Chapter Text
Octavia's restlessness wakes him.
The sight that greets him when he opens his eyes is his sister, an enormous mossy green rock held in her hands, and a stranger standing behind her, looking at something in the corner of his room.
Bellamy freezes, and slowly sits up in bed.
Octavia spits out the blade of sweet grass in her mouth, wiping his quilt where some of her spit has landed, and says, “Bellamy, this is Lincoln. I found him in the woods. He gave me this rock as a token of his gratitude.”
“And you brought him to my house,” Bellamy says, eyeing him. He debates whether to grab O and run or tackle the man to the floor.
“I brought him to the abode that we share, yes.” Octavia steps aside to give her brother an unhindered view. She doesn’t move too far away. Bellamy’s grateful for that.
“Lincoln, this is my brother. His name’s Bellamy.” Octavia’s voice manages to be both nervous and happy at once.
Lincoln puts down the book he’s stuck his nose in-Heroes, Gods and Monsters-and walks toward him. Bellamy stands and shoves Octavia away, but she cries, “No, no Bell, he’s about to—”
Lincoln claps Bellamy’s hand and shakes it, inclining his head. Then he lets him go.
Bellamy, his mouth open, turns to his sister. “Can I talk to you? Outside?”
Their porch, spanning the front length of the cabin, is somewhat slippery with moss. He'd do well to clean it soon. For the moment he’s a little preoccupied, glaring at his sister and the obnoxious rock she’s set down on the wooden floorboards. The expression he wears is one she’s more than probably used to.
“What’s rule number one of living in a swamp? Not just this one, any one for that matter.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t stray too far.”
“Great. I’m thinking of the other number one rule.”
"Don't eat the fungus."
"O."
She seems loathe to say it. “No strangers.”
He crosses his arms. “So, and this is just a guess here, it looks like you went way off property lines and managed to run into the strangest stranger I’ve ever met.”
“He’s nice,” Octavia raises her eyebrows. “He can’t talk, not now, which is why he's a little, y'know, weird. Someone took his voice away from him.”
Bellamy frames his face with his hands. “Octavia. Just—” Just don’t be so naive. Just don’t give me a heart attack every time you go pick flowers or whatever it is you do in the woods alone.
She gestures wildly. “I know it all sounds fake, like it was to lure me or something. But I’ve been watching him, and I swear, I think he really can’t speak.”
Bellamy shakes his head at her and cranes his neck to spy in on his open window. Lincoln sits still in his favorite leather chair, the one he made himself, both enormous hands held in his lap. He looks at a loss for what to do with himself. Bellamy feels the most exasperated he’s felt in a long time.
“Is he from a nearby village?”
Octavia’s eyes get snappy. “I don’t know where he's from. He can’t talk.”
“Great. If you think he’s staying the night, you’re out of your mind.”
“I don’t think that. I have a plan.”
A plan. He almost chuckles. Octavia’s brought things home before. Frogs, lizards, injured squirrels, eggs of every variety, but this is the biggest. It’s a human.
Her plan is this: take mute stranger Lincoln to White Orchard, a village five miles East, and find him a healer, sorceress, anyone who has knowledge of curses and spells.
Bellamy’s life in the swamp has been relatively uneventful so far, because there are things he doesn’t do. He doesn’t bring strangers to his house, he doesn’t get involved in local skirmishes about inflated taxing, and he does not get mixed up with magic people. There's been unrest in the Kingdom. Rumors of witches and wizards being carried away in carts, never to be heard from again.
Octavia’s managed to do the first thing on his not to do list, and propose the third.
But the puppy dog eyes come out as he’s shooting it down. Bellamy’s defenses were never strong against the puppy dog eyes.
“Wait, just listen—”
The healer, Lexa they call her, sends him an unimpressed glance from the other side of the wooden door. She turns to Octavia.
“Next time you bring your brother outside, make sure to get him a leash.” With that, the door slams shut.
Bellamy’s fist raises to pound on it, before Octavia grips it within her own. The glare she sends him, were it anyone else, would raise the hair of his arms on end. He arches his eyebrow at her.
“Voodoo stuff?” She hisses, recounting his skeptical and probably offensive remarks toward magic, all made in Lexa’s presence. “Great. No one within twenty miles is going to help us now.”
Lincoln remains a silent presence behind them, his eyes curiously tracking the other townspeople milling about.
“Would you please relax?” Bellamy snaps. He looks over her shoulder. “And keep your voice down.” They don’t know a soul here, and not a soul knows them. He prefers to keep it that way.
“Let’s go,” he amends. “We’ll try Crow’s Perch tomorrow.”
Octavia huffs and touches Lincoln’s arm as she passes, and the man follows her willingly. Bellamy rubs his temples.
On their return trek through the woods, his sister proceeds to describe everything of significance to her new stranger friend about the country, arrogantly assuming he’s not from around. For the man’s part, he looks interested.
“See, we’re part of a kingdom. Ruled by Lord Finnigan Spacewalker,” she takes an elegant, mocking bow. Bellamy’s eyes nearly roll to the back of his head when Lincoln smiles. Endearingly.
“But our swamp,” Octavia continues, “Isn’t owned by the Kingdom. We don’t have to pay taxes, which is great, because as far as money goes, Bellamy only keeps a jar for emergencies—”
“Octavia.”
“Sorry.” She smiles at Lincoln, as if it’s their new private joke. By god, Bellamy needs to take a break. Maybe sit in his leather chair for three straight hours, read a book.
Lanterns light their return as the afternoon light gradually recedes, giving way to lightening bugs and darkness. As soon as Bellamy’s boots cross the wooden walkway he built over their stream, or the “little moving ocean” as Octavia called it when she was a kid, he sighs in relief.
Home. Their cabin looks worn, beaten just a bit, but it’s theirs. Octavia's garden is in full bloom; the wicker lanterns he built hang in the trees, the ones she climbed like a spider monkey to set up.
“Lincoln,” Bellamy says at the door. He’s tired, he’s hungry, he wants to read. “You can stay. But you sleep on the porch.”
“Bell!” Octavia yells. Lincoln is already trying to placate her, and it irks him even more.
“Porch.” He steps inside, kicks off his boots, collapses on his chair. Octavia storms in minutes later, grabs a random book off their humble shelf, and hurries back out. He cracks one eye open, only to see her settle next to Lincoln on the steps, the older man looking up at the stars.
After a while, Octavia begins to read aloud.
"What are you doing?" He calls, tired.
She closes the book forcibly and twists around. "Excuse me. Lincoln and I are reading."
"Please, don't let me stop you."
Octavia huffs and murmurs, "sorry, where was I..." and the side of his mouth might tip up just a bit as he drifts off to the sound of her voice.
He wakes when it’s still night to rustling and murmurs outside his window.
Groggily, he leaves the bed, tearing the covers away. He isn't that angry as he stomps through the house, maybe just irritable and confused, because what in seven hells does Lincoln think he’s doing.
Opening the door, ready to throttle him, Bellamy freezes. And blinks.
And...blinks.
There are people on his property. At least a hundred. Some of them turn to him, looking decidedly unalarmed, others keep their eyes on the ground. Some are sitting around fires, standing, squatting...
“Octavia,” he calls weakly, his eyes never leaving the sight. “Octavia.”
“What?” He hears from within the house.
He swallows. “Just come out here.”
He hears a thump, a curse, and finally she’s at his shoulder, her hand gripping his arm. Then it slackens, falls dead at her hip. “...wow.”
“Yep,” he agrees. It’s hard feeling pissed and close to fainting at the same time.
Amidst minutes upon minutes of confusion (not one person gives him any straight answers and he tries to keep himself from shouting) Lincoln emerges from the crowd and comes to them, trailed by a woman.
Bellamy meets them halfway and sticks a finger in his chest. “Did you bring them here?”
Lincoln nods solemnly, gesturing at the rock he holds in his hands, the same one gifted to his sister. The woman behind him, wearing a ponytail that springs when she walks, steps forward impatiently.
“We came because we have no where else to go.”
"Who are you?”
She sticks out a hand. He takes it numbingly. “Raven Reyes.”
“I meant why the hell are you on my property.”
She purses her lips. “Lord Spacewalker has decided we’re no longer fit to live in his glorious Kingdom.”
“And why’s that?”
She smiles. “Sorcery scares the shit out of him, apparently.”
Octavia is thrilled, at the very least impressed, to be in the company of wizards and witches, Lincoln among them. Bellamy wants to hit himself over the head with a rock.
The gist is this: they’ve been evicted from their homes, and trusting Lincoln's rock-call or whatever the hell it was, his secluded property seemed the best gathering place. Bellamy tells them all to get the hell out maybe once before Octavia yells, “They have no where else to go, Bell!” and it’s game over.
So then of course comes the deal: he and Lincoln will go to the city of Arkadia to talk to the Lord Spacewalker guy, and see what they can do to make sure these people don’t make an extended stay. Bellamy shouts this news grudgingly from his porch, and he’s greeted with applause. He hates it, slamming the door behind him for the night.
Someone has to stay behind to guard the house, and he leaves that duty to O, entrusting her and Raven Reyes to its protection. That decision is only made during breakfast the next morning, when Raven knocks on their door and offers them fresh game, which they turn into stew. She then spends the rest of the morning impressing them with her sharp and funny commentary, and he grows to trust her begrudgingly, considering the circumstances.
He and Lincoln set off early. Octavia hugs both of them goodbye, which Bellamy moves his jaw at, but otherwise keeps silent. “Be safe,” he tells her, and she nods, having heard it a thousand times before.
It’s going to be a two day's journey. Needless to say, as they start on the dirt road through the woods, he’s glad Lincoln is the silent type.
He huffs at his own joke. Lincoln raises an eyebrow, but Bellamy shakes his head.
Lord Spacewalker’s castle is enormous, and uncommonly tall. It stands like a monument in the distance. “You think he’s compensating for something?” Bellamy jokes to Lincoln, who looks unimpressed.
The city's entrance is left unguarded. Bellamy takes a few steps and stops.
“No one’s here.”
The cobblestone streets, wooden houses, even the street carts are abandoned. He takes in the sight, troubled.
Lincoln pats his arm and points East, where a large arena stands erected in front of the castle. Bellamy trains his ears, and he hears distant shouts erupt from within its large parameters. Then Lincoln points upward, where a glaring banner has been hung between a maypole and a house.
UNITY DAY CELEBRATION
REMEMBER THE FOUNDING OF OUR GREAT KINGDOM
On others, it reads:
TOURNAMENT HELD MIDDAY
ALL WELCOME FOR PARTICIPATION!
“Wonder what the tournament’s for,” Bellamy murmurs. Lincoln, impatient, ushers them on.
"Most likely Spacewalker will be there," he thinks aloud. "We just need to get his attention."
At Lincoln's skeptical look, he smirks. "The dramatic always seems to make an impression, eh?"
It’s easy to walk into the arena. They just...walk in, until they’re standing in the large circle, dirt beneath their feet, with at least a thousand people in the stands above them. Both of them stop to take in the vast sight, searching for signs of the Lord himself.
“What’s this?” A voice echoes. Bellamy strains to see where it’s coming from. “New challengers? And peasants, too! I’m afraid we've already chosen the competitors, pity.”
Quickly he spots the source. A man no older than him seated on a throne above a balcony, with middle length brown hair and an obnoxious crown glittering on his head. Bellamy shouts to him, “Lord Spacewalker. I’m here to discuss your issued order of eviction toward witches and wizards in the southern woods."
The crowd's murmuring dies down with a wave of Spacewalker's hand. “Go on?” He seems intrigued, like a cat idly watching a bird.
“The people you cast from their homes came to my swamp, uninvited. I’m here to ask that you pardon them, let them live out their lives in peace.”
There is a beat of silence, before Lord Spacewalker erupts into laughter. It takes a few minutes for his people to catch on and join him. Laughter soon turns to boos and taunts, some audience members even attempting to throw things, but the throws are weak and fall short of them.
Once Spacewalker has wiped his eyes, his chest still vibrating with chuckles, he gestures to the band of warriors clad in armor and various weaponry standing in the arena. Ten of them in total. Bellamy feels a sinking suspicion.
“Knights! The one who kills these fools will be named champion,” the Lord shouts.
“Damn it,” Bellamy says. Lincoln nods in agreement.
By the grace of fate, or luck, or whatever Bellamy doesn’t care, he and Lincoln win. The opponents are confident enough to send just two their way at first, but when Lincoln clips a grinning one in the head, breaks his elbow, and steals his sword, all bets are off. Bellamy quickly gets the other one, deftly dodging his strikes until he can kick in a knee and take his primitive mace.
“Why do you get the cool sword?” He calls to Lincoln, who grins at him.
Later, they stand among ten bruised and battered bodies (not one dead, just...seriously maimed) and Lord Finn Spacewalker still looms above them, looking reluctantly impressed. He turns to his adoring crowd, and cries, “People of Arkadia, I give you our new champions!”
“Oh, look at that. They’re cheering us now.” Bellamy growls. Lincoln shakes his head in exasperation.
They’re lead by the Royal Guard inside the palace, where Spacewalker awaits them. They aren't in the swamp anymore: Bellamy’s fully aware he can’t get away with anger and sarcasm here, but checking his attitude is one of the hardest things a guy like him can do. He tries his best at it.
"Lord Spacewalker—"
“King, technically.” He interrupts smugly.
Bellamy is out of his comfort zone by a mile and a half. “My King. I’m sorry to deceive you, but I didn’t come here for the tournament. My name is Bellamy Blake. Quite a few witches and wizards have taken residence on my property. I came to request-”
“I heard you the first time. You want them gone, is that it?”
“Relocated, yeah.” Gone seems a bit uncouth. "To a place where they can live peacefully," he adds.
“I’ll tell you what, peasant.” Bellamy's been called that all his life, it's what he is, but he still stiffens at the name. “You complete this quest for me, and I'll give you your swamp back.”
“And the squatters?”
“Consider them relocated.” The curl of his lips, the glint of greed in his eyes, leaves much to be trusted. But what choice does he have?
“What are you asking of me, exactly?”
“A princess.” Bellamy grabs a rock from the road beneath their feet and throws it into the tree line. “Rescuing a princess. This kind of thing only happens in books.”
Lincoln’s expression reads: you’re not wrong.
“Princess Clarke. Never even heard of her.” Probably due to her being locked up in a dragon-guarded castle the past eight years. Bellamy shakes his head.
“I knew dragons existed,” he snorts, his pace angry. Lincoln keeps up with him easily, munching on the vegetables they nicked from someone's field. “Didn’t think I’d ever have to fight one. You?”
Lincoln gives him a dark look around a mouth full of onion.
Bellamy laughs. He turns to the sunset, releasing a breath. “We should rest for the night. Got a long day tomorrow.”
They stop and make camp. It takes a while to let sleep claim him, his thoughts too anxious. He looks up at the tree canopy, and tries to spot the stars beyond the leaves and branches. His own way of counting sheep.
Mount Weather looms in front of a dark, overcast sky. Bellamy thinks Mount Doom would be a more fitting name.
The smell of sulfur and brimstone is so strong he coughs under the weight of it. Lincoln drops ceremoniously to one knee and drags his finger along the ground. It comes up black.
“We’re close,” Bellamy says. Lincoln nods.
After more hiking, and stops for catching their breath, they finally near the top of the friendly, docile volcano with a castle built on its head. The mountain itself is a popular character in old wives tales, but Bellamy doesn't remember any stories about a princess.
There are no villages for miles around, the land empty and barren. He shakes his head at the impracticality—not the best way to keep someone safe.
Up ahead he can barely see the volcano’s summit, hidden behind a wall of black rock, the sky above tumultuous. Him and Lincoln trudge and heave until their hands reach the top, and they pull themselves over.
The castle, ominous and dark, is built into the volcano’s side. Where it ends and the black molten rock begins, it’s not easy to tell. Bellamy spots a swinging wooden bridge, hanging precariously above the pit, connecting their side of the volcano to the entrance. He narrows his eyes.
“Let’s get down there.”
A beaten path leads them down to the level of the bridge, which looks even more unstable after closer inspection. He’s glad this is not an active volcano. Falling into a boiling hot lake of lava wouldn't be a good way to go.
“I’ll go first,” he says, gripping the rope serving as the railing. Lincoln nods.
Halfway across, Bellamy refusing to look down, they hear the telltale roar of the dragon. Both of them freeze, sharing a semi-panicked look before glancing at the castle.
Keep going. This is for you and O.
He lets himself immerse in the sweet relief when his boots touch solid ground, and once Lincoln joins him, they go forward into the dilapidated front hall.
“Okay,” he murmurs, staring at two grand stone staircases gracing the dark foyer, both stemming in opposite directions. “If I was a princess, where would I be hiding?”
Lincoln chuckles next to him. Bellamy raises his eyebrows. “That’s it? That’s the one that gets you?”
His silent companion ignores him, and without a word proceeds up the left staircase. Bellamy takes the right. Highest room in the tallest tower, Lord Spacewalker said. Up is probably the right direction.
His steps sound lonely in the grey dark.
This is how they meet: he hears the dragon roar, this time sounding furious in its tenor, and he freezes. Then he hears the scuffle of boots coming closer, presumably Lincoln’s, and he strides in that direction.
“Lincoln!” He calls.
Lincoln jogs from around a corner, chest heaving. “You good?” Bellamy asks. He nods as he catches his breath. Bellamy moves to look down the hallway from where he came.
Then an explosion erupts in front of them, knocking him onto his ass. The dragon’s meaty claw erupts from the stone floor, curled and crusted with thick, dry blood. The stone crumbles to sand in its wake. Bellamy barely manages to shout run before they’re off in a random direction, through an archway, a rusty metal door, somehow facing the evening outside. He slams the door behind them shut and they both collapse against it.
Maybe this isn't worth it, he thinks. Maybe I can sacrifice my dignity/privacy and live with a bunch of magic people. The thought makes him want to jump into an active volcano.
Then he glances up. At the other end of the stone bridge where they've collapsed is a tower that touches the sky. At the very top window, a light is on. He and Lincoln look at each other and grin darkly.
"Can't say I've ever gone to these lengths just to get a girl before," Bellamy says, brushing himself off. "How about you?"
Lincoln shrugs.
"Oh, I can't wait till you can talk."
They're just outside the entrance to the tower when Bellamy stops, a thought occurring to him, dredged up from years of raising a sister. "Maybe I should go alone. One strange guy is probably enough."
Lincoln nods and promptly stands guard at the entrance. Bellamy opens the door, and with some trepidation ascends the staircase.
On his way up, there are drawings. All etched onto the stone walls with chalk, and great care.
Drawings of the moon and the sun and the earth. Drawings of a woman with distant eyes and a thin mouth. A young man with a wide smile, kind face.
As he nears the top, they get more colorful, optimistic, drawn with paint. He passes an enormous portrait of a man with glasses, a half smile on his face, intelligent eyes.
Bellamy tries very hard not to be impressed.
Finally, just as he's feeling the burn in his legs, he reaches the landing. There sits a closed, solemn wooden door, and he has a feeling the princess is on the other side. Suddenly, the nerves that followed him on his way up intensify. He's not exactly sure how this rescuing thing works. Does he barge in, throw her over his shoulder? No, seems outdated.
He's over thinking it. Open the goddamn door, Blake.
He pushes it open, cautiously stepping inside. The first thing he sees on the other side of the room is an empty bed. Then a shelf of books, a vanity, cluttered tables with half finished drawings, clothes strewn about the stone floor. The room is comfortably sized, if a little too small for this kind of clutter.
Not a princess in sight.
"Hello," he calls warily.
He steps further inside, putting his tired hands on his hips. Great. Maybe she's dead.
Suddenly, the door shuts. He whirls, and blinks at two blue eyes, who blink right back at him. Between them is the long silver blade of a sword. "What do you want?" The girl snaps.
Her hair is blonde, certainly the blondest he's ever seen, but to be fair he hasn't seen a lot of people. Her dress is green, the bodice fitting to her torso, hanging loosely around her legs to give her room to move.
Bellamy raises his hands slowly. "I'm here to escort you to Arkadia, by orders from Lord Spacewalker. And I'd like to do it quickly, because there's a dragon in this castle."
"Charlotte," she says.
"What?"
"Her name is Charlotte, and if you hurt her you're going to pay."
"If I hurt her?" Bellamy growls. "She tried to kill us,"
"Who's 'us'?"
Is there a reason to lie? "My friend Lincoln is waiting downstairs." She tenses. "He's a good guy. Doesn't...talk much."
The girl never lowers the sword, or her gaze. Bellamy finds himself glancing to the side, at a loss.
"How do I know you're not just trying to kidnap me? My mother has a lot of coin."
He almost rolls his eyes. Princess doesn't want to be kidnapped, then goes and tells potential kidnapper her parents are well off. Smart.
"If that was my intention, I wouldn't be asking nicely."
She raises her brows. "This is you asking nicely."
He smirks. "This is me demanding nicely."
That clearly doesn't sit well. When she backs away even further, he mentally chides himself.
"Well," she says, her fingers tightening on the handle. "Seems we're at a stand still."
"Look, Princess..." I have everything riding on this, so if you could get your ass in gear, that'd be great. "Just-"
The furious roar returns, pained this time around. The princess's face falls as she lowers the sword. She turns away, then thinks better of it and scowls at him. "We're not done here."
She's out the door before he can get a word in.
He follows her.
The dragon is huge and red and towering above Lincoln's tense form, snapping its teeth. A rusty sword is his only defense, used to jab at anything coming too close for comfort. The princess's feet barely hit the ground before she heads straight toward them. She is insane, Bellamy thinks. Lincoln nearly does a double take when a short blonde girl jogs right passed him, straight for the beast. He glances back at Bellamy, who shakes his head. Like he has a clue.
"Charlotte!" Princess Clarke yells over the growling. "Stop it!"
And shit, the dragon responds. Its growls die down to rumbles deep within its stomach, and Clarke makes a loud ticking noise with her teeth, meant to comfort. "Good girl. Now, go. Go eat something. I don't have anything for your wounds right now, I'm sorry." She points left, and after a few reluctant moments, Charlotte slinks off the bridge to the ground below, shrieking once.
Bellamy and Lincoln are silent as silent goes through all of this.
The princess turns on them immediately. More specifically Lincoln. "You cut her belly," she accuses.
Lincoln side eyes Bellamy, in a this is the princess? way of sorts. Bellamy doesn't respond.
Princess Clarke keeps talking. "She heals fast, so...I suppose it's alright. Just try not to provoke my dragon any more."
He snorts at this. "What, stepping into the castle is provoking it?"
"Pretty much." Her sword hangs loosely from her hand. He counts that as a point in their favor.
After a tense silence, the princess sighs and walks to the stone bench a few steps away (which is somehow still intact), sitting tiredly. Bellamy's feet finally unstick from the ground, and he approaches her warily. She tracks his path, Lincoln's too.
"You're here to rescue me?" She asks curiously, testing out the words.
Bellamy clears his throat. "Yes. And bring you to Arkadia, so a Lord can marry you."
She frowns. "If a Lord wants to marry me, why doesn't he come here himself?"
Lincoln huffs a laugh. Bellamy smirks. "Great question. You can ask him when we get there, Princess." He means to take her elbow and pull her up, but she leans away, offended. Her scoff mixed with her ramrod straight shoulders and unruly hair make him think, oh, okay. This is what we're dealing with here.
"What an assumption. You don't even know if I want to go."
"What," he gestures around them, impatient. "You want to be locked away in a tower your whole life?"
"What exactly is wrong with my tower?"
Bellamy leans back. "His castle is ten times as big as this one. It'd be a charmed life."
"That doesn't matter," she snaps, glancing downward. "He's a stranger."
He can't really argue with that. But his patience is getting pretty thin and he's antsy. So he decides to lie. "Tell you what. We'll escort you to the castle. If you still don't want to marry this guy in three days, I'll bring you back here."
Princess Clarke looks skeptic for all of two seconds before she relaxes at the compromise. "That could work." She brings her fingers up to worry at her lips, glancing down to where the dragon, the one she talks to, has disappeared. Her face loses some of its vibrancy.
"I'm not so sure I should leave her."
Bellamy doesn't mean to glare at the girl. It's not because he's angry. He's just trying to get past two emotions that don't sit well with him, ever: confusion and intrigue. Maybe it's more of a stern look than a glare.
Of course she notices. She briefly shrinks back in her surprise, and he feels bad, but that flame ignites behind her eyes soon enough.
"What's your problem?" She demands.
He tells himself to knock it off. "Nothing."
"I didn't ask to be rescued. I get along fine here on my own."
"I'm sure you do," he says.
She stands up abruptly and walks between them, flailing her hands. "My mom put me here, because it was for my own good. It was, I was protected, Charlotte kept me safe. But people change, they have to, and that's why I..." she hesitates. "That's why I'll go with you," she says firmly. He wonders how the hell she manages to word it like a demand, like she's the one with the upper hand here.
Bellamy nods, can't really think of anything else to do or say. It's Lincoln who approaches her, takes her hand in both of his, and inclines his head. Like he did when he first met Bellamy.
The princess's breath halters at the physical contact. He sees her whole face change, going from determined and alone, to sincere and overwhelmed. She tips her head to him, smiling. "It's nice to meet you, too. What's your name?"
"Lincoln doesn't talk," Bellamy responds. "His voice was taken away."
"Really?" She frowns. "How?"
"Magic, I guess. Bastard probably got involved with someone he shouldn't have." Lincoln sighs, and Bellamy grins tightly.
"Oh. May I?" She gestures to his throat. He nods. Her pale hand comes up to touch the skin just beneath his jaw. "Vocal chords aren't swollen," she observes. "Magic. Definitely."
"Like I said."
Princess Clarke glares at him. "Well, what about you? Do I at least get to know the name of my rescuer?"
He tips his head, frank. "Bellamy. We should leave soon, Princess."
"Alright." She grins at Lincoln endearingly, and Bellamy's amusement nearly sends him off the terrace. Having this effect on women cannot be natural. Maybe the guy was Prince Charming in another life.
Clarke leaves to collect her stuff. He watches as the light in the top window of the tower flickers out. She returns with two packs and a satchel, changed from her green dress into deerskin leggings and a white peasant blouse. When Bellamy tells her she's carrying too much, she shakes her head and says, quote, "I may be shorter than you, but it doesn't mean squat. I could even take you."
Yeah, sure she could.
When they reach the other side of the swinging wooden bridge and all that's left to conquer is the beaten path leading out of the volcano, the princess turns and looks at her wasted kingdom, sad. He'd go so far as to say forlorn.
"She'll be lonely."
Right, she's talking about the dragon they managed to avoid on the way out. Bellamy still feels trembles in his arms.
"Maybe you'll be back one day," he says, and means it.
She talks, her voice standoffish compared to the quiet woods. Lincoln listens. Bellamy tunes in and out and walks a few paces ahead of them.
To his surprise, there's a lot she knows. About everything. And it seems that in her obvious lack of social experience, she doesn't know when to shut up. His sister has the same problem, coincidentally.
"You know, I have a book on magic, and there's a chapter about curses? It said they can only be undone-well, the word was 'inacted'-by someone more powerful than whoever cast it."
"He's magic himself," Bellamy says. "I'm guessing he knows this."
"I know he's magic. I'm just talking here."
He looks at her for the first time since they departed the castle. "How on Earth do you know that?" He never mentioned anything about it; Lincoln certainly hadn't.
"I just know. There've been animals following him since we came to the forest."
Bellamy peaks over his shoulder, searching behind them. He doesn't see a thing. If she's telling the truth, she's an observant girl, and he's a dope.
She continues to talk. He continues to tune in and out, mostly in, because it's like reading a book. An amusing, wordy book that keeps kicking the same rock at his heels for ten minutes before he turns around and says, "Would you stop kicking that at me?"
"...which is the reason they-" she blinks at him, her story trailing off, lost.
"The rock," he looks to it pointedly. "Maybe you should find something else to do with yourself, Princess."
He hears her huff of breath after he turns around. "Oh, should I? What do you suggest?"
"You ever heard of the quiet game?"
This time, she makes an indignant noise. "What kind of knight are you?"
"One of a kind."
Silence, finally.
The pebble hits the back of his head with no warning. It's a sharp, tiny sting that takes his mild annoyance and flames it, causing the back of his neck to heat. He turns, and Lincoln and her smile together.
"We're camping for the night," he snaps.
On the second day, robbers ambush them.
Lincoln and Bellamy sit on the path, arms slung over their knees, giving Clarke space to relieve herself. The trees cascade over them, providing shade from the summer heat, sweltering, ripe. This, of course, is when six men emerge from all directions, laughing like they've already caught the canary.
"Bandits," Bellamy mutters, standing up. Lincoln does too.
"What have we here, boys?" One smiles dumbly, his teeth a putrid shade of yellow. "A couple of rough and tumble sods. Think they have some coin in their pockets?"
"Who the hell cares? Let's gut 'em!" Six rough voices cry out in agreement, raising their fists and weapons.
Bellamy raises his hands. "Easy. We're not looking for trouble."
One of them sneers and twirls his pick axe. "Too bad. We are."
They approach like vultures, slow and flighty, at the same time Bellamy spots the princess sneaking out from the tree line, pulling something-a book?-out of her satchel. She stealths behind the man hanging back, armed with a bow and arrow, and hits him over the head with the full force of both arms. He falls to the ground.
All bets are off.
Lincoln trips up one man and evades the blow of another, returning in kind with his fist. Bellamy throws dirt in one's eyes and checks him in the ribs. All the while he keeps looking over to her, standing, struggling with the bow and arrow. What she thinks she's doing, he has no clue. At least she's out of the way.
Two men down, three to go.
They have it, but one stupid mistake later and Bellamy misjudges the arc of someone's swing. A knife slices into his side, and he staggers, clutching the open wound with his hand.
The knife barely raises again before an arrow pierces the arm beneath it, and it drops. The man howls in pain and surprise.
Bellamy turns his head. Princess Clarke stands solemnly, another bow already notched in the string, her glare deadly.
"Drop your weapons, or I'll shoot him between his eyes." Her voice is the calmest he's heard it.
The other two retreat from Lincoln, their swords clattering to the dirt. Bellamy shifts when they turn their mean glares on her.
"Just go about your day and let us go about ours, and there shouldn't be a problem," she says. "You don't have to take your friends. They'll come to soon enough."
"She's a funny bitch," one says. "A pretty one, too."
"Pretty enough to handle a bowstring fairly well," she taunts. "Get out of here."
One lunges for her. Bellamy lunges for him.
The princess drops the bow and ducks under his arm, twisting and punching him twice right in the gut. He wheezes, and she takes the time to box his head. He falls.
Bellamy nearly sprains his neck to look at her, impressed. Then he turns to the other man, standing perplexed, and knocks him out.
"You alright?" He asks her, staring at her hands. Her knuckles are red.
She nods, slightly breathless. "I've never shot an arrow before,"
"Pretty good for your first time." He admits, gruffly, not really looking at her, and he knows he has a problem with that, but he figures he can't just not acknowledge the badassary of the past five minutes.
She nods, smiling pleasantly, like she didn't just shoot someone in the arm. "Thanks." She cranes her head. "You good, Lincoln?"
The man waves his hand absently.
She bends over to retrieve her bag, golden hair falling over her shoulder. "Now, let's see." Pulling from it a swath of cloth and the single frond of a green plant, which he's guessing has medicinal properties, she starts for him. "Might as well clean your wound," she says matter of fact. "Don't want it to get infected."
"It's fine." The words come out rougher than intended. "It's a shallow cut, Princess."
"Hey, maybe you don't care about dying from infection, but I'm guessing you've got someone in your life who does. So humor me, brave knight."
He stands very still as she approaches, squirting something clear and thick onto her fingers. She bends and dabs it onto his cut, and he stiffens, hands tightening on his shirt where he's lifted it up.
"It stings," he hisses.
"Relax, that means it's working."
"I'm relaxed."
The silence that follows, with her nimble fingers touching his skin, and her close presence as she bands the cloth around him, makes him want to talk. "Just don't make a habit of it."
"Of what?" She ties the band into a knot, beneath his ribs.
"We need to get you to Lord Spacewalker in one piece."
She pulls away, and looks pissed. "I'm perfectly capable-"
"Of taking care of yourself. I can see," He gestures to the bodies around them. "Just let me do my job, and you get to do yours. Be a princess."
She narrows her eyes at him, and for a second he's relieved, confident she won't pursue the argument. Then a smile takes flight on her lips. He feels his smirk disappearing into oblivion.
"You know, all those fairy tales I've been reading have taught me so much about traditional gender roles." She steps toward him.
Is this woman real?
He doesn't retreat, but he may straighten his spine a little bit.
"Every story is the same, for the most part. Guy rescues girl, they live happily ever after, she his indentured servant, practically." She wipes her hands off on her thighs. "Let's get something straight: this isn't that story. I don't look at this as you rescuing me. I look as this as me agreeing to accompany you on a journey. We're companions."
"Companions," he repeats, skeptical. He feels like his eyes haven't moved from her face an inch, in a concerning amount of time.
"That's right. You want the next two days to go smooth, all you have to do is be nice to me."
When he recovers, and recovers he does, Bellamy figures he's got two options, one of them smart and the other the exact opposite. The smart thing to do is nod his head and agree, avert his eyes, establish that if by nothing else than birthright, she's the one in control here. It would make things go a lot smoother.
Bellamy's never really cared for the easy way.
"I signed up for rescuing a princess and getting her to Arkadia." He steps into her space. "I rescued you, and now I'm bringing you there. I don't care if I have to throw you over my shoulder to do it. Lincoln and I can take turns."
Clarke's eyes are unwavering. "Maybe you can tell Lord Spacewalker that if he wants me, I'll be waiting right here." She smirks, like this was her plan all along or something, and it irks him.
"I'm no one's messenger boy," he smiles, shows his teeth, "I'm a delivery boy."
Her face becomes rigid stone, and she shoves past him, fuming. When Lincoln passes him, he gets a look.
She starts to sing.
It's a wordless melody, one he guesses was learned to pass long days in the tower. His eyes flick to the trees above when a bird responds carefully, unsure. Great-she's beautiful, she's a princess, her voice is quaint and melodic enough to pass for a woodland bird's. It's so textbook he almost feels like he should be writing it down and publishing it. Probably stands a chance against various other fairy tale classics.
Because he can, and because he hasn't heard her speak in an hour, he calls, "Sure you want to attract more attention to our little party, Princess?"
She doesn't look back at him. "Oh, I'm sure your big feet are doing the job nicely." She carries on with the tune, three packs slung over various parts of her body and not one word of complaint about it.
Lincoln laughs through his nose, and Bellamy finds his lips curling upward of their own accord. He's too tired to put up a frown, and accepts her words for what they were: a good jab.
He finds himself picking up his pace so that they walk nearest each other. Her hums trail off, and she looks at him with some suspicion, but mostly confusion, probably given his attitude earlier. Bellamy doesn't know how to apologize, but he does know how to start a conversation. Here goes.
"Why were you put in the tower?"
She studies him a bit before answering. "My mother." He's relieved when, after a few moments of hesitation, she continues, "When my father died, mom felt it was unsafe that I stay in the palace, so she brought me to Mount Weather. She captured a dragon and brought her there too, to protect me." She laughs, a bit darkly. "I don't think she expected we'd become friends."
"How old were you?"
"Twelve," she says quietly, as if ashamed. It makes him angry, and not at her.
He'd never taken the time to picture it before: twelve year old girl left alone in a dragon-guarded castle on a secluded volcano. It must have been-
"I wasn't lonely, at first. My mother would visit when she could. My friend Wells was the real savior—he'd bring me books and paint, play his guitar while I sang...it was nice."
"But you came to be lonely," he ventures quietly.
She wrings her hands. "One day, Wells stopped coming back. It took me a while, but I found out he and his father were murdered. My mother became Queen because Lord Jaha didn't have another rightful heir. The kingdom wasn't in the best shape, and because she was so busy, she stopped coming too." Her head snaps up to where an animal rustles in the branches to their right. She's nervous, he can tell, relaying these things to a virtual stranger. "I haven't seen her in a long time."
"Did you think she'd ever come get you? Or maybe you go to her?" That's sure as hell what he would've done.
"No," she admits. "I'm a princess, remember? As much as I'd love to be the hero of my own story, it's a knight whose supposed to do the rescuing. That stuff I said back there, it was stupid."
Bellamy puts his hands in his empty pockets, tries not to feel too guilty. "Well, you're in luck, princess. I'm not a knight."
He catches her smile. "Really? I'd never guess."
"No, so you're still the hero whether you like it or not. Lincoln and I are your side kicks. Your 'companions.'" He throws the word back at her, not unkindly.
She smiles wider at him. He's a bit blinded by it. "I appreciate it."
Thats how it goes for a while. She'll say something in this way where he feels like he has to disagree on principle. Other times it'll make him want to pause and just look at her, for no reason at all. He doesn't. At least, not when she's looking.
He learns quickly that being on the road with someone for six hours is not a detached experience. It feels like she's been a presence in his life for much longer than half a day.
"I've haven't seen one since I was a little girl," Clarke breathes. Bellamy crouches behind her, watching the deer and her fawn graze in the meadow, their necks and legs sleek and long.
"Don't startle them," Bellamy whispers.
She side eyes him. "You don't startle them."
It's Lincoln who does it, shrugging out of the trees after taking a piss. "Lincoln!" They both shout, and laugh at his bewildered expression, pants unbuttoned.
A traveling merchant greets them on the road, smiling at Clarke a bit too widely, his teeth yellow. "I have coin," she tells them, and practically dances away. Lincoln gestures to Bellamy. She's your princess. Go do your job.
So he saddles up behind her and stares at the merchant over her head, who takes notice and adjusts his enthusiastic behavior accordingly.
"Do you have any bracelets? Or a necklace?" Clarke asks.
"I do." He reaches into his basket and pulls out a box. Inside is a cluttered mess of jewelry, filled with pins, jewels and exotic silver, which he says to peruse to her heart's desire.
"Bellamy," she says, turning. "What do you think?"
She's a princess. He's really in no position to help her pick out jewelry.
"I'm not the best judge."
"Lincoln!" She calls him over. Bellamy sees the merchant's amused expression, maybe pondering why two grown men seem to be wrapped around this girl's finger.
Bellamy himself ponders that.
Lincoln chooses for Clarke a hand crafted necklace made of scrappy tin, a crescent moon. The princess haggles like a pro, bringing the price down two shillings. Bellamy studies how it looks against the bare, pale skin of her chest and looks away.
She offers to buy him earrings, attempting at seriousness, but her voice gets too high at the end. She chuckles, it does funny things to him.
"So, what about you?" Clarke asks, lying on her side. Lincoln tends to the fire, silent.
They've made camp on a mountain ledge, open to the stars. As the sun sets, Bellamy already sees the moon peaking above the trees, taking its place in the sky directly above them.
He looks at her over the fire. "What about me?"
"I told you my story. It's only fair you tell me yours."
Bellamy shifts. "I'm sure Lincoln's is way more interesting,"
They raise their eyebrows at the same time, and Bellamy huffs a laugh. "Alright. There's not much to tell, I guess. My mother died when I was young, so I was left to look after my sister, Octavia."
At the mention of his sister, Lincoln stops poking the fire and listens. He chooses to ignore that.
"She and I lived in an inn for a while. I'd help in the kitchen or with the animals to pay rent. Then, when I was older, I met a man named Kane. He started teaching me how to hunt things, grow things, build things. So I decided when I was a little more experienced and had enough coin, I'd find us a property and build us a house. That's what I did, and we still live there."
"What's it like?" Clarke asks, fascinated.
"It's a small cabin on a swamp. Secluded, comfortable."
"Sounds nice."
He's not sure whether she's joking or not. "It is."
"I'm envious," the princess sighs, turning on her back.
He laughs, perhaps a little harshly. "Envious of a peasant, princess?"
She frowns at the stars. "You know, being royalty isn't as glamorous a life as you'd think."
"Enlighten me then."
"Well for one," she says, irritated, "I was locked away for seven years. It wasn't exactly ideal."
See, he forgets that he's an ass sometimes. Okay, most of the time.
"I know. I'm sorry."
At this Lincoln lays down, apparently ready to sleep, or give them privacy, or something. Bellamy looks at Clarke and sees she's already watching him.
"I meant what I said about your swamp, you know. It sounds nice."
He finds himself just staring at her, unable to do much else.
"It's better than living on a volcano," she muses. "I'd trade bugs for a volcano any day."
He laughs, quietly. "I guess you're right. They taste good too, the bugs."
"What?"
"Like chicken."
She shifts and gives him such a disgusted look that he laughs again. Lincoln shifts, so he quiets down, chuckling deep in his stomach. "Joking."
"Good."
"Really, they taste more like bacon-"
She throws one of her lighter satchels at him, joining his laughter.
The next morning, he rises, wincing. Clarke is still asleep.
He shouldn't be surprised she's not a morning person—her room in the tower was a cluttered mess, there are always two or three strands of hair out of place on her head, and she can't eat without managing to stain some article of clothing, not necessarily her own. His sleeve has even fallen victim, when he let her wipe her chin after a particularly juicy tomato.
She sleeps curled under a blanket, a mop of blonde hair poking out of it. The one he draped over her for extra warmth last night is cast to the side. Typical—
Lincoln's cough startles him. He glances over sharply, and the guy is giving him a knowing half smile just shy of being shit eating. Bellamy clears his throat.
"I'll wake her up."
He goes to kneel over her, palming her shoulder where it pokes out from the blanket. She rolls onto her back, doesn't open her eyes for the longest time. He can wait.
They flutter, and it's a shock of blue, focused solely on him before refocusing in the morning sunlight.
He removes his hand, carefully. "Time to get up, princess."
She groans for show. "Whatever time it is, it's too early."
"You wanna be normal so bad, this is what us peasants do every morning. Perks of working for a living."
She eyes him, but he sees the amusement hidden between her lashes. "Strange, I thought you had no rules or obligations in your quaint little swamp."
He smiles. This is about the time he realizes he's still crouched above her, his hand supporting himself on the other side of her shoulder. Clarke notices too, he knows she does, and they shift away awkwardly (caught, ironically, by themselves instead of Lincoln).
He looks at the sun's position in the sky. "If we leave now, we can make it to Spacewalker's by late afternoon."
"Yeah," she says quietly, and he detects the disappointment there probably because he's feeling it too.
He stands and stretches, watching Lincoln disappear into the woods with his knife to catch breakfast. The man needs to find someone to undo the curse soon. He hasn't gotten desperate or overwhelmed at his inability to talk, in fact Bellamy suspects that just might be who he is as a guy, but everyone needs a voice.
He'll rekindle the fire. Really any excuse to sit on his ass and wake up.
Clarke has straightened, looking out over the ledge. "It's a great view," she mutters, a nod to the immense beauty of the valley, with seemingly hundreds of shades of green and yellow, birds rising above the treetops and diving beneath them again. Her hair falls over her shoulder as she cranes her neck to look even further down. Bellamy feels his hands twitch, feels the sudden need to pull her back, against his chest, feel her breathe against him.
Just a thought.
He shakes his head to clear it. She's a goddamn princess, practically engaged to a king. He's not sure when that thought started making him really unhappy. He's not sure when he started thinking about touching her either, but time is running out and it's not good at all.
Lincoln comes back with a rabbit, and they make short work of it. He's antsy when they set off on the last leg of their journey.
He might not know her that well, but Clarke's silence is uncharacteristic without a doubt. She doesn't stoop to study plants by the road, she doesn't launch into useless anecdotes like who invented indoor plumbing. She walks alongside them and keeps her eyes trained a few feet ahead.
He finally suggests they stop to rest hours after noon, which both Lincoln and Clarke eye him for.
"Twenty minutes," he says, making a show out of his sore back. He gives Lincoln a look, and the other man understands, shrugging away into the trees to give them privacy.
Clarke sits next to him, toying with a pebble by her ankle.
"What's on your mind?" Bellamy asks, quietly.
She shrugs. "A lot of things. I'm nervous."
"I can understand that. Marrying a stranger, it's-"
"No," she says. "I'm nervous about that, sure. But you're my friends. My first since Wells. I'm scared I'll never see you again."
He's speechless.
"Do you think, maybe..." she ploughs on, unsure, "we could try to be friends, even if I live in Arkadia?"
She's not looking at him, her cheeks tinged a raspberry pink, but he finds himself staring at her incredulously. "Yes," he hears himself say. "You could come visit me. Or I could visit you. We'd find a way."
It's impractical and it might do more harm than good, lots more harm because she's a princess and he's anything but royalty, but it's worth it if it means she doesn't have to walk out of his life.
Clarke is taken aback by his enthusiasm, her hands rising and falling swiftly in her lap. "Bellamy..." Her eyes water and it kills him. "Thanks," she says simply, with a wavering voice.
He doesn't even hesitate to put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. She slumps against him.
"I'm with you, princess," he says against her temple. He makes it sound like a promise.
They pull apart—she pulls away—when Lincoln re-emerges, his alarmed expression making Bellamy feel first self-conscious, and then concerned. Lincoln leads them into the woods, shoving aside branches and fronds until the three of them stand below a generously sized sign, painted in dark red: OUR LAND TRESPASSERS HANGED AND GUTTED
"Maybe we should make camp for the night," Clarke says. "Shouldn't risk traveling so late in the day."
He hears the tone in her voice, or he thinks he does, the silent asking to prolong the journey. He nods. "Good idea,"
"I can take first watch."
Lincoln touches her arm softly and shakes his head before Bellamy can.
They make camp far down the road, off in the brush. No one lights a fire. Bellamy sits down closer to Clarke than normal.
"Bellamy,"
Her whisper startles him. He looks over and sees Lincoln is asleep.
"Yeah?"
"I don't think I can do it."
He slides his forearms off his knees and lays down in the brush, props his head on his hand, and studies her. "It's okay to be uncertain."
"I need to know it's the right thing, and I don't."
"What other options are there?" He asks, and it feels weighty leaving his throat. "Go back to the tower, live the rest of your life cut off from everyone?"
She sighs and closes her eyes. "Maybe see the world. Eat some bugs. Not live by myself."
He turns onto his back, gazing up at the tree canopy. "At the castle, you'll be surrounded by people all the time." You'll be better off.
"Yeah, well. Sometimes that's worse."
She sounds so confused, defeated, that he has a hard time deciding what to do. Comfort her, keep silent, take her hand, all options seem too much and not enough.
He stands up. "Come on,"
She side eyes him. "The woods aren't safe."
"We can take care of ourselves." He extends a hand to her, which she grasps onto without hesitation. Together they pull her off the ground. He lets go quickly and walks beside her in the woods, touching her elbow fleetingly now and again. The moonlight lights the trees and the ground beneath their feet. Clarke is quiet for minutes.
Until they get to the river.
She huffs in astonishment at the sight that greets them: a narrow, twisting brook reflecting under the moonlight, framed by hanging trees, branches swaying in the summer heat. Bellamy may not know much about luxury, but he knows about fairy tales. This could be in one.
"You found this when you went hunting earlier?" She asks.
He nods, watching her face. She turns to him and smiles gently. "It's like it's..."
"Out of a book?" He finishes, grinning.
They sit on the bank, touching knees. Bellamy brought her here so she could talk to him if she wanted. He has things to say too, but he may be too much of a coward in the end, so he waits for her to start. It takes a while, and he's just starting to feel anxious when her voice fills the quiet.
"I don't want to do this. I can think of a thousand things I'd rather do than marry someone."
"Like what?"
"That's the thing: I don't know exactly, but I know they're out there. It's the worst feeling." She rests her chin on her forearms. Bellamy's eyes drift from her to the water and back again. Her hair looks silver in the moonlight.
"I think I know what you mean," he amends, roughly.
"Yeah?"
"My whole life I've lived within a five mile radius. I know about wanting more, wanting to leave."
"But you couldn't."
"No. I had Octavia, and she was my responsibility."
She touches his arm. "I may not know you well, but you sound like a great brother."
He turns to look at her, hiding nothing behind his eyes, wanting to let her see everything in them. Just for tonight, he doesn't want to try and run.
He's got a thousand things he could tell her. Things like: you're so beautiful, your mom was an idiot, you could live in my swamp, I get who you are and I think you get me. He'd open his mouth and they'd all come out at once, and it might scare her at first but she has just as many things to say as he does, he knows it.
He doesn't have a lot to offer, that he's well aware of, but he'd try make sure it didn't matter. Show her what it means to be thought of often and loved a lot. Yeah, he could love her. It would be so easy.
"I may not know you well," he echoes, "but you deserve a chance at the life you want."
It's pretty safe to say he's shocked her. He watches her eyes widen, and more importantly he watches for any signs of discomfort; signs that he's crossed a boundary, or made her more overwhelmed. He sees none. In fact, she shifts closer, putting on a brave face that he sees right through, because if he's nervous there's no way in hell she's not—
"Bellamy," she says, shaky. He leans in.
Her lips are soft, eager. He touches a hand to her neck and holds her to him, she gently touches his wrist, and it feels goddamn right. Like she's a light at the end of the tunnel. She makes a pleased sound and it does things to him; he pours more into it, and she meets the demands of his lips with her own. Soon it's like they're kissing each other for air.
Then her hair tickles his nose.
Suddenly, everything that's been nagging at the back of his head returns in a rush like a slap to the face—Octavia, their swamp, the people in it. The dangers they could face should he decide to not follow through with direct orders from Spacewalker. He pulls away away with a jerk and stares at her. It takes a bit for her eyes to open, her lips parted and swollen because of him.
No. He can't do this to Octavia, no matter how much he wants this girl. She's a princess, he's an idiot, this might not even be what she wants in a month, as much as it pains him to think it.
"Clarke," his voice is croaky, hand clutching the ground. "I'm sorry—that was unfair."
She pulls back immediately. "Right." Sitting very still, the picture of good behavior, despite her heaving chest.
"I'm...I want it. But my home—"
"You don't have to explain, okay? You don't have to lie."
At that, he straightens. "If you think I'm lying, then you are extremely unobservant."
She huffs and stands up; Bellamy knows he's screwed it all to pieces.
"This is embarrassing." Her eyes dart, looking at everything but him, and he can't have that. He stands up too.
"Listen to me," he reaches for her hand. She snaps it away.
"Just leave me alone, alright? Think you can do that?" She levels him with a look that is pissed off and hurt, rightly so. She turns and hurries away, branches snapping and leaves cracking in her wake. He looks at the ground.
For a few minutes, he lets himself feel bottomless and empty.
The last leg of their journey is hell.
Lincoln certainly detects the distance between the two of them; he's mute, not blind. Clarke walks next to him, speaking occasionally or asking questions with yes or no answers. Bellamy doesn't get one speck of her attention.
He walks behind them, staring between the ground and her back, his eyes heavy with want. If she would just turn around, just look at him, she would see.
But he's a coward. If she did turn around, he'd avert his eyes, give her a blank stare, anything to throw her off his trail.
His palms itch the closer they get to the castle.
Over the crest of a hill, they see it. Clarke jogs forward.
"It's huge," she breathes. Bellamy uses the distraction to walk up beside her.
"Welcome home." He means for it to be sincere, but it comes out unavoidably flat. She turns to look at him and he isn't able to read the expression on her face.
"Home," she murmurs. It's bitter and sad.
His fingers reach out to touch hers and his face tightens. He doesn't mean to seem so wrecked, or desperate. Bellamy is not a desperate guy, not a dependent guy. But time has run out and he has to at least tell her—
The horn bellows below.
A party of horses emerge from the town gate, the banners of Arkadia held proudly at the front. He sees Spacewalker galloping towards them, every hoof beat hammering the nail into the coffin.
"It's fine," she says. "You and I, we'll forget this."
Bellamy doesn't know whether to kiss her or scream. He stares at her, feeling angry and hurt, and if he even has a right to feel that at this point, he doesn't care.
Lord Spacewalker reaches them before his assembly of overworked guards, much to their chagrin. His eyes appraise Clarke in her modest clothes and somewhat dirtied hair, like she's a specimen, an animal. Bellamy's jaw ticks.
"Princess Clarke," he bows from his seat on the horse. "You're as lovely as they say you are."
She curtsies, awkward like a newborn deer still getting used to its legs. "Lord Spacewalker. It's an honor to meet you."
"I'll be King very soon, Princess. And you, the queen."
"So I've heard."
Spacewalker tilts his head at Bellamy, who doesn't quite manage to school his dark expression in time.
"A party has been sent to clear your swamp. Consider my debt repaid."
Bellamy nods curtly.
"And here," he unearths a bag of coin from his coat and tosses it to him. Bellamy catches it one handed. "A token of my gratitude."
"My King, I can't accept this." He feels sick. Clarke is looking at him like she's never seen him before.
"Then don't. Give it to your friends, bury it, I don't care."
Bellamy contemplates throwing it at his face, but he'd prefer to keep his head.
Spacewalker turns his attention to Clarke, who is looking uncomfortable. Her hesitance makes Bellamy itch to pull her behind him, but the Lord says, "we should get going, my bride," extending a gloved hand to her.
Clarke takes it. He swings her up onto the saddle and without another word, rides off. Clarke looks back at Bellamy once before she's swallowed up by other men on horses.
Long after he can't see her anymore, he stands on the hill and watches.
Lincoln stands next to him, the picture of calm. Bellamy is envious. Suddenly, or maybe not so suddenly at all, his life is ten times more complicated than it used to be, choppy as the sea in a storm, and it ties a knot in his stomach.
He glances over at his companion, who is already looking at him, knowingly, the son of a bitch. Like he's disappointed. Like Bellamy doesn't know what really just happened.
How he threw something important away.
"Show's over," he mutters, and turns back.
He comes homes to a swamp void of magic people. It doesn't bring him any relief.
He is, however, glad to see Octavia sitting on the porch with Raven Reyes, talking quietly. He allows a smile to curve his lips, but it's small and he finds it difficult to keep it on for long.
Octavia spots them and stands up, Raven's sentence trailing off. After his sister gives him a nod, Bellamy sees her eyes slide to Lincoln, sees her smile, and he can't even be angry about it. Because he knows now, how powerful it is, how it takes so much of you.
No. He stops that thought in its tracks and trudges towards them.
"I was starting to get worried," Octavia says, nonchalantly. "Then a bunch of royal dudes showed up and kicked everybody out."
"When?" He asks.
"Yesterday." Raven's voice is sharp. She steps from behind Octavia, right into his space, finger stabbing his chest. "We thought you were going off to find a solution. This is not a solution."
He slaps her hand away. "We tried. It didn't work out."
She steps in front of him when he goes to move past her. "It didn't work out? These are people's lives we're talking about here. We have no where else to go!"
"I went to get them the hell off my property," he snaps. "Sorry if it inconvenienced you."
"Bellamy," Octavia breathes. Reyes looks even more pissed off. Lincoln raises a brow.
"I'm going inside my house," he says lowly, "and I'm taking a nap." He studies the dark haired witch, wanting to be mean, to expel this coldness out of his chest. He knows he'll regret it in the morning. "Road's that way."
He slams the door behind him.
Raven leaves that evening. Octavia doesn't know what to do with the drafty silence filling their home, so she makes terrible welcome back soup with the deer she caught, demanding Bellamy come inside from where he weeds the garden to have dinner. They and Lincoln sit down at the table, and Bellamy doesn't really talk, merely responds to Octavia's questions with minimal answers.
"So Spacewalker gave you a quest."
"Yes."
"...to do what?"
"Rescue Princess Clarke."
She makes a noncommittal noise. "I've never heard of her."
He brings the spoon to his mouth, keeps it there for a bit. The table settles in silence, and he's glad his sister doesn't push further.
"I'm taking Lincoln back to Lexa tomorrow," she says. Lincoln raises his head, surprised. Bellamy puts down his spoon.
"What makes you think she'll want to help?"
"Well first off, you won't be there." He snorts.
"Second, I'll kiss up to her. Offer my services, clean her house for a month or two."
Lincoln is uncomfortable with this, Bellamy can tell. Octavia pays no mind.
"Do what you have to," he says, shrugging. Words they've lived by since before they could remember.
"Are you feeling okay?" His sister asks, concerned.
"What?"
"You're acting strange. Something happened. Did someone hurt you?" Concern bleeds into anger. That's them down to a tee—love hard, fight hard.
"No." He says. "Leave it, O."
He's done pretending to be hungry, standing up and dropping the half empty bowl in the wash basin. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight." He turns to Lincoln. "Sleep in here, brother."
He doesn't wait to see their two reactions, shutting his bedroom door firmly.
Undressing takes too much effort, but he does it anyway, shrugging into a sleeveless shirt. He settles onto the modest straw mattress and shifts through his satchel, wanting to collapse into sleep. The tiredness wracking his body and brain is different than what he's used to. It isn't because of walking, encountering a dragon days prior, fighting for his life twice. It's because-
His hand catches on something small. A cloud of dread curls around his chest the same time his fist curls around it.
He pulls Clarke's pendent slowly out of the bag. The one Lincoln picked out, the one that rested gracefully under the arch of her neck.
She left it with him.
The half-moon is tinged red in the candlelight, looking as delicate as the day she put it on. But he can't get past all the things that are missing: it's the absence of a pale throat, no long fingers curling around it as she concentrates. He scrutinizes the object with blazing intensity, wondering what she could have meant, where the hell did she get off by leaving this here.
The desperate, sick ache of loss is too much.
He stands and hurls the necklace to the opposite wall.