Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When he is thirteen, Bellamy Blake is young, suspicious, and struggling.

His mother dies, leaving two children in a large city. Some would call her a questionable woman, a dishonorable one. Aurora Blake did not talk about her past when she was alive. She barely spoke of her own present. Instead, Bellamy's memories of her are filled with fables and myths. Bedtime stories are careful lessons, and the epics told while waiting out sandstorms are inspirations. Sitting next to his mother, Bellamy would beam as she told him stories of great rulers from a different time and land. Octavia would shift restlessly on her brother's knee. She'd much rather act out the battle scenes.

Then Aurora dies, and Octavia buries her tear-streaked face in Bellamy's neck as he whispers the stories through his own sorrow. What he retains of his mother are stories of grandeur and a life larger than what Aurora could have ever hoped for.

Bellamy does what he can to support his sister, whether it be by taking undesirable jobs or stealing. The trade routes go through the area, but that's all they have. There’s not a lot of water for farmland or livestock, so not many laboring jobs. Octavia doesn't know how exactly he puts food on the table. She can never know. Just like Aurora protected them, he will protect his sister. Life has never been easy for them, but he knows it will only get harder.

Bellamy weaves through crowds and is silent on his feet. He overhears the wealthy speaking in hushed circles, how they want to leave with their treasure before their luck runs out. He doesn't know too much about politics or war, but Bellamy knows that he also wants to get out if things take a turn for the worst. Octavia cannot become a victim of rape and slavery.

Unfortunately, escape is not an option for two poor orphans. The city gets more and more destitute, and pretty soon the best option for Bellamy is enlisting in the ragtag army.

He makes friends quickly with other boys—some even younger than him— stuck in similar situations. They form friendships over their distaste for the upper class who live in luxury while the rest of them are struggling. It’s a hard life, but at least he brings in a regular income.

"O?" Bellamy yells, stumbling down rough stone steps into their home. Another day of training gone by, but this one was a little more positive than usual.

"What?" A voice hollers back, laced with annoyance.

Bellamy walks into the room, squinting in the dim light. "Damn, O, you'll ruin your eyes in this light."

Octavia huffs, stirring a vat of what is probably the landlord's laundry. "The windows are dirty, and it's no use cleaning them because they'll get covered in shit again. And I can't open them otherwise the shit falls inside whenever a cart goes by!"

"Alright, alright." Bellamy collapses in a chair, running a hand over his face. "You hungry?"

"Give me a minute." Octavia pulls wet clothes from the vat, wringing them out and then dumping them in a basket. Bellamy would stand to help, but he can barely lift his own arms at the moment.

"How was training?" Octavia grunts with exertion.

"Fine," Bellamy says, making a mental note to teach her the new disarming technique he learned. "Exhausting."

"At least you're doing something," Octavia mutters.

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. "You think you're not? Making sure we have a place to live—"

"I know, Bellamy," Octavia snaps, bending down to pick up the basket that's almost the same size as she is. It's an argument they've had before. "I'll be back—“

"Wait," Bellamy fishes out a silver coin from his money pouch. "Give this to the Captain. Advance payment for next month."

"Where'd you find the money?" Octavia asks, bracing the basket on one hip and taking the coin.

Bellamy grins. "I'll tell you all about it over dinner."

Octavia comes back, bearing the welcome news that their landlord, Captain David Miller of the city guard, was very happy to receive the advanced payment. ‘Good,’ Bellamy thinks to himself, ‘He might be lenient in a difficult month.’

Between bites of stale flatbread and watery soup, Bellamy tells Octavia about the promotion.

"It's not anything prestigious," he says. "But it's a step up from cadet, and it means I'm out of training. I'll be an official member of the city guard."

"Congratulations," Octavia says, and she smiles. A rare, genuine smile that is full of light.

Bellamy grins back at his little sister. “I brought something else home,” he says, pulling something out of his bag and nodding to her. He puts the it on the table in front of him. “To celebrate.”

Octavia studies at the object. It’s round, colored a dark seductive red.

"The owner of that fruit stall, the one north of the Square, told me it's called a pomegranate.”

Bellamy uses his knife to pry the fruit apart. Octavia shrieks in surprise when a few red seeds scatter as he rips it open. They eat a little, then Octavia carefully wraps the remains for later.

Bellamy is up and out of the hovel they call a house before Octavia awakes the next day. He climbs out of their basement level room into the road. Soon, the streets will be crawling with merchants trying to make a profit and people looking for easy work. Now, with the sun barely risen, the city is a little sleepier.

All the better for Bellamy. He tosses a few pomegranate seeds in his mouth before leaving, taking the shortest route through backstreets and alleys to the training yards. As usual, he's one of the first ones there. Bellamy grabs the leather tunic that is the least ripped, the most balanced sword. “Old” is a kind way to describe the supplies of Masnae's armories, and the materials set aside for the trainees is worse.

Bellamy is already going through drills when the rest of the boys show up and their training starts. They spar with clubs and swords and spears. Run around the complex, then climb walls. A bow and quiver of arrows is placed in his hand, and Bellamy zeroes in on the target.

He's frowning at his last shot— it went a little wide— when a strong hand clapping him on the shoulder breaks Bellamy out of his careful concentration.

"You need to pay attention to your bow, yes, but zone out like that in battle and you're dead."

“Yes, Captain,” Bellamy says.

Captain Miller nods at his target before deciding to pick up a conversation. "Good work,” he says, "I heard about your upcoming promotion, a year ahead of schedule. You’re a tough kid, Blake."

"Thank you, sir."

Bellamy shifts. Captain Miller is his landlord and superior. He’s outranked and on edge.

Miller studies him for a second before nodding. "You haven't just caught my eye. Commander Shumway wants to see you."

"Commander Shumway?" Bellamy repeats, even though he heard just fine.

"Go on." The captain takes the bow and quiver from Bellamy. "Don't want to keep him waiting."

"Yessir," Bellamy says, then he's off. He knows where Shumway's office is. It's never a good thing to be sent there, either when you are a new recruit or a slightly more experienced cadet. But now…well, Bellamy is hoping for some good news.

He gets it, sort of.

"What happened?" Nathan Miller, the Captain's son, asks him at their afternoon break.

"Did you get in trouble?" Jasper's looks at Bellamy with wide eyes as he stuffs some salted meat in his mouth.

"He just wanted to congratulate me," Bellamy shrugs, tossing his own bruised fruit between his hands. "Said he was going to keep an eye on me."

"Well, that's a good thing, right?" Miller says.

Murphy snorts. "Or a very bad one."

"Can't move a toe out of line now, can you, Blake?" Mbege snickers.

Bellamy rolls his eyes. "Hopefully it means I get promoted fast and don't have to deal with your sorry asses anymore." He cuffs Jasper over the head, ignoring the squawk of indignation. "Don't eat so fast or you'll get sick."

These kids are younger than Bellamy, but they started younger than him too. It's a tragedy, seeing Jasper's lanky frame sag under the weight of armor or the ill-fitting helmet on Murphy's head, but there's no other choice for them. It was either this or steal.

Murphy had chosen stealing. Plenty of them had. There was a sort of kinship that developed when you meet the eye of another kid who was eyeing the same stall with an absentminded vendor. They never interacted, but these delinquent children knew the city better than anyone. Bellamy never knew any of them by name until they joined the guard.

He remembers the day he met Murphy clearly. Bellamy had seen Murphy pocket a roll, and then followed him to an alley. "You know, I could turn you in for stealing."

Murphy had sneered. "You think you're so much better than me?” he’d asked, “You steal too."

"Not anymore.”

Bellamy told Murphy about the guard. The training was punishing, but some sort of afternoon meal was always guaranteed. A small salary was given. "It's not great,” he’d explained, “but it's better than risking your life every day."

Not one week later, the guard saw a surge in recruitments. He was the one that took these delinquents-turned-guardsmen under his wing. He was the one who started reaching out to them in the first place, claiming them as his friends.

It’s been nothing but difficult since then. They don't seem to like him much on the outside, but Bellamy knows they are loyal. The loyalty didn’t come without a price. He’s had to prove himself constantly, keep them in line. But one day, he thinks it will pay off.

"Faster, Blake!" The sword-master in front of him whaps him with his wooden sword.  

Bellamy blinks the sweat out of his eyes, tuning out the jeering of the boys behind him to better focus on deflecting the lightning-quick attacks. He lasts about five minutes before being knocked down.

"Good, but not good enough,” the sword-master says, and he helps him up. "You need to stop thinking so much."

"Yessir." Bellamy wipes the sweat off his face with the collar of his shirt.

"Go get some water," he says, then turns to the crowd. "Conner, you're up!"

Training is brutal, corruption is rampant, injustices are many. Yet the city guard is the only thing keeping Bellamy and Octavia afloat. He does his duty, gets promoted and congratulated. He stands still in wide avenues as the rich are carried past by their servants, brakes up fights in filthy streets. All the while, he tries to do right by the men under his command and keep Octavia safe.

It's never enough.

It's not enough when Murphy gets kicked out for an accident that resulted in death or when Diggs is sent into a riot and never comes out. Bellamy never really recovers from cutting off the hand of a man who stole while his children wailed in the background.

It lasts a few years. People get more and more upset, and Bellamy isn't always sure he's going to come out of some squabbles. He gets his fair share of scars. Half of the city looks the worst it's ever been, and the other half Bellamy is disgusted to see. He still takes shifts in the wide opulent avenues, and all he sees there is more gold and silks. He's not the only one to witness the change, and he hears plenty about it.

Bellamy decides to use the discontent. The powerlessness he’s felt his entire life has eaten away at him. So many times, he’s felt like he wasn’t in control of his own life. Never again.

"Quiet," Bellamy hisses to the boys behind him.

He hears a muffled "sorry," probably from Jasper, but keeps creeping along the wall to the armory. As the small team goes, they dispatch guards silently and extinguish the flames from torches. Bellamy glances back occasionally to make sure they aren't leaving obvious signs of a struggle in the dusty road.

At the door to the armory, there are four guards. Bellamy quickly peeks around the corner and then draws back, motioning with his hands to indicate the plan. In less than a minute, three of the guards are dead. The last guard pulls off his helmet, running a hand over short-cropped hair. "I'm so glad I never have to wear those helmets again," he says.

"Good work, Miller." Bellamy clasps him on the shoulder. Without Miller's guard rotation and access to keys, they wouldn't have gotten this far. The group of men swiftly sneak into the armory and start claiming weapons.

"Light the signal fire," Bellamy commands once he's strapped on a sword belt and chosen an assortment of other weapons. He also dons some leather, which provides minimal protection but allows him to move.

A few minutes after one solitary lamp is lit, a stream of people rush into the armory. They are men who were wronged and have starving families to provide for. Sons who were disowned for a foolish, youthful act. Women who had everything taken from them and couldn't be shaken by war or blood or the judgment they will face. They grab weapons in silence, preserving the humming energy that has the hair on the back of Bellamy's neck rising.

"My friends," Bellamy greets. He does not need to raise his voice to be heard, but the tone he uses is different from when he speaks to his sister or the delinquents. It is deeper, fuller, with heat and fury lying under the surface. "The rich have wronged us. Our lives have been destroyed, stifled, and tainted by this city. Tonight, we take it and give it back to the people. No more unfair laws and tyranny. Tonight, we fight for justice!"

With a roar that must awake the whole city, the mob leaves the building. Slaughter ensues. The guards are killed where they stand. Some got the opportunity to join the revolution and refused. Others were men that Bellamy knew would never turn their backs on the wealthy that paid them. Whatever the reason, they are paying for it now. The upper class are dragged out of their grand mansions, at the mercy of the people.

Not every innocent can be spared. Not every life taken is necessary. Bellamy knows he this night will be an important lesson for him, but he can’t spare a thought for that now. First he has to claim his power, then he can worry about how he’ll distribute justice.

Blood mixes with the pale, dusty earth as Bellamy picks his way down the street. Barracks and training complexes gleam empty in the moonlight, occasionally stained with a patch of dark crimson.

"The dead are being moved to the city center to be identified.” He’s not surprised at the companion that joins him. Miller follows him like a shadow.

Bellamy nods at his friend briefly before lowering his head. “Start digging graves,” he says.

Miller's mouth twists. "Already?"

"There will be years to celebrate our victory," Bellamy says, pausing in his walk and facing Miller head-on, "But bodies will start to decay. While the plaza is the most convenient place to gather the dead, it will also reek and infect the city."

Understanding dawns on Miller's face, and he hurries to do Bellamy’s bidding.

Torches are relit as Bellamy walks. People come up to him, clap him on the back or clutch his arm. This was the important part. In the absence of a clear ruler, there was a vacuum. Anyone could stand and take control, but Bellamy made sure that everyone knew it was his plan, his words that inspired the rebellion. It came from carefully chosen friends and gossipers, just a sentence whispered into the night. The nature of gossip and twisted words would make rumors grow.

"Bellamy!" A tradesman calls him. It takes a moment to recognize the man he goes to for rare fruits for his sister. "Our conquering hero! You deserve a parade fit for a king."

"The work isn't done yet," he responds, clapping the man’s shoulder. "We need to rebuild, figure out who our new ruler will be."

Bellamy isn't blind to the gathered crowd. The square he's stopped in is lined with houses, with filth and mud creeping up the walls. Windows and doors are open, people leaning out of their homes to shout at each other. The washing hangs from string crisscrossing the sky like a web. It was in squares like this that the seeds of destruction for the old regime sprouted. And it is here that a new power will rise.

The tradesman's face falls a bit. "You won't lead us?"

People whisper to each other, casting furtive glances at him. Bellamy ignores this, putting a conciliatory face on. "I fight so the people had more say. I'll hardly take away their right to choose their leader."

"We chose you!" Someone shouts. Others join the cheer, some chanting his name. Suddenly, Bellamy is leading a procession to the city center. More and more people join as they walk closer, following the mob.

Miller reappears and melts into the crowd at Bellamy's side, leaning close so they can talk. "That went better than expected," he says with a smile. "How'd it happen?"

"Exactly as Murphy predicted," Bellamy says. "He's a slimy worm, but he does know people."

Lost and without leadership, a few people turned to Bellamy. When others saw this they joined the group, and then Bellamy took advantage of mob mentality. It was mostly Murphy's plan, but it never could have worked without Bellamy's charisma.

He charms people as he accepts their thanks and their outstretched hands. With his voice, he rallies them and fills their hearts with hope. By sunrise, Bellamy Blake, a poor orphan boy from the rough side of town, has become the Rebel King. Never again will he be at the mercy of another person’s rule.

News of the revolution spreads slowly through the desert. Their city is one dependent on trade, so Bellamy spends most of his time repairing relations and assuring merchants that they will be safe crossing through his city. Tax codes have to be modified. Defenses rebuilt, bureaucracy maintained, and all the dull parts of ruling. But Bellamy is in control.

It takes a year for things to settle a little. Then the whispers of unrest from other cities and larger kingdoms start to reach his ears.

Bellamy has always taken advantage of an opportunity. He sends Murphy to Buhan, stronghold of the desert, disguised as a merchant. He comes back with encouraging news. There are stories about the Rebel King. The situation in the neighboring city state mirrors what their home was a year ago: higher taxes due the rulers wanting to maintain the same level of income despite falling trade, random bandit attacks on Royal caravans. Crucial differences, like an inside man in the guard and strong leadership, prevent a rebellion.

Instead, Bellamy stages an attack. Murphy goes back to rally the people. With desperate tradesmen and workers on the inside, the massive gates to the city are easily opened. Not one wall had to be knocked down, which makes it easier when Bellamy takes control. Outposts and villages easily relent under the weight of his new army.

Murphy suggests that leadership of the city go to a woman named Emori and her brother, who were instrumental on the inside. They are a little rough for Bellamy's taste—far too spiteful—but they are also knowledgeable about the city and its people. He lays down his law firmly and makes it clear what will happen if anyone goes against it.

What sets Bellamy apart, he thinks, is his knowledge of people. He can fell a city from the inside because he knows how arrogant nobles treat the lower class. He can tell when he needs to muster his armies and stage a full on attack because the people in that kingdom are content. Unfortunately, certain kingdoms have trade routes or waterways that Bellamy really would like. Even if everyone there is happy, his first priority is the happiness of his own people. If that means knocking down walls and going to war, so be it.

The tricky part is gaining the loyalty of conquered people. Bellamy gets used to sending in Murphy to do his inside work and manipulate minds a little while he works from the outside, but that’s not always an option.

"Bellamy Blake," He introduces himself, holding an arm out.

The man in front of him is both wider and taller, and his grip on Bellamy's arm is firm. He introduces himself as “Lincoln. Forgive me, we do not know much about you here."

It's politely saying that the people don't know whether to call him "my lord" or "your grace" or "sir.”

"Just Bellamy is fine," he says. It's alright for Lincoln, who'll hopefully be working closely with Bellamy. Others will call him whatever they want to, but that doesn't seem to convince Lincoln. Bellamy works to get on the man's good side.

He sits down and waves a hand for Lincoln to do the same. “You and I are not so different,” Bellamy starts.

"Really?" Lincoln deadpans. The only disadvantage to encouraging familiarity with people is that they lose a healthy dose of fear.

"Really," he responds. The room they are set up in is one of many in the old governor's palace. Already, armies are working on conquering the rest of the lands. The governor himself is in his old dungeons. "We come from the same class. You are a guardsman, and that's all you ever have been, no? You exhibit some qualities of leadership, since you were elected to be your people's representative here today."

Lincoln's expression doesn't waver, which would intimidate Bellamy if he wasn't sure he had the upper hand. "Or maybe my people were so sure of a trap that they sent me to be slaughtered," he says.

Bellamy laughs, shaking his head. "Well, I suppose I can't fault you for being cautious."

Again, Lincoln’s expression does not waver, and he looks at the Rebel King with cautiousness in his eyes. ‘Shit,’ Bellamy thinks to himself. ‘He was being serious.’

The doors at the back of the room burst open without warning, and he sees Octavia out the corner of his eye.

She runs across the room and ignores the guards that call her back, brushes them off when they try to pull her out of the room. "Bellamy!" she calls out.

"My lady, this is a private meeting!" a newly-hired cadet says. He reaches out and places a firm grip on her arm.

By the time he realizes his mistake, it’s too late. Octavia reels back, pushing him away from her with surprising strength. "Don't you dare touch me!" she spits.

"Leave us," Bellamy commands.

He is slightly angry with her behavior, but revealing that in front of this man isn't wise. He hates to admit it, but Lincoln's admission puts a wrench in his plans. Octavia's interruption, while rude, gives him time. Lincoln is surprised enough, stunned by a woman in a tunic and pants and jewels and dirt in her nails, to give Bellamy a second to think. 

When the guards back out with bows, Bellamy raises an eyebrow at Octavia. "Well?" he asks.

She looks a little chagrinned and shrugs. "Sorry."

"No, you're not," Bellamy scoffs. "What is it?"

"Murphy," Octavia spits. "He's been spreading rumors about me, again. Calls me your crazy sister, for wanting to learn to defend myself, and then starts talking about how ‘only a brave man could ever hope to tame her—‘”

"He what?" Bellamy's vision turns red.

Plenty of offers for marriage have come for both siblings, but neither had accepted. He came close with Raven, purely for political reasons. In the end he figured out she was a genius being used as a political pawn, so he took her city and made Raven one of his advisors. She was the most intelligent person he’d ever met, and she made a good ruler in his place. Octavia entertained a few suitors, but as soon as she gave the word that she wanted them gone, they were gone. Bellamy knew some would use their family as political pieces, but that would not happen to Octavia. Not under his watch.

"Usually it wouldn't bother me, but he's being quite vocal,” the younger sibling says, crossing her arms.

Murphy has always been a thorn in his side, but his uses have usually outweighed his offences. Bellamy sighs heavily, making a decision. "Get Miller to bring in Murphy for a meeting," he says. He would rough up the man a little, remind him who's in charge.

"Fine," Octavia says. Her eyes widen a little when she meets the stare of her brother’s guest. “Oh… hello.”

“My lady,” Lincoln greets, standing from his chair and bowing toward her.

Bellamy resists the urge to roll his eyes. "O, this is Lincoln,” he explains, “the reluctant representative of the locals. Lincoln, my sister, Octavia."

"Reluctant representative? That sounds fun." Octavia plops herself down on a couch.

It'll take more effort to get her to leave than to work with her there, so Bellamy allows Octavia to stay. When Lincoln reports back to whoever is really in charge, he can at least tell them how Bellamy treats women and they can avoid any misunderstandings. Women’s rights are a slow process in his kingdom so far, but at least Bellamy has gotten property ownership and divorce proceedings dealt with.

Octavia's presence seems to put Lincoln off kilter, but that works in their favor. He opens up a little more, probably more than he would have with only Bellamy. As it turns out, Lincoln has traveled far and wide and knows the region better than almost anyone. He is not from this city, but gets along well enough with the people. While Octavia and Lincoln talk of his adventures to Tondisi and beyond, Bellamy makes his plan.

"I will give this region a good deal of autonomy," Bellamy decides. "Go back to your leader, figure out who will lead this city and how, and come back with a plan that I find acceptable. All I ask in return is loyalty."

Lincoln quickly deduces what Bellamy wants. "We are not warriors."

"No," Bellamy agrees. "Most of you are not. But those who are willing can be trained, and I do have a few armies already at my disposal. What I want is your markets, and in return this region will get a boost in trade."

"We already have healthy trade," Lincoln counters.

"Along the coast, maybe," Bellamy says. "How would you like the goods of Mount Weather to flow through these towns, without a combination of tariffs imposed?"

Well, even Lincoln can't say no to that.

The land Bellamy grew up in was brown. The dirt was brown, the craggy rocks and mountains were brown, and the sand that stung his face and invaded every crevice was brown. Life comes from the cities on the water, with trees and grasses. Prosperity comes from gold mines and salt. When Bellamy first started out as a leader, he would wear rough tunics under worn leather vests. His boots were scuffed and scratched, and the sole was coming off at the left heel. Now, he wears armor pillaged from a palace in the east and his boots are made from leather from the north. Octavia has handmaidens that braid her hair with jewels as they rub ointments on her hands to rid them of calluses. His friends have become his finest generals and most trusted advisors.

To fit in with the new persona, he moves the center of power to a small city in the Illoga River Delta. It's an amazing location, but yearly flooding has impeded its growth.

"It won't be a problem," Monty says, looking at a map. The council is huddled in a room, eyes straining in the dim candlelight. The cool desert air wafts in through open windows, and Bellamy can hear shepherds bringing in their livestock for the night outside. “I’ll work on some irrigation, get some real productive farmland going. The site of the city should be well away from the water, and the palace will be safe.”

Miller huffs and cuts in. "Figure out better lighting for the palace while you're at it."

"We're not in a palace, we're in a common home that was lent to us," Raven reminds him. "Calm down."

"I think I could get water running straight to the palace, if you wanted it," Monty says absentmindedly.

All eyes in the room turn to him. Monty's looking down, lips pursued, and he startles when his eyes flicker back up. "What?"

"Show me how," Raven elbows her way to his side.

Octavia snorts. "They'll be working through the night now."

"But we'll get running water," Jasper says.

"Enough," Bellamy says, turning the attention back on him. "Monty, Raven, Jasper, and Octavia are staying here to oversee building. The rest of us are heading west." 

Bellamy isn't sure what to call the new land they come across. It's a little large to be a city-state, so maybe kingdom? But he has never heard of the people who ruled here. Years ago, he would have gone through back channels and taken over from the inside. Now, he arrives with an army.

They fight, and they are so close to winning. It happens again and again. Bellamy feels the high of victory in his veins, he raises his sword in triumph, and whoever is leading that goddamn city pulls something out of thin air and he has to call for retreat.

"This isn't working," Lincoln storms into the command tent, looking more agitated than Bellamy has ever seen.

"No one said breeching the walls was going to be easy," Miller snaps back.

"Those walls are laced with iron," Lincoln says, exasperated. Bellamy can't help but roll his eyes at the exaggeration.

The two bicker, occasionally supported by a comment thrown in by another advisor. The words only add to the buzz in Bellamy's head. “Enough," he snaps, raising a hand. "Everyone is dismissed. For now."

Without waiting for a reaction, he stalks out of the tent. The smell of smoke, metal, and man had clouted the confined space, but the outside frees him. From the hill the tent is positioned on, Bellamy can see for miles. A strong wind tosses his hair and cloak, as well as making his banner's wave. Below, rows and rows of tents make up his army. Shouts and clangs of metal reach his ears. The smells of cooking meat and blood waft through the air. Beyond the camp is an open expanse, covered in gold. There is actual grass, coming up to Bellamy's waist. When he had run his fingers through it, small red lines had been cut into his skin. The gold is cut off abruptly by the river. The green trees, shrubs, and field bleed into the landscape like water in sand. And of course, the stronghold he’s been trying to breach stands proud.

Standing on this hill, looking at the land that was so close to being his, Bellamy doesn't feel powerful. He feels small, as if the world could swallow him whole and take away everything he had worked for. It only makes him fight harder though. He wants this, the land in front of him. Other men hoard jewels and gold, paintings and art. Bellamy appreciates fine things, good wine and silks and scented baths, but land. Land is his ultimate treasure. It is the symbol of power, wealth, influence.

He isn't going to lose.

It takes months. A fighting game turns into a waiting game, a siege. It grates Bellamy's nerves, tests his patience, but it slowly works. They barely keep the army together through winter. Raven and Octavia's letters and reports only make him want to be back home. But, finally, there's a breakthrough as spring is emerging. A messenger leaves their gates one morning, hands up with a rolled piece of parchment clenched in one fist.

"The Princess of Alphae, Lady of the Earth, opens her gates for a peaceful conference to discuss terms of surrender," Miller reads, his eyebrows furrowing together. "Princess?"

"Why is there not a king?" One of Bellamy's older and more objectionable advisors inquires.

"Why is she not Queen?" Lincoln asks. "And what is Lady of the Earth?"

"We'll find out," Bellamy says. "Miller, get together a group of guards to come with us. Small, efficient, and trusted. Keep it quiet."

Miller nods, bowing his head a little and backing out of the tent.

"Inform your men of a meeting, but do not mention surrender," Bellamy says. "I don't care what any rules of war say. We are on our guard until that princess is dead or my prisoner and any of her heirs are disposed of too."

The men nod, leaving the tent until it's just him and Lincoln. Bellamy runs a hand over his face, going to a side table to pour two glasses of wine. "To our victory."

Lincoln's mouth twists in a wry smile. "To good terms of surrender and an easy negotiation."

"I'll drink to that."

Bellamy takes a sip. It's amazing wine, all the way from Thrace. He never thought he'd be drinking this kind of stuff, let alone drinking it daily. He and Lincoln sip in silence, but eventually it gets cloying.

"What is it Lincoln?" Bellamy asks.

The other man stares at the glass in his hand and knocks all of the wine back before answering. "I am afraid I may have done you a wrong." He clears his throat. "That is, I have…"

"Spit it out." Bellamy restrains from rolling his eyes, guessing where this is going. He pours more wine into Lincoln's glass. Liquid courage, even if this alcohol is weak. Maybe he should break out some of Monty's brew.

Lincoln sighs, taking another sip from his cup before slamming it down on the table. His words come out like a waterfall. "I am enamored with your sister. Before we left, I was spending time with her, training her with a sword. But also…talking. Walks. I didn't realize that I was courting her until now. I apologize. I did not ask your permission."

Bellamy's mouth twists. The fact that any man would have to go through him to get to Octavia…well, on one hand it comforted him. On the other, it made him sick, especially if a good man like Lincoln thinks he'll get in trouble for it. Bellamy drinks more wine, trying to get the bitter taste out of his mouth.

Lincoln must mistake his expression. "I will stop my communication with her at once. I know you must be waiting for a good marriage for her-"

"No,” Bellamy says simply. If it's one thing he can't stand, it’s when Octavia is talked about as if she is some sort of pawn. "Octavia does what she wants to. I'm not forcing her into anything."

Lincoln's expression doesn't change much. "Of course. I didn't mean to suggest that you don't care for her."

"I know you didn't," Bellamy smiles, tired of the squirming friend in front of him. "You care for her?"

"Yes," he responds quickly. "Very much. She is an extraordinary woman. I-I love her."

"She is young," Bellamy says. "I would tell her of your intentions if I were you. But please, before you propose marriage, ask me. And if I hear of anything troubling…"

"You won't." Lincoln beams, laughing in disbelief. "Thank you. I… thank you."

Bellamy claps him on the shoulder. "There is no better man for her, my friend."

There's a lot to drink to that night. Bellamy is glad that Octavia found a man who adores her. He has never seen love, not truly, until he saw his sister and Lincoln. Honestly, he’s resigned to never feel the emotion, at least not in a romantic context. He loves Octavia, loves his found-brothers, loves Raven like another sister, but no all-consuming love like in the old stories. That’s fine with him. He only ever needed Octavia. The others are a pleasant bonus.

Through the night, Bellamy limits his drink, noting with approval that others do too. It will do him no good to be anything but alert tomorrow.

The day dawns bright, as if the gods are smiling down on his victory. Neither he or Octavia were ever very religious, but he knows the power of the gods. He also knows of the influence they wield. He and Octavia do not know their fathers, and they could very easily use their story to their advantage. Their mother would become a woman who caught the eye of a god twice, or maybe caught the eyes of two gods. She would be a revered woman, not a whore. Bellamy hasn't ruled it out, but a claim like that would anger the gods. He's pretty sure he's not any sort of “godly,” though he has teased Octavia enough about being the child of war or discord.

Plenty of other men in his army are religious, sharing a range of beliefs. There are the gods Bellamy grew up with, the ones Lincoln prays to, and the odd singular God that some men talk about. It doesn't bother Bellamy. If a man's faith keeps him loyal, brave, and virtuous, all the better for the empire.

It truly is becoming an empire now. The addition of this new city and all the land that comes with it ensures that. It sits on the river, which complicated the siege a little but ultimately could not sustain the people. The river, however, is a source of revenue both in that it provides farmable land and trade.

With this conquest, Bellamy can finally be the ruler of his own empire. It’s a sobering thought.

They take a small company to the gates in the morning, riding past burned grass, rubble, and blood. The bodies have all been buried since the note was delivered, but once in a while Bellamy will glimpse a hand or a foot or someone's guts, blackened with soot.

A delegation waits just outside the city walls. Their banners fly and they certainly do not look like a people who have just been conquered. Bellamy has to admire their strength, even if it is foolish in the end.

"I was invited to discuss surrender with the princess of these lands," Bellamy announces from his horse. Guards look at them distrustfully, fidgeting with their weapons, but they don't draw them.

"That would be me," a clear voice announces.

Bellamy realizes why they call her Lady of the Earth. She is nothing like any other person he has ever seen. Her hair is similar to the gold color of the fields around them, and her skin is pale and looks delicate in the sun, a complexion that contrasts sharply with the brown skin he is used to. Even amongst her own people, she stands out. Most shockingly, she is young, even younger than him. The low, calm voice doesn't quite match the girl in front of him, but somehow it fits. She is otherworldly. If she claimed to be descended from a god, he would believe her.

Bellamy recovers quickly, hoping his lapse wasn't noticeable. He swings down from his horse, hearing others do the same behind him. "Bellamy Blake," he introduces himself with a nod.

"The warlord," the girl says. Bellamy feels his men stir behind him, knows Miller is about to defend his honor. He raises a hand for silence and feels a smirk come to his face.

"If it pleases you, Princess…"

"Clarke,” she corrects him. "Of the Griffin dynasty."

Like he knows what that's supposed to mean. Names and nobles have no effect on him. "Princess Clarke, I believe we are here to discuss terms."

"I'm here to inform you of a change in the situation," the Princess says airily. "Three weeks ago, I accepted a proposal of marriage. My betrothed is on his way with an army. You can stay here, try and lay claim to this land, but he will take it back as part of his kingdom."

"You don't think I could defeat your betrothed?" Bellamy asks, raising an eyebrow.

"No," she remarks. "And even if you did, my mother's new husband is a lord with substantial lands and men. You put up a valiant fight, but you cannot win the war."

This is girl is playing a game with him. It's almost fun.

"Very well," Bellamy says. "Then I suppose you won't be accepting my terms of surrender?"

"No, " she replies. "I will not. I just knew that saying so was the only way to get an audience with a brute like you."

"A simple invitation would have done just as well," he says. "I tend to respond well when there's a polite message." He mounts his horse, leaving with a nod.

The others follow, though Bellamy can see their confusion.

"What are you doing?" Miller asks.

"Trying to come up with a new plan," Bellamy spurs his horse into a gallop.

Later, in the command tent, his generals and advisors are raising hell. Pike, for some reason, is convinced the meeting was a failed assassination attempt. Murphy is grumbling about what a waste of time it all was. Lincoln just looks put out at the fact that he won't see Octavia soon.

"Stop being so foolish," Bellamy finally says. "Do you not realize what this all means?"

He is received with blank stares. Given the time, he's sure the others would have put in together, but now they are just confused. "The Princess is desperate,” Bellamy explains. “She just accepted a marriage proposal from a man who's taking more than a few weeks to arrive with an army. He's far away, he’s unprepared, his army isn’t mobilized. She can't know him well. She's trying to scare us off."

"She believes his army could beat ours," Miller utters. "We probably have size, but what's that against fresh soldiers? We could call for reinforcements, but that would take time. And then there's her mother's husband."

"Who hasn't shown up in the months we've been here," Bellamy says. "Either it’s a very new marriage, or her mother has abandoned her."

The men around the table murmur to each other. Pike crosses his arms. "So what do you suggest we do?"

"Miller, I want all messages from the city to be intercepted. Nothing should have gotten out in the first place without us knowing. Find out who she's marrying," Bellamy says.

Miller nods, bowing out of the tent. Bellamy dismisses the rest of the group, settling at his desk to write a letter to Raven and Octavia. It'll be more than a week before they receive it, but he feels better about keeping them in the loop. He knows how much they appreciate it.

Little by little, Bellamy gets a clearer picture. Intercepted correspondence tells him that Prince Finn is to marry the Princess. Gossip says that Finn is the youngest of three brothers and is marrying for the land and a pretty wife. Spies in the street report that the people are surprised that their princess is marrying so quickly, that they thought she was pickier. That alone says enough to Bellamy. This is a woman who will do what she must for her people.

Unfortunately, what she must do right now is marry and give her authority to another man. She's been backed into a corner and is taking the best and only option.

Unless Bellamy gives her a choice.

This time he calls the meeting, and he arranges the meeting place. It's in his camp, surrounded by his soldiers. Bellamy needs to show her his power, but he can't be too aggressive or she'll clam up. He has Murphy gather all the information he can about the Princess, the Griffins, and Finn.

In the end, Murphy can only do so much. Bellamy knows her mother is from an island far North, a girl who was part of a trade agreement but became a queen, an equal to her husband. He knows the king died a number of years ago, and the two women have been struggling without the presence of a man to provide legitimacy in the eyes of other rulers. Despite this, the reports also say they have done remarkably well. These are women who are determined that no man is needed to run their kingdom. They are well loved by the people, especially the Princess. The citizens won’t react kindly to being conquered. None of this tells him how she'll react to his proposal, though. She could agree or be extremely offended.

Clarke comes into camp on horseback, wearing fine but sensible clothes. Her entourage looks like they are expecting jeers and spit, but they are only met with respectful nods, if anything. Miller is sent to meet her at the entrance and escort her up the winding hill to the command tent. It’s all carefully orchestrated to give him the advantage.

"Princess," he greets her amicably as she dismounts.

"Blake." She doesn’t extend quite the same courtesy. The two stare at each other, clearly nervous. All the soldiers in the vicinity are Lincoln's men and have been thoroughly vetted, meaning that Bellamy won't be the one to break first if a fight does break out.

"I'll get right to it," Bellamy says. "I have a proposal to end this conflict. May I speak with you privately?"

It's unprecedented and against all rules of decorum, and the princess's advisors make sure he knows it. Between the "certainly not's" and "an outrage!" he has eyes only for her. She won't let anyone tell her what to do. She takes the bait. "I can't imagine why, unless you brought me here to kill me."

Bellamy smirks. "Messy and unnecessary, if all goes well today. Shall we?" He holds the tent flap open as she steps in. "Miller, please make sure we are not disturbed." He ducks into the tent, filled with natural light that comes from splits in the canvass high above.

"So why did you call me here?" The princess rounds on him, hands on her hips.

"Would you like some wine?" he offers, already pouring two cups.

"I would like to know why you wish to speak with me." She takes a cup anyways. "To ask for directions back home?"

Bellamy snorts. "I know you're smarter than that." He sits, gesturing for her to take a seat too. To his relief, she does. It would have been unbearably awkward if she hadn't. "I came to give you another option."

"Oh?" The princess doesn't look that interested.

"Hear me out before you dismiss it completely. If you do, you are free to leave," he says. "I know you are planning to marry Finn Collins and that he is coming soon. I have heard about what kind of man he is, and about what kind of woman you are. From what I know, you would not be happy being the subservient wife of a third son who stole your lands through marriage."

Yeah, he's hit the nail right on the head. Bellamy can tell that the princess makes a valiant effort to keep the color from her face, but a faint blush still appears.

"You want to control your lands," Bellamy says. "I want your lands because they are part of the river trade routes, have some wonderful soil, and provide a base for further expansion. These things are not mutually exclusive."

"Oh?" Clarke raises and eyebrow at that. "I fail to see how giving my power to you is in my interest."

"You wouldn't be giving power to me. You're not surrendering.” He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for her reaction. "You would be marrying me."

She blinks. Once. Twice. Throws her head back and laughs. Stops. Looks at him. "By the gods, you're actually serious."

"I am."

"No."

"I asked you to hear me out."

"And I am telling you there's no fu-" she cuts herself off, smoothing down her dress as if it got wrinkled when she shot up from her seat. "No. I will not marry you."

"You haven't even heard my reasons why." Bellamy can't say he's surprised, but he expected to get a little further than this.

"I don't need to," the princess hisses. "I will not hand my lands to you. I will not bear your children, rule your conquered lands, or contribute to your stoking unrest across the known world!"

"You wouldn’t have to," Bellamy says. "I don't expect any children from you. I have a sister who is to be engaged in a love match very soon that will more likely than not provide me with some heirs. Your people will thrive under my rule, instead of fighting me every step of the way. The whole point of this arrangement is that you become my wife, stay in the palace for a while until you can move back here. People will assume I got bored of you or something."

That must be the wrong thing to say, because her previously composed porcelain face turns an angry red. "So I’m meant to be thrown away like garbage?"

Bellamy wants to curse, but refrains from showing this girl exactly how much she irritates him. "Listen to me once, because I'm not going to say it again. I am offering you a chance for your kingdom to join my empire while you still have considerable control over what goes on in it. You would live by my side for no more than five years before returning to your home. From there, I don't care what you do."

"Absolutely not," the Princess says. "I don't know who you think you are, asking for the hand of an engaged woman. Your fumbling proves that you are inept at any political interaction. This proposal only serves to reinforce my belief that you are a selfish brute who has no concern for those other than himself."

It shouldn't sting, but he feels her words acutely. No one ever accused him of not caring about his people. Even before he started this journey, he always had his sister and mother. He always put others before himself.

"You wouldn't know sacrifice if it spit in your eye, Princess." The words run from his mouth before he can stop them. "I have clawed my way up not for riches or to have my name known, but for everyone else around me. This conversation is over. I'll assume your answer is no."

Princess Clarke purses her lips and stalks out of the tent, Bellamy following. He can't see beyond the screen of rage that distorts his vision as she mounts her horse and is led away with the rest of her escort.

How is it that one woman could get under his skin so quickly? It's not fair. He's heard plenty of rumors and whispers before but was always able to brush them off. Maybe it was this girl. This pretty princess who probably had life handed to her on a silver platter, telling him all about how he’ll never be great, always a street rat…

"I'm assuming it didn't go well," Murphy says, interrupting his thoughts.

"No," Bellamy growls. "It did not. Send word home. Start gathering new recruits."

"Who will train them, my lord?" Pike says.

Bellamy, and everyone else, probably assumes that he'll say Pike. However, he stops himself to think before saying another name. "Lincoln." Never let it be said that Bellamy Blake doesn't love his sister.

Lincoln gets ready to go with his men. He is set to depart in the morning, when the gates of the city open. A lone messenger comes galloping out, and Bellamy goes to meet him at the entrance to camp.

"A message from the Princess Clarke to Bellamy Blake, to be seen and read by his eyes only." The roll of parchment is held out and Bellamy steps forward to take it.

Blake,

                  Fine. I agree to meet with you to discuss the terms of the alliance. I warn you now, I will get final say over whatever happens in my lands. That is non-negotiable.

                  The gates will open again to hold this meeting. Keep watch.

                                                                                                                                                Best,

                                                                                                                              Princess Clarke of the Griffin Dynasty

                                                                                                                              Lady of the Earth

Bellamy can't help the smirk on his face.

"Well, what is it?" Sterling asks.

"She's agreed," Bellamy says. "I'm getting married."

Coordinating terms with the princess is like rolling a barrel uphill while she's trying to push it to the side. They both have a direction they wish to go that's not the exact opposite of the other but is different enough to cause problems. Bellamy knows that he'll have to station a significant number of men along this border to safeguard against retaliation from the Collins, but the princess is so rude about it he has a thought of just not doing it.                                                                                                               

At the end of their second meeting, in which they got most of the broader strokes of the deal down, the princess makes a request. "I need to send a message to my mother."

"So send it," Bellamy says.

"I need to send it so that no one but my mother reads it," she clarifies. "Not your spies, not burglars, not any servant employed by her."

He's so tempted to continue to be difficult, to just say "I can't control what happens on the road, Princess." But he keeps in it. Octavia has always told him he could be a little kinder and control his temper. It's ironic coming from her, but his sister has always been better about knowing when fury or generosity is needed. Bellamy thinks she would tell him to be generous right now. After all, this woman is going to be his wife. "Okay,” he starts, “I'll send some trusted men with the letter and they can also act as an escort to the wedding."

If the Princess is surprised, she hides it well. "Very well. And where will the wedding take place?"

"Here, if that’s okay," Bellamy replies. "My capital is under construction."

There's plenty of fuss raised over the location, but Bellamy can hardly bring himself to care. The Princess wants a quick wedding to get the deal in solid terms as soon as possible. That means Octavia and anyone else who wants to come will have to travel quickly to make it in time. Bellamy doesn't care about the wedding—it’s just a ceremony— but he does demand that his sister be there.

When she arrives, he's already settled in the palace. He and the princess now work on integrating their forces and deploying them to the borders. He made it clear that any announcement made in even the smallest village would say that their marriage was to be a union of two kingdoms, not one dominating the other. It's unlikely people will buy it, especially because it’s all called “Arkadia” now. Only the city retains the name of Alphae.  

"You can't send one of your units to the Cliffs by themselves." Clarke says. She’s seated at the other end of the table where they have a map spread out. Even though they are not married yet, the Princess seems to have trusted him enough to begin working closer together.

Bellamy runs a hand over his face. "Noted. But if we send any more of your soldiers, there won't be a lot left here."

It's her choice: whether to have her men defending the borders or in her city. The Princess bites her nails, a nervous habit he's not even sure she’s aware of. He didn't notice her doing it until a few days ago. That was when she started slouching a little and breaking the façade of perfect princess.

"What would you do?"

"Excuse me?" Bellamy is thrown. Is she really asking for his opinion?

Clarke raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What would you do?"

"You could send some of the guards here in the city to the Cliffs to accompany my units," Bellamy gestures on the map. "Relocate these men here, in the north, too. They've been in the area for a few weeks, so a smaller ratio of your soldiers to mine should be alright. I have more than enough men sitting on their asses right now, waiting for assignment. They can be relocated into the city. Or, I could send units over to the cliffs and you could relocate your men in the eastern grasslands, but your presence would be spread thin."

"So, you're saying to leave my city defenseless?"

"If that's how you want to look at it." Bellamy stares at the map, not meeting her eyes. Gods, this girl is proud and naïve and stubborn. But this girl is also going to be his wife, so he should make some sort of effort to be cordial. "But my men are yours now."

"Not yet, we still need to say our vows." When Bellamy looks up, the princess looks a little kinder. She's not smiling, but he's pretty sure he's not imagining her looking a little softer around the mouth.

"Okay, so I was going to have Mbege go to-"

He's interrupted by banging doors and a flurry of dark hair and limbs. "Oof! Octavia!"

"Bell!" She squeezes him harder, and Bellamy tries to spit her hair out of his mouth.

"O, get off!" He pushes her back a little, soothing her small frown with a kiss to the forehead.

Raven is in the doorway, arms crossed and a smirk on her face. "I tried to stop her."

"I'm sure you did," Bellamy says with a smile. He lets go of his sister to embrace Raven. She's not one for physical affection, but he hasn't seen her in months. "How have you been?"

"Oh, it's been great without you," Raven replies with a smile. "I bought most of your men. We're planning a coup when you get home."

"Thanks for the warning," Bellamy deadpans, then remembers the princess. "Octavia, Raven, this is Princess Clarke. Princess, my sister Octavia, and my friend and advisor, Raven."

The princess doesn't look nervous at all, which is a considerable achievement when faced with both Raven and Octavia. "It's wonderful to meet you at last."

"You too,'' Octavia says. "I get another sister- well, an official one. Come on, we need to get to know each other."

Leave it to Octavia to break the ice. The Princess protests about work needing to be done, but she can't resist both Raven and Octavia's cajoling. Bellamy promises to come up with a few plans for her approval, and then the women are gone.

Neither he nor Clarke have much interest in planning a wedding, so the responsibility falls on Octavia. She pawns most of the work off on advisors and such but still sits at the helm. In a week she's turned hasty preparations and half-thought out plans into something resembling an appropriate celebration.

A large part of what makes Bellamy so successful is that he doesn't pick and choose what religion his people are a part of. He has respect for all of them, which translates into blessings from about fifteen different priests, shamans, and healers who would like to participate. The princess is cooperative about it at least.

The day of the wedding starts with a parade through the streets. Bellamy is on one side of the city, the princess on the other, and they'll meet in the middle at the altar. People cheer and throw flowers, and it's the least he can do to indulge them with a smile. He doesn’t want to look unfriendly.  

The Princess is covered in jewels, and Bellamy waits for her to stumble on the steps as they walk to the first priest. Thankfully, she makes it without tripping. From there, it's repeating vows to each other, throwing things in fires, trying to pronounce foreign words, and getting sprinkled with holy waters. Eventually they reach the end where the last official tells them to seal their bond with a kiss. Bellamy carefully lifts the veil that has covered the princess' face and leans down. To his surprise, she meets his lips with no hesitation. The kiss a little uncomfortable and it lasts only a second before they pull away. It's done. Bellamy has a wife.  

They receive well-wishers at the banquet filled with screeching children and performer after performer. Octavia is on his left and Lincoln is next to her. The princess is on his right, her mother on her other side. Bellamy hasn't actually had a conversation with the woman yet.

He gets his opportunity when the next dance starts. It's something from the east, meant for a large group of young women. Octavia drags Raven and Clarke out, laughter on her face. Then it's just him and the Princess's mother, the former Queen Abigail.

"Your Majesty, I regret that we haven't gotten a chance to properly meet." He figures if he's going to initiate the conversation, he'd better start off on a good note.

"That tends to happen in these types of situations."

Bellamy feels something curdle in his gut. She doesn't want to play nice? Fine. "And what do you mean by that?"

The queen turns to face him, head on. "I mean that this was a marriage my daughter made to save herself, thinly veiled as an alliance."

"Save herself?" Bellamy says. "From what?"

"A shamed life in which she lost control of her people," the queen says. "Clarke may not like you, Bellamy Blake, but from what I can tell, you gave her some measure of control."

That's not what he was expecting at all. "You don't despise me for taking over your late husband's kingdom?"

A frown crosses the queen's face, and Bellamy feels a little bad about bringing up the late king.

"I was never expecting this," the queen admits. "But I am hoping you are a man of your word, and will let Clarke have her control."

"Of course," Bellamy says automatically. He's never wanted to make enemies with anyone, not without reason. He'll strike down any man that hurts his family and annihilate kingdoms that attack his people. Sometimes he'll go after those who insult Octavia, but he tries to be fair. Raven and Miller are mostly successful at reigning him in.

"Clarke doesn't realize the opportunity you've given her, Emperor Blake." The queen looks to the mass of swirling women, glee on their faces. Bellamy manages to pick Clarke out, cheeks flushed and a small grin on her face. She’s a pain most of the time but—this girl makes him smile.

He is entranced by her until he realizes what the queen said. "Emperor?"  

"You have enough land now and have control of the strongest military in the region," she states. "You are established. An heir on the way soon, I suppose."

"I never asked anyone to call me anything," Bellamy says.

"But I will call you Emperor," the queen says, as if that explains everything. "You are no longer just the king of your lands. You rule different peoples, religions, cultures. And you have taken them by military force. The last time there was an Emperor was a millennium ago, in the west. They are the thing of legends, and you have become one. So yes, I will call you Emperor."

It takes a moment for Bellamy to understand. "And your daughter is the Empress."

"Empress Blake. It is much more than I could have ever expected for her." She muses, eyes gazing at something not there. "What would her father think?"

"You don't think he'd be preoccupied by your marriage?" Bellamy speaks before thinking.

The queen doesn't look too pleased at the comment. "I learned to love Jacob, and he loved me. And I fell in love with Marcus and found happiness with him."

Bellamy sits silently, a little chastised. He clears his throat before responding. "The ones we love only want to see us happy."

"Wise words, Emperor," the queen stands, and Bellamy follows her lead. "Keep them in mind." Then she raps her glass lightly with a spoon, getting attention. Servants scramble to make sure everyone has a full cup as the Queen raises her glass.

"On this day, we celebrate the union of two lands, but more importantly, of two people who have created an empire. To Emperor and Empress Blake. Long may they reign."

"Long may they reign," the room chants after her, and then the party is back in full swing. Bellamy takes a sip from his own cup, eyeing the Queen.

"There, now everyone knows where you stand." She leaves with a small curtsey, and Bellamy bows back. It might be breaking some rule of protocol (what the hell does it mean now, 'Emperor?') but he's never cared much for all that.

Queen Abigail makes her rounds, and it is only then that Bellamy realizes that she's leaving the party and retiring for the night.

Bellamy watches her leave, dread increasing with every step she takes. As soon as she is gone, the door would be open for sleazy jokes and innuendos. Sure enough, both he and Clarke get pulled away into groups of young men and women. Bellamy feels like he's assaulted with all the lewd comments that come his way. Any other day he might have rolled his eyes and laughed, but now he just feels his stomach twist.

"What's with you?" the Princess mutters when they've been coerced into dancing.

"Nothing," Bellamy growls, then deflates. He’s tired of always being on the offense around her. "Really, it's nothing."

Octavia and Lincoln are the next couple to join the dancing, which gives Bellamy something else to think about. They do look like they are in love, but Bellamy can't help but feel a little sick at the look on his little sister's face.

"They are a good couple." Clarke comments, almost as if she’s reading his mind. Bellamy nods absentmindedly. "You don’t approve?"

"She's my sister." Bellamy justifies himself. "But Lincoln is a good man and a friend."

"Then you should stop glowering at him."

Bellamy glances down in surprise. Did he detect a note of humor in the Princess's tone? Is she teasing him?

"Stop looking so shocked,” she says before rolling her eyes.

"I apologize,” Bellamy says, and he looks down at her with a smile, “I just didn't know that you had it in you."

"Oh, for goodness' sake—“

"No, really." He tries to hold back a smirk. "Laughing, smiling, I wasn't certain if your face could contort itself enough-"

"Shut up, Bellamy!" Her mouth is turned up into a grin, her eyes crinkled, and her cheeks are pink with what he knows must be the effect of the wine but the Princess is smiling at him and called him "Bellamy" and his world sort of just shifts.

He shifts his grip on her hand, tugging her just a little closer. "You look beautiful when you smile, Princess."

Her grin falters before turning into a smirk. "Aren't I queen now?"

"Well, your heard your mother," he says, pausing so he can spin her in time to the music. "So I guess that makes you Empress Blake."

"Oh." She blinks, and then the moment evaporates. Bellamy nearly stumbles after seeing how quickly she shutters herself off. Neither his witty comments nor jabs bring her back.

It's as if she is determined to distance herself from him. Now he sees what Queen Abigail was talking about; she hates him so much that she won't even consider the idea of not hating him. Fine then. Bellamy was only stuck with her for a few years. That was the deal. He never had to interact with her, and he could marry a second wife if he wanted to. The thought makes his stomach roll a little. He never liked the idea of marrying more than one woman, treating them like prizes to show off. And then there were multiple children and wives jockeying for their son to be on the throne and…no, Bellamy is not going to fall into that trap.

They avoid each other after that. Bellamy spends time with his men and some of hers who rib and tease him, pushing cups of beer and something stronger in his hands. He can occasionally catch a glimpse of Clarke with giggling girls, gossiping and dancing around with each other.

The thought sobers him up. He doesn't even know how old she is, but she can't be that much older than Octavia. That would make her, what? Seventeen? Eighteen? She is still a child.

The thought burns in the back of his mind until they are ushered out of the banquet with jeers and are standing in their new quarters. Fire is burning in a fireplace and in scones around the room, making shadows dance. Bellamy watches as the Princess takes off her jewelry and sets it down on a table and makes a decision.

"What are you doing?" She asks when he grabs a blanket and pillow from the bed.

He clears his throat, refusing to meet her eyes. "I do not expect anything from you,” he says, already stepping away from her. “I will sleep in the other room."

The chambers are huge, complete with a sitting room and a separate room for the king. He knows he can’t leave evidence of sleeping in a bed Clarke’s not in. He'll just take one of the stiff couches instead.

The Princess is silent as he leaves. The sitting room is a little colder, but not unbearable. Bellamy hears Clarke shuffling in the other room before she falls silent. He closes his eyes, drifting off to the sounds of revelers celebrating his wedding.