizing, but the world tilted. Warmth filled the cot beneath her, yet she couldn't piece together what it could be. Deep, pulsating pain spread from her side, down her hip and up her obliques. A small, muffled sound escaped around the material in her mouth, which drew a concerned look from Bellamy.

He reached a bloodied hand out. "Clarke—"

"Don't stop," she murmured, the words barely decipherable. She squeezed the hem of his jacket, the material balled in her fist.

He hesitated.

Clarke yanked on his jacket, grunting in both pain and frustration. Keep going.

Bellamy leaned forward, pouring over every hole in her side, every gash seeping blood and alcohol. But after several breathless moments, he said, "No shards."

Clarke closed her eyes, relief flooding through her.

But it was short lived.

Then came the first stitch. The needle pierced her already aching skin like a red-hot blade, and Clarke sucked in a precious breath. That was the longest and hardest part. They seemed to be never ending, and by the end, she swore her entire side had to be filled with thread. Her head swam, though the world around her moved less. Still unsteady, but she no longer felt like she floated in an ocean.

Bellamy pulled another stitch through, glancing down at Clarke's face twisted in a grimace. His voice was a soft whisper. "Strong Princess."

She removed the saliva-soaked cloth from her mouth and took a breath. Metal and dampness filled her senses. Along with pine, dirt, and a heavy musky scent. It was Bellamy, she realized. His natural scent. How could someone born and raised on the Ark smell so much like the earth?

"You're staring," Bellamy said, still focused on stitching. "I know I'm damn good looking."

"Shut up," Clarke breathed, still wary that a needle was moving in and out of her skin.

"You seem to be the only person in this camp who disagrees."

Clarke ground out, "Just because I don't throw myself at you to sleep with you?" She nearly chuckled. "Sharing a tent with you isn't exactly what I think about."

Bellamy shrugged, his hands purposeful and slow as he stitched. "What do you think about?"

"Staying alive," she admitted. "And keeping everyone else alive, too."

"Come on, that's no fun."

Clarke pushed herself up on her elbows. "This isn't about fun—" She hissed at the pain in her side and then groaned when Bellamy pushed her gently but firmly back onto the cot.

"What do we have if we don't have a little fun?" he said, continuing. "Surviving is exhausting. Do I know any of the girls' names that I bring into my tent?" He shook his head. "Of course not. It's not about that. It's about distraction. It's about doing things that will help me forget, even if it's just for an hour, that we're surrounded by death and danger."

Clarke stared at him. While she didn't agree with sleeping around with half the camp, she did understand his reasoning behind it. Her coping was getting lost in healing—in helping others. If her hands were busy, then she couldn't spiral.

At last, she said, "So that's why you do whatever the hell you want."

Not really a question, but Bellamy answered, "Yes." He paused, finished the final stitch, and sat up. He looked at her. "I could die tomorrow—I could have died today." He pointed a hand at her. "You could have died today." He folded his arms across his chest. "I'm tired of existing in fear."

Clarke scoffed. "Would you have really cared if I died today?"

Hurt limned his eyes, and after a moment he whispered, "More than I care to admit."

She wasn't sure what to do with that. For a while, it had been Finn. He'd been her escape from the fear and the pain of surviving. But when he'd returned to Raven, Clarke had let him go. Since then, surviving had become too much.

After the fact, Clarke realized that she hadn't loved him truly. She had just been grateful Finn made her feel something other than the pressure of staying alive. She'd savored the way she forgot when she was with him. The way nothing outside of Finn existed when they were together. The world could have been destroyed all over again and Clarke wouldn't have noticed.

But she didn't love him.

And that wouldn't have been fair to Finn or Raven for her to fight for somebody she didn't love and who loved a different girl.

Bellamy was different. He was a pain in the ass and arrogant as all hell, but he was smart and kind when it came down to it. She could trust him with her life, and he'd proved that to her on countless occasions.

Clarke stared up at him. "I'm surprised you even admitted that."

He raised a casual brow. "Well, you almost died, so I felt like you might need some reassurance."

Clarke laid flat with a huff. "I hate you."

Bellamy chuckled. "Tell me something I don't know." He began cleaning up the mess of bloody cloths, needles, and Clarke's medicine bag, clearly not expecting an actual answer.

Clarke caught his wrist, the movement searing her side. She ignored it. "More than I care to admit, I'm grateful for you," she said softly, her gaze latched onto his. "I'm thankful I don't have to lead alone. That you're here when I need you most."

Something in his eyes shuttered. His mask slipped. "You're welcome, Princess."

A grin picked at the corners of her lips. "I'm almost growing fond of that, too."

He turned fully, both hands on his hips, a sly grin on his face. Then, Bellamy's expression neutralized; he was already distancing himself from her, closing himself off. "You need to rest."

Clarke shook her head. "I'm fine."

"Listen, Princess, I shouldn't be the voice of reason between us. You lost a lot of blood, and if you try to get up, you may not get back up for quite a while."

"Stop that." She waved a hand, motioning Bellamy closer. "Help me up."

He took a step back and crossed his arms. "No. You need to rest." He stared at her, his dark eyes glistening. "I won't be responsible for you harming yourself further."

"Fine," she muttered, "I'll do it myself."

Clarke fought to her elbows, breaths coming quicker. Then, as gracefully as she could manage, she rolled onto her right side and placed her feet on the ground. The cot beneath her shifted, and vertigo hit her as hard as the Grounder's club. Clarke pushed to her feet only for all the remaining strength in her legs to dissipate.

She collapsed against the side of the cot, but Bellamy was there to take her arm.

"That was stupid, Clarke," he muttered. His hands were there, one around her bicep and the other at her back.

Though she hated to admit it, with him so near, she felt safe. She may have leaned into him.

He started to pick her up, but Clarke pushed away. "You need to rest," Bellamy said gently but firmly.

Clarke shook her head. "I'm tired of being in here." She glanced up at him. He stared at her intently, his brow furrowed in either anger or worry. Perhaps both. "I want to see the stars," she whispered.

"Then I'm coming with you."

She swallowed and nodded. The now sewn gashes in her side still burned, and every breath was a challenge. "I don't think I'd make it out of this tent without help anyway," she admitted. Her legs were weak and the blood loss still gave everything a slight spin when Clarke's eyes were open.

She reached a hand out, but instead of Bellamy taking it to help Clarke to her feet, he swatted the hand away and lifted her in his arms instead. "I can walk," she ground out as she clung to him.

Bellamy showed no emotion as he said, "This was easier."

In his left hand, he plucked up a blanket as he passed the end of Clarke's cot and then ducked under the tent flap out into the night.

She'd been right; the stars were on full display.

Sure, the stars had been visible on the Ark, but something about looking up at them from beneath the trees, the ground under her and the smell of dew and pine all around felt distinct. As if Clarke were seeing entirely different stars than the ones from space. Instead of being surrounded by metal and musty space air, she had the earth.

She glanced at the boy carrying her to the edge of camp.

She also had Bellamy. For all the times she'd yelled at him or thought him cocky or an ass, he'd remained by her side. When Murphy had almost hung him, Clarke had panicked. She'd gotten a split-second view of the world without him in it, and she'd wanted to vomit.

Like the hand he had pressed against her back now, Bellamy was always there—a steady presence and comfort.

Bellamy lowered Clarke onto a soft patch of moss just on the edge of the camp, far enough away from the fires to be able to see the ocean of stars above.

She grimaced at the pain in her side and exhaustion pulled at her, but she only looked up and breathed in the cool night air.

A blanket wrapped around Clarke and she glanced up at Bellamy who lowered himself next to her. "Thank you."

"Anything for you, Princess."

Normally Clarke would roll her eyes at that term as she had earlier, but the way he said it made her pause. There was no sarcasm, no arrogance in it. Bellamy said the word with endearment and gentleness. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

Bellamy shifted and looped an arm around her body, pulling her closer. "You know," he whispered, "you really should be resting."

"I am resting."

"I disagree."

Clarke craned her neck back to look up at him and whispered, "I've never been more at peace."

Despite the darkness, Bellamy's eyes twinkled in the starlight and the ghost of a smile appeared. "That," he said softly, "I agree with." He tucked her closer and Clarke savored his warmth and solidity.

Bellamy's fingers grazed Clarke's upward palm, so she slid her hand back, entwining their fingers together. His thumb rubbed the back of her hand in slow, soft circles.

She'd never witnessed such tenderness from him. Though part of her instinctively wanted to pull away, she smothered that instinct and breathed him in. Like Bellamy, his jacket smelled of earth and rain. The scent soothed her, and Clarke's eyes flitted shut as her body started to fight against her mind for rest.

"Brave Princess," Bellamy breathed, holding her close.

Clarke chuckled. "If I'm the Princess, then you must be my fearless Knight."

"A duty I would gladly bear."

As Clarke slipped into sleep, a chorus of crickets around them, she murmured, "Thank you, Bellamy."

Bellamy took three breaths before he muttered, "I would bear the pain of a thousand swords for you, Clarke."

She raised a brow, and after a moment of silence she said, "Were you scared tonight?"

He nodded. "Terrified."

Clarke squeezed his hand. "Thanks to you, I'm right here."

"Promise you won't do that again. I don't know if I could stand it."

She exhaled through her nose. "A Princess must protect her kingdom."

"There is no kingdom without its Princess." He chuckled softly. "Princess of the Ground."

She wrapped her other hand over both of theirs and said, "You saved me, Bellamy."

She hoped her tone conveyed everything she thought, everything she felt, but as she succumbed to exhaustion, she couldn't stay awake long enough to hear his reply.