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They make a cemetery.
This time it’s thoroughly planned; council decides unanimously that burial ground must be located close enough to the camp, but lie on a relatively barren soil. They fence it with a barbed wire: wide, desolate spread of land, with shrubs and tufts of grass haphazardly strewn across it.
The first grave belongs to Finn.
Memories from his funeral are blurry, but Clarke knows who dug up the grave – Kane, Bellamy and Jackson – and still hears Raven’s wailing and quiet hymns sang softly by the believers. Then the Chancellor – her mother – gave farewell speech.
May we meet again.
It was a strange idea for people who fell from the sky to dig up a hole and bury their dead in it; to cover them in soil and let weeds and herbs and flowers bloom on their bones. They weren’t used to it for a long time. But with every new tomb it became more and more natural, and then it became a routine.
Burial ceremonies – except for the first one, Finn’s – are quiet and private, almost intimate. People close to the deceased – sometimes family, sometimes just friends – are the only ones bidding the last goodbye. It’s somewhat of a custom that the mourner kisses her or his right palm and touches the coffin for a brief moment: expression of love, loss, and farewell. Then the coffin is lowered down and covered with soil. They are free to decorate tombs: in most cases on top of the grave are put wild flowers, sometimes a cross made out of wood. Lastly, the headstone is set and the ceremony is over.
***
As the time goes by the graveyard changes, much like everything else in the camp. Barbed wire is no longer the only guardian of the graves – Jasper with Monty plant wild bushes along the fence: two of them decorate Harper’s tombstone as well. Come summer they bloom with dozens of small, canary-yellow roses.
South side of the cemetery is abundant with ivy. Its green thickness embracing the wire and twining bountifully between graves.
Three years is a long time and this incessant flow of changes, gains and losses, is so starkly visible here.
So many graves grace the terrain. Some of elders who passed away with autumn winds and winter chills; a few graves belonging to children who died of sickness or new-borns too weak to survive. There is a whole lot of graves of soldiers and of those lost in Mount Weather battle.
In one of the corners, next to Clarke’s mother, lies Marcus Kane. Kane lies within a special category indeed – after Abby’s death, he went to his room, sealed the door and ate poisonous berries, one by one, until his lips turned blue and his heart stopped.
It was the first and so far the only case of death like this.
People were whispering about it for a long, long time. Clarke supposed it had its significance, what Kane did, but she didn’t give it much thought. Partly because it was too painful and she was sheltering herself from pain with fortification of silence and indifference, partly because it was her father who should lie next to her mother, but he was scattered among the stars instead.
***
She stopped sleeping after Finn’s death.
(After she murdered him, cold weight of knife in her hand, his ragged breath and his warm blood dribbling between her fingers.)
Nighttime is idle and lacks distractions; it’s the only time when Clarke is so vunerable and exposed to memories and fears, so she stays awake for as long as she can, constantly finding new task, new occupation. But eventually exhaustion wins and Clarke falls asleep.
She meets dead people in her dreams, their hisses and cold touches follow her through the night. Sometimes her dreams are different: sometimes she’s the one getting killed, sometimes she’s the murderer, and sometimes she’s just an observer. She often dreams of Bellamy but never directly; usually she only hears his voice brimming with agony, or feels his spasming muscles under her hands, as his life stills in the darkness of a night.
Nightmares chase her awake; when she wakes up it’s always still the middle of the night, Camp Jaha wrapped in listless silence.
Clarke is a healer, life-saver, yet still death seems to follow her everywhere with its sweet pungent smell of decay. She got used to that. She tamed death long time ago – it came naturally with days spent on holding her patients’ hands as they were dying, with burying countless victims of illnesses and war in soft, muddy earth, with fighting for her dear life. With killing people.
(One lover, one friend, three hundreds of Grounders – roughly – and twenty five, maybe twenty six Mountain Men. Or maybe more. She lost count.)
Her easy companionship with death may be the reason why she likes the cemetery so much, especially in summertime. Clarke likes going there at nights. Strange tranquillity of this place is a particular blessing for her.
Finn’s grave is in the very corner, always decorated with bundles of fresh flowers, usually brought by Raven. That’s where she goes most of the time – she visits her mother’s grave frequently too and other graves as well – but she finds real peace only near Finn. It’s a long established habit, summer’s gift: sneaking out there, laying down on soft, warm grass, sleeping without nightmares.
Summer is scorching hot this year, with days cloudless and sweltering, and nights humid and sultry. Clarke walks towards Finn’s place without haste as gentle scent of lilies and evening stock soothes her senses. She delicately puts bouquets of flowers aside and lies down on his grave, her head where his heart must have been deep down below. Long blades tickle her cheeks, weeds tangle her hair.
It’s not exactly normal, what she does, but they all have ways of dealing with loss, pain, tragedy. Monroe prays – Clarke saw her more than once at the Shrine, kneeling with her head bowed down, whispering litanies to her god.
Wick sings his voice low and husky. His repertoire consists mostly of longing ballads about love; great part of them composed Wick himself. He sings them with double enthusiasm whenever Raven is around; unfortunately she still remains unmoved.
Bellamy runs.
Clarke ran with him only once. It was day or two after Mount Weather battle, when they were still counting wounded and laying dead to rest. She saw him disappearing in the forest and followed. Bellamy sprinted with wild speed, running deeper and deeper into the woods so fast that she almost couldn’t catch up with him. But when she did, he didn’t object: he let her run by his side. They didn’t talk. Clarke knew he wouldn’t want to – letting her be with him, in a moment like this, was generous enough. Perhaps even significant.
She grew tired after some time, stumbling over tree roots and rocks but he didn’t slow down, not even for a moment. He grabbed her hand though, with surprising force and certainty and they run together, till she couldn’t breathe and her legs were shaking with exertion.
He stopped suddenly, let go of her hand – and kissed her wet cheek.
It was the biggest and the most evident sign of his affection towards her so far. They were co-leaders and as such they were reasonably close. They shared a lot of physical contact: fleeting caresses filled with silent comfort, bodies brushing when they fought side by side, desperate hugs when they were bursting with relief – you are alive! – and delicate, careful touches when they were dressing each other’s wounds.
It didn’t mean anything special – that kiss, or their physical contact in general, Clarke knew.
Still, she was lightheaded and blushing, because of the run or because of his proximity – he was standing so close to her that their breaths were mingling and she could count his freckles, his eyelashes.
He was blushing too, and smiling at her, half daring and half not.
It meant nothing yet Clarke couldn’t help but wonder anyway how his lips would taste like for next weeks.
Clarke blinks. Memories like that are not bad – they just complicate things; she can’t afford to feel guilty about them though: it’s too late and she’s too tired. She yawns and stretches; night sky is studded with diamond-like stars, wind ripples through tree branches, its melody so soft and languorous that it puts Clarke to dreamless sleep.
Morning light rouses her awake. She lies for a few moments with eyes wide open and stares at the firmament. It must be still very early, probably half past four or even earlier. Faded grey of the sky is crossed with streaks of pink and red. It’s a pretty picture and Clarke admires it for a while. There is nagging feeling in the back of her mind though. She feels warmer than usual and there is a familiar weight on her body. Someone covered her with a blanket.
With sharp pang of fear Clarke realises someone is sitting next to her but she doesn’t have time to panic – she easily recognises this silhouette, even in semidarkness. Familiar, tense line of shoulders, straight line of the back, gentle bow of the neck, inky curls
‘Slept well, Clarke?’
Bellamy doesn’t even glance at her. He’s looking at the sunrise instead, his expression solemn despite light tone.
Clarke sits up with grimace. Per usual, she’s drenched – thanks to dew. Wet hair stick to her bare shoulders and she shivers. Days are sizzling hot and nights pleasantly warm, but mornings are always strangely cold.
Bellamy must have noticed, because now he’s staring at her. He takes off his ragged jacket – the old one that seems to consist only of patches and mends – and puts it on her shoulders.
Clarke smiles gratefully. Despite its alarming state, jacket is warm and feels nice. She clears her throat and asks voice still rough with sleep.
“What are you doing here?” and then, after a brief pause, she adds almost with hesitation “you brought a blanket.”
He sighs. “Murphy saw you leaving your room in the evening. Let’s say he found it rather curious.”
“And he grassed on me!”
She’s irritated but a bit amused too; even after all this time it’s strange to think that Murphy – John – truly cares about her – or about any of them, for that matter. It seems he’s now an active part of their community, which is a good thing of course, but right now Clarke wishes he were a bit less diligent.
Bellamy flashes her his trademark grin in response “He was worried, Clarke.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She doesn’t know what to say next and it looks like neither does Bellamy, so they just sit in silence. Clarke feels nervous for no apparent reason. It’s not like she’s ashamed and she doesn’t mind that Bellamy knows. They shared so much; traded so many secrets. It’s not exactly like he will laugh at her, or even give a snarky comment. They know each other all too well. Nevertheless she’s anxious – what if Bellamy decides to tell Jackson, or Octavia? They would worry about her, and that’s the last thing she wants.
“Clarke”
Bellamy puts his hand on her shoulder – there’s something grounding, calming in his touch – but he takes it off far too quickly for Clarke’s liking.
His restless fingers play with weeds, pull grass, and dig out rocks. Clarke is watching his hands, waiting for what is going to be said next in anticipation.
“I knew from the very beginning.”
“You knew?” she’s perplexed: his words are unexpected.
He shrugs and carries on “I saw you sneaking out. I knew you were sleeping here, every spring, every summer since Finn’s death. I went after you once, just to be sure you are safe.”
“You must observe me a lot” is the only remark she can make; she’s too astounded to say anything else.
Bellamy’s cheeks grow red under her gaze “I notice things easily, Princess.”
It’s her turn to blush – she wonders how much exactly did he notice: whether he saw her jumping into the lake stark naked or heard her muffled moans when Nathan Miller visited her room at night, that one time she actually allowed him. Chances are virtually non-existent but… Clarke shakes her head, trying to keep unwanted thoughts at bay.
“Why didn’t you tell me anything? Why just now?”
He sighs and ruffles his hair. “I didn’t want to intrude. But I figured… Clarke, it’s time to move on.”
Clarke breathes out heavily and rubs her forehead. Apparently Bellamy assumes her love to Finn is what keeps her here. At first, such was the case. She missed him so terribly: she missed their stolen future and their past when it was not tainted with his madness yet. And she loved him. She loved him so fiercely, so intensely – ironically, she survived for him. It was the only atonement she could offer. Finn she knew – the boy who kissed her neck under the starry sky, the boy who was her first, the boy whose life she held in her hands so many times – would want her, would need her, to stay and to live and to help others. It took her a lot of time to understand that but eventually she did.
“It’s not because of Finn, it’s…” she bites her lip, trying to find right words to explain. “I do love him, and I always will. But I moved on, Bellamy.”
He doesn’t believe her, she can tell.
“You sleep on his grave, that’s – “
“I just like coming here. The peace of this place helps me clear my mind.”
Birds start to chirp and people will wake up soon, too. It’s risky for them to stay on the outskirts of the camp for much longer; someone will find them and they will be obligated to explain why are they at the cemetery at such an early time.
“Still, sleeping here is dangerous – you can be attacked or get sick.”
He is right of course. Her immune system is pretty strong but nonetheless, morning cold and dew give her from time to time runny nose and occasionally cough. And she isn’t stupid – even in the camp they are never completely free from harm.
Bellamy stands up with his typical agility, and so does she – with a little help of his hand and much less grace. Clarke folds the blanket – it looks unfamiliar, must be one of his then – and takes off the jacket. She gives him both items with a small nod of thanks.
They stand facing each other for one awkward minute. Clarke is pretty sure their conversation is over: she makes a step forward, ready to go, but Bellamy’s hand springs to her wrist and stills her movements. He obviously has something to say, so she waits patiently.
Bellamy’s eyes are dark and piercing, but tender when they stare right at her. He has impossibly long and black eyelashes – something that always catches her off guard.
“You can come to my room, we could talk” he hesitates and his eyes dart away from her face. “You could sleep too, if you wish. I can lie on the floor.”
“Bellamy, I feel safe here”
She responds without a though and sees her mistake immediately; his friendly expression is replaced with a mix of emotions: anger, shame, anguish, maybe even pain.
He recoils and composes his features quickly: his face goes carefully blank, body language becomes guarded. It happens so fast that Clarke doesn’t have time to react; he turns around and marches away in long, rapid strides.
She calls after him, “Bellamy, wait”, but he doesn’t turn around.
Clarke thinks she knows what Bellamy heard in her words: I prefer sleeping on my dead lover’s cold grave than finding comfort in your company; I choose memories of him and reject reality of you. He misunderstood her, yes, but the blame is her – she could have word her thoughts better. She didn’t mean it to sound that way, at all. Bellamy is a very private person; Clarke just didn’t want to burden him. I feel safe here. She snorts, angry with herself. As if she hasn’t felt even more secure with Bellamy by her side.
Feeling of dread and uneasiness stays with her all day long. She desperately needs to see Bellamy and talk to him, explain everything, probably apologise, but he’s nowhere to be find. Her words must have really offended him, because he’s clearly avoiding her.
Clarke stays in her room that night, wide awake and fidgety. It’s stuffy in the room and she sweats like crazy – almost certainly more because of stress than because of heat. It’s almost midnight and he’s not home yet; Bellamy’s room is right next to her, so she would know. At seven a.m. sharp, Clarke’s patience ends. She leaves her room with strong intention on tracing down Jackson, who is the current Chancellor, and demanding search party for Bellamy now.
She bumps into Murphy on her way.
“Ouch, careful Griffin, you almost shattered my delicate bones”
“Murphy! Have you seen Bellamy?”
Murphy’s expression shifts at once; grimace of pain is quickly replaced with a knowing smirk. He strikes a pose.
“Maybe? I don’t really care about Blake as much as you do, obviously. His ass is pretty delicious for sure, would slap that –“
“Murphy, you’ve seen him or not? I’ll punch your ratty face if you don’t give a straight answer, I swear”
By the end of her sentence Murphy looks unbelievably smug. Clarke fumes and pushes him away with all the force she can muster and runs towards the dining hall.
The corridor resounds with Murphy’s gleeful laughter.
People in the cafeteria seem absolutely unaffected by Bellamy’s disappearance; they chatter with eat usual enthusiasm but Clarke is seriously worried though – he should be back already.
She spots Wick and he waves to her; he’s already sitting at the table with Raven and Clarke usually joins them.
“Why the long face?”
“Bellamy is gone; I think it may be my fault”
Wick and Raven exchange surprised glances. Raven arches her eyebrows.
“He’s not gone, just running errands with Miller and a few other guys. It’s his turn anyway”
“Oh”
Clarke is awash with relief: running errands means mostly hunting, picking useful herbs and checking nearby plantations. Twice in every month, specially designated team takes care of that task: Bellamy is the leader of the group. She completely forgot about the patrols.
Raven is looking at her rather alarmed. “You okay, Clarke?”
Clarke sits don’t heavily. “Yeah” she says “I’ll take porridge.”
Bellamy returns with his team around four in the afternoon; he brings Monroe – who was attacked by an exceptionally brave and determined deer – to medical, and nods civilly to Clarke on his way out. The rest of the day passes uneventfully: Clarke is busy with patients and sorting freshly delivered plants.
In the evening however, she gets apprehensive again. Clarke has decided what to do hours ago, but now she’s not sure how right her decision is. It’s a risky one, no doubt about that. Accepting Bellamy’s offer means the end of one era and marks the beginning of another. Clarke’s not sure how to feel about it. He’s in his room – she can hear his heavy footsteps. Bellamy Blake is a man of contradictions: in the forest his steps are soundless; here his stomps can be probably heard from Lincoln’s village. Clarke wonders if Bellamy does it on purpose.
She politely knocks twice but there is no answer. She’s about to come in anyway, when Bellamy opens the door. Judging by his shirtless state and sleepy face, he’s getting ready for bed. Not that she should be surprised – it’s well past midnight and they all must get up early. Sleeping late is sporadic here.
They eye each other in tense silence. Clarke nervously plays with her braid and briefly contemplates everything she planned to say. Eventually, she settles on “I hope your offer hasn’t expired yet?”
Bellamy doesn’t answer, but he fights smile creeping on his lips as lets her in.
His room is very similar to hers – all Ark’s rooms look more or less the same. His single bed, covered with a familiar looking blanket, stands against their shared wall; there is a hand-made bedside table with something looking like one of Lincoln’s books on it and a small desk accompanied by a single chair. Bellamy doesn’t have a wardrobe – his clothes, arranged in neat piles, occupy shelves.
He looks at her and nods in the direction of the bed.
“Feel free to sit down, Princess. It’s bug-free, I already checked”
Clarke obliges and tries very hard not to stare at him – he is still shirtless after all. She’s seen him almost naked more than once but much under different circumstances and exclusively in medical.
“Do we sleep in one bed?”
“No” Bellamy rummages in one of his huge backpacks “There’s no need to, I have a mattress”
He pulls out something looking vaguely like one; Clarke can’t help but giggle.
“You call that a mattress? Doesn’t look very inviting; come on, we can share the bed. I really don’t mind”
Bellamy is undeterred: he meticulously spreads the mattress on the floor, steals one pillow from his own bed – he has three in total – and tops everything with a spare duvet.
“The mattress belongs to Octavia; apparently it’s filled with some special beams, but I guess it could be as well ancient grounders magic. Either way it’s quite comfortable.”
They don’t need to turn off the lights; supervisory system cuts off electricity punctually at one a.m. – only the most important sections of the Arc are supplied without a break.
There is a rustle of bedding and the bed creaks in protest – Clarke fidgets a bit too much, but otherwise it’s quiet in the room. It’s pitch dark too, yet Clark thinks she can make out Bellamy’s figure. She’s already pleasantly drowsy, the initial excitement – his pillow smells like the wind and his duvet feels so much softer than hers – has diminished.
“Clarke?” he must be facing her, his voice sounds so close and Clarke can swear she feels warm blows of air as he exhales.
“Hmmm?”she’s on the verge of sleep, too tired to open her eyes. Bellamy must know because he leaves unsaid whatever he wanted to say. Instead, he murmurs goodnight.
Clarke stifles a yawn as she says “Goodnight, Bellamy”. She tentatively reaches out – beds are scandalously low here, it’s unhygienic – and is not that surprised when Bellamy’s fingers entwine with hers. It’s definitely not the most comfortable position for any of them but they don’t let go.
(In the morning Bellamy has the most excruciating back pain, and the biggest grin.)
It becomes a habit, not right away, but in the end it does.
Clarke comes to Bellamy’s room almost every night; they try different options. The first configuration, where Clarke takes the bed and Bellamy sleeps on the floor – or the other way around – is without a doubt the most dreadful. Sleeping on the floor together is significantly more pleasant but much less cosy and snug than sleeping together in the bed. They unanimously settle on the narrow bed.
Clarke remembers their first morning in that terrible bed; she woke up first. Bellamy stole all the bedding, but Clarke was fine without it, his body keeping her warm. She was draped all over him, her leg flung over his thighs. Small window in Bellamy’s room has no curtains so bright light was pouring into the room. Clarke, yawned and stretched – and gasped when she felt his erection. She bursted with giggles; in the same exact moment Bellamy stirred away, shame and mortification etched on his face. Her ringing laughter chased him for days.
Another time Clarke has a very realistic dream about an extremely intense sparring session with a Grounders; she literally kicked Bellamy out of bed and had the dubious pleasure of viewing his bruises for next two weeks.
These small whimsical accidents seemed to have no end but it didn’t discourage them. There was something undeniably enticing about being together like that, crossing boundaries and breaching the rules.
It goes painstakingly slow, but they learn each other. Night makes them courageous – in hushed whispers and sleepy murmurs, they share secrets, troubles and hopes; they talk about whatever is worth talking. Clarke complains about gross incompetence of her unofficial students and Bellamy gloats about digging a well, first in the camp.
They reminiscence and wonder about the future. Intimacy between them grows stronger; Clarke doesn’t know for sure who started it, she or Bellamy, but it feels right. Nights are in their favour; in the darkness, physical contact is much bolder: touches lingering longer and lips brushing wantonly.
Clarke still visits Finn, only now her visits are much shorter and always in daytime. She sits by his grave and tells him about all those things she can’t tell Bellamy – but in the end does it anyway – and sows forget-me-nots at his feet.
Her relationship with Bellamy ripens and people in the camp notice that. She doesn’t mind and neither does he; they can cooperate as good as always, if not better. Some things remain unchanged: she’s still the healer and he’s still the warrior, and together they still are leaders.
They make love for the first time in winter, with icy wind howling outside and thick snow pilling up against the walls of the Arc. It feels special but also unquestionably right, as if it was something destined to happen from the very beginning of their acquaintance. After that Bellamy whispers in her ear for a long time, his words tender and overflowing with love, and Clarke writes yes with her finger on his naked skin countless times.
***
They get married with the onset of summer. Wedding ceremony takes place at the Shrine – Octavia and Raven decorated it with bouquets of sunflowers and garlands of mimosa. Bellamy wears his best trousers and Jasper’s jacket; Clarke has her plain, white summer dress on. Earlier that day Raven unbraided and brushed her hair, and Octavia wreathed dandelions into a flower crown.
Bellamy beams when they finally let him see her.
“You look very princessy today” he says. Clarke laughs so hard her crown almost falls down and kisses his cheek.
The ceremony itself is quiet and simple. There are six guests of honour – Jasper, Lincoln and Wick on Bellamy’s side and Octavia, Raven and Monty on Clarke’s.
Bellamy says the wedding vow first and Clarke repeats after him, her voice faltering. They exchange handmade rings – old custom they adopted from Grounders – and kiss. Octavia whoops, Raven grins and Jasper blows his nose nosily.
The party starts the moment Bellamy and Clarke leave the Shrine as a husband and a wife; cheers and applause hits them like a tidal wave. Camp residents and invited Grounders are ready to celebrate: long wooden tables are heavy with food, glasses full with moonshine. There’s music too, sweet, slow sound carries well over the crowd.
They sway lazily – Bellamy holds her tight, his eyes unusually bright and Clarke leans even closer to him and rests her chin on his shoulder. She looks at her friends. Lincoln’s hand is resting protectively on Octavia’s belly as they laugh soundly at something together; Monty and Jasper snog shamelessly near the moonshine fountain; Raven and Wick disappeared somewhere mysteriously – Clarke can’t hold back her smile: at least, she thinks. There is Monroe too, dancing with cute looking grounder girl; even Murphy enjoys himself, though in a rather obscene fashion.
“Don’t look at Murphy” Bellamy mumbles into her hair. “He’s lewd”
“He is”, agrees Clarke, just as Murphy starts shimmying across the dance floor. There’s a collective exclamation of protest; but Murphy just keeps taking off his clothes at an alarming rate.
It is the best wedding in the history of the Camp Jaha.
***
Every live ends at some point, and so does every story.
Years later Bellamy will die and Clarke will bury him where he belongs – next to twelve graves behind the dropship – and she will lie down on his grave and gaze at the starry sky until she’ll fall asleep too.