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Murphy swayed in the breeze, nearly colliding with the tree that held his lifeless body. Clarke didn’t want to look at him -- no, it-- but it was impossible to pry her eyes away from that empty expression and skin so pale it was tinged blue. It wasn’t this death that bothered her; this death was deserved. Clarke clenched her jaw and threw down the shovel, wiping the sweat from her brow. She glared at Murphy again, embracing her anger; it was easier to deal with than the crushing agony that awaited later today. Only one grave would be dug, and it wasn’t for Murphy. He didn’t deserve a burial. The elements would take him, and even that was too kind.
She hoped he would rot in hell for what he had done.
She wanted him to pay for taking their protector away.
As she thought it, pain shook her resolve and a dry sob escaped her throat. No, it was too early for this; she needed to be strong for the camp. She needed to be strong for Octavia.
The thought of the girl’s pain made her eyes well with tears, but she quickly wiped them away and took a deep, determined breath. Crying would not help anything now.
Raven had not gotten that memo. When Clarke entered her room full of her trinkets, Raven nearly fell onto her, clutching her desperately and sobbing. You didn’t even like him, Clarke thought, but held her tongue. Neither had she, at one point. Her affections were only just growing before they were crushed by death. The thought made the sadness rise again, and she pushed it down. It wasn’t fair to judge now; Raven was closer to his death than anyone else. She was the one who hadn’t gotten there soon enough.
“It’s my fault,” she choked, wiping her eyes and making no difference. “I should have been faster. I should have acted quicker. Fuck it, I should have put a bullet in that piece of shit when I had the chance.”
“He’s dead now,” said Clarke. Her voice sounded hollow, and Raven’s red, puffy eyes watched her with concern for a moment, before she looked away. The storm seemed to be over, and Raven sat down slowly, looking off into space. Her tears weren’t about him, Clarke realized, not entirely. It was about all of them. Now, without their tactical leader, their chances of survival were slim. Even those who disliked him were affected. Even they felt the pain.
“Not soon enough,” Raven said quietly. She sat there wordlessly for a long while, giving Clarke time to think. It hadn’t been an active decision, but she couldn’t help but consider what would happen now. Their situation was still horrible where it concerned the Grounders, and now that he was… No, she didn’t want to even think it. Now that they were relying solely on her for leadership, she was afraid. She didn’t have the same shooting skill or the same eloquence and strength that made people willing to follow him to their deaths. Her strength was different, and now that her counterpart was missing she just felt weak. Would it been the same if she had been the one in that noose? It was a horrible thought, almost as horrible as their reality, but it was too late now to stop the wave of consciousness. He would have had Murphy killed too, Clarke was certain. It would have been more painful than the hanging they subjected him to. In his rage, he was capable of making the tough calls and shouldering the impossible responsibilities. He would have killed Murphy with his bare hands, and then he would have lead their people in the best way he knew.
Would he miss Clarke like she missed him? Would it cause him pain to think of her like the pain she felt now, gnashing at her insides like molten knives? Would he allow himself to think of that night they spent together and torture himself with the memory, or would he try to erase all evidence of her existence and move on?
Clarke didn’t think she could ever move on. Death was not new to her after her father was floated, but she was still reeling from that. Then after Wells’s murder… No, death was something she was used to. Even so, this was different. It hadn’t been decided after a significant event by an authoritative force, or the fears of a desperate little girl; this had just been Murphy acting on reckless hate and revenge.
“Clarke?” Raven eyed her sadly, snapping Clarke out of her thoughts. She sniffed suddenly, and was surprised that her nose was running. Suddenly she noticed the wetness on her cheeks, and wiped her eyes. How long had she been crying?
It didn’t matter, she decided. There was no need to save them for the funeral; she was in no danger of running out. She took a deep breath and composed herself. “We need to bury him before nightfall,” she said. “The grave is finished. I know Jasper wanted to say a few words, and whoever else wants to can.” Octavia’s face flashed across her mind, but she had already made it clear that she didn’t want to give a speech. Her grief was her own, and Clarke could respect that. “We just need the body covered before the sun goes down.”
“I’ll help spread the word,” said Raven. “Finn wanted to give him a hero’s goodbye.” She watched Clarke, who shook her head. It would be a nice gesture for all that he did for them, but it was one they couldn’t afford.
“We need to save our bullets and gunpowder for the Grounders. He would kill us if he knew we were even considering wasting them on him.” Clarke frowned, fighting back even more tears. It was ridiculous how she couldn’t even refer to him namelessly without feeling that pit in her gut. It didn’t make any sense to be acting so emotionally, and it was infuriating. She had known Wells her whole life, and few tears had been shed for him. Somehow this was different. She was grieving not only what they lost, but what could have been. Even so, it was useless. Nothing could bring back the dead.
Raven nodded. “I told him it was a bad idea.”
“But a nice thought,” added Clarke. Raven just pursed her lips and Clarke fought the urge to punch her. The jealousy was growing old. Clarke didn’t even want Finn like that any more after Bellamy--
Clarke stood up so fast it almost surprised herself. “I have to go.” That had been too close. She wasn’t allowed to say his name, or even think it if possible, until the funeral, and even that was a risk. If she opened the floodgates of grief, Clarke was afraid she wouldn’t be able to close them.
The following hour was a blur. Clarke gathered wild flowers for the grave with Miller, who was quiet and somber. Nobody else had gotten this treatment, small as it was, but it seemed like the least they could do. If nothing else, maybe they could use this time to give the people hope for survival.
When they were finished, they brought the flowers into the dropship to keep until the burial. Clarke wished they could just leave the place that brought back such terrible memories, but Raven had already assured her it was their best resource. With a battle imminent, a bomb was their only chance of winning.
Clarke jumped when the upstairs hatch swung open, and watched Octavia slowly come into view, with a pack slung over her shoulder. “Where are you going?” she asked, making Octavia spin around to face her.
“I’m leaving with Lincoln,” she said. “I wasn’t going to. I was going to stay and help protect our people, but things change.” She adjusted her pack and stared Clarke down. “You couldn’t protect my brother. Now I see no reason to help protecting you.” Octavia’s words stung, but they were true. Maybe she could be one of the survivors then. She pried her eyes from Clarke to nod at Miller, then turned and walked away.
Clarke was sure that was the last she would see of the Blakes.
The funeral was short. A few people spoke, but it was clear nothing had been prepared. Clumsy words strung together in raw, exposed sentences did nothing to ease their pain. After just minutes it was over, and they were taking turns emptying a shovel of dirt onto his body. It was horrible to see him there, lifeless, but even worse to watch him slowly covered in dirt. If she looked hard enough, Clarke was almost able to convince herself he was sleeping; it was like they were killing him all over again. She should have covered the body beforehand, so she didn’t have to look at his empty face.
Once everyone had taken part, the shovel found its way back to Clarke. It was an unspoken agreement that she would finish the job, and for that she was grateful. The others dispersed slowly, but she waited until they were all gone. Her eyes were firmly planted on his pale face, still mostly visible beneath the dirt. Once she was alone, Clarke climbed into the hole with him. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, but something inside of her needed to touch him again, to know he was really gone. Clarke lowered herself on top of him, and planted a light kiss on his forehead. It was as cold as ice.
“Bellamy,” she said, pulling away and brushing a few strands of his dusty hair with her fingers. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t save you. I’m sorry you had to sacrifice yourself like that. I’m sorry we didn’t kill Murphy before he could do this to you.” Tears fell onto his face, wetting the dirt around him. “I think I could have loved you, Bellamy. I wish we had more time.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “Octavia will be fine. If any of us survive, it will be her. I will look after the others, I promise. I won’t let us all die after you helped us get so far.” After a moment of silence, Clarke climbed back out of the hole.
“Your fight is over,” she whispered before filling in the hole with dirt. “Be at peace.” Now Bellamy was with those who had fallen. It had been an honorable fight. Clarke couldn’t help but feel it wouldn’t be his last.