Author's Note: I originally published this on AO3 under the username hai_mae. I have a lot more fics for The 100 there, so if you're interested go see me there! I'm putting this one up here even though I've mostly abandoned .

I hope y'all enjoy this, and please leave reviews if you do!

A complete list of the daemons are at the end of the fic. Also, for those that don't know: the concept of daemons comes from the His Dark Materials series, where daemons are basically the animal manifestations of a person's soul.

Nobody could ever mistake Bellamy for a hero. And if they got confused, well— all they'd only have to look at his daemon.

People's daemons are almost always small on the Ark. In class, their teachers would give them some pseudo-sciency reason for why— proximity to the sun, vitamin deficiencies, etc.— but Bellamy knows better than that. There just wasn't enough space for large daemons.

On the Ark, everything needed to be smaller to survive.

Even their souls.

Bellamy's favorite place on the Ark is the library. Not a lot of people use it— it's easier just to download books straight to their tablets— but Bellamy likes to feel the delicate paper under his fingertips, likes to press his face against the pages and breathe in the smell.

The librarian in charge is almost as ancient as the books she viciously guards. Bellamy's seen her banish people from the library for turning the pages too roughly or— God forbid— daring to bring liquids near the books. Bellamy's always been little afraid of her, but she seems to have a soft spot for him; she'll put aside books she thinks he'll like sometimes, and her gray-furred pug daemon always wheezes happily when he walks through the door.

Persey is the one who finds the daemon book, shifting from fox to songbird so she can flutter up onto one of the shelves. They're supposed to be looking for mythology books to read to Octavia (she especially loves the stories about warrior women, like the Amazons and Artemis) but Bellamy goes over to investigate at Persey's insistent chirps.

"Let's read this," she says, quickly changing into a squirrel and leaping onto his shoulder. Bellamy gently pulls the book off the shelf to examine its cover. "Bell, please? O will like it too!"

"What do you want a book about daemon psychology for, anyways?" Bellamy asks, putting up a token argument. But he's intrigued already, flipping through the pages. It's basically an encyclopedia, listing thousands of different daemons and their personality traits and symbolism. There's an entire chapter on different dog breeds alone. Octavia would love it.

"Maybe it'll help us pick out something cool to settle as," Persey says breezily, and Bellamy knows what she's not saying— that they're fourteen already, and that almost everyone their age has already settled. That soon they're going to start drawing people's attention, which they can't afford to have, not with Octavia and Apollo hiding so precariously under their floor. The sooner they settle, the sooner Octavia will be safe. That's all Bellamy wants.

That's all Bellamy can afford to want.

They don't settle until much, much later, after years of whispers and worried glances from strangers. Persey settles the day that Octavia is discovered, the day their mom is floated and poor Achilles dies in a burst of golden Dust. Bellamy walks into their quarters, alone for the first time in his entire life, and then Persey looks up at him sadly and he knows.

"This is it, I think," she says, and Bellamy nods. Neither of them mentions how wrong it feels, even though settling is supposed to be the most natural thing in the world. Bellamy looks at Persey and he isn't sure whether he wants to laugh or cry so he does both, holding her carefully in his arms and sobbing, for Octavia and their mother.

It had been years since Bellamy had read the daemon psychology book, but he's got a near-photographic memory; he remembers what it said about people with weasel daemons. He remembers how it was nothing good.

"Weasels were often seen as bad omens. Psychologically speaking, weasel daemons are also considered to be important warning signs of untrustworthy, deceitful characters. People with weasel daemons are often scheming and self-serving, with little concern for others around them."

None of it feels right, but that's what they are— daemons are the personifications of their souls, after all. Bellamy always thought that he was no good, and this… well.

This is just proof.

He met Clarke on the Ark, once.

He's pretty sure that she doesn't remember, which makes sense; it had been a one-time thing, a chance encounter. She was the golden princess of the Ark, and he was a nobody. He was barely a blip on her radar.

He remembered, though— remembered finding a tiny girl crying in a hidden corner of the library, her blonde hair twisted into twin braids that fell down her back and made her look younger than she probably was. She had been holding her daemon clutched to her chest, her face buried in his rust-colored fur. The cat's head swiveled to look at him as he approached, green eyes looking at him in a way that made Bellamy feel like all of his deepest, darkest secrets were written plainly across his face.

"Hey, uh," Bellamy had said, Persey shifting from butterfly to hummingbird to poodle in discomfort, "Are… are you okay?"

The girl startled, her head shooting up to look at him in alarm. Her eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks splotchy; Bellamy had only ever had to deal with his mother and Octavia when they had been crying before, so this was new territory. Later, he would wonder why he hadn't just walked away, left her alone. He'd never been able to come up with a decent answer.

"I'm fine," she said reflexively, as if people had been asking her that a lot lately, "I'm…" she trailed off, her eyes catching on Persey and holding, not looking away. Bellamy watched her watch his daemon shift easily from mammal to reptile to bird and saw the wistfulness in her eyes, saw the way she clutched her own daemon tighter.

"Oh," Bellamy thought, suddenly understanding, "So it's like that."

Bellamy sank to the floor, settling down with his back against the bookshelf. The girl watched him warily, still sniffling. Persey shifted into a huge, fluffy cat, with bug-eyes and a snubbed nose and crawled into his lap. Octavia always loved when Persey shifted into funny-looking animals— she was convinced she'd get stuck— and Bellamy was gratified to see the girl's lips twitch slightly, the shadow of a smile playing across them.

"Are you upset because you settled?" Bellamy asked, and the girl nodded, rubbing her eyes with a tiny fist. She couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen, which was young to settle, even for a girl. Bellamy felt slightly embarrassed that this tiny girl was considered more of an adult in Ark society than he was.

"My best friend made fun of me for it," she admitted, "Because he's just a cat. I like cats, I just thought we were going to be something more…"

"Special?" Bellamy finished for her, and she nodded, shamefaced.

"Yeah," she said, stroking her daemon's fur, "Special."

"Cats were worshipped as gods in ancient Egypt, you know," he said. Both girl and daemon stare at him, eyes terrifyingly perceptive. "There was even this one goddess named Bast— she had the head of a cat. At different times in history she was a warrior, a protector, and a healer." Bellamy grinned at her. "That seems pretty special to me."

The girl gaped at him. "Wow," she finally said, "That's… wow." She looked at him with huge, earnest eyes, and then a true smile began to spread across her face. "How do you know all that?"

"I really like history," Bellamy said, embarrassed, but the girl just nodded seriously like she understood. Bellamy stood up to leave— he'd been in the library way longer than he'd planned— but the girl caught his sleeve, held it tight. Her eyes were as blue as the oceans that spread across Earth.

"Thank you," she said seriously, "Just… thanks."

"Don't worry about it, Princess," he said lamely, and then he flushed, because what. It was easy to scamper away after that, to try to forget his first terrible attempt at flirting. Telling her a story about mythology, and then giving her a pathetic nickname… he was the worst.

"I'll be cooler next time I talk to her," Bellamy thought, but there wasn't a next time, not until she was confronting him on the drop ship about opening the damn door.

It had been a shock, seeing her there, a fucking punch to the stomach, but he'd had Octavia and their overall survival to worry about. He didn't have time for blonde-haired slip of a girl who he'd talked to once in his life, especially since she was such a pain in the ass (especially since she always disagreed with him).

But at some point they started fighting less and started talking more, stopped butting heads and began working as a team.

At some point Bellamy began looking at Clarke like a woman instead of a co-leader, started wondering what it would be like to twine his fingers through her wild hair and kiss her slowly, carefully, until they were both shaking with how much they wanted each. At some point Bellamy began to wonder if Arthur's fur is as soft as it looks, and what it would feel like to have Clarke run a finger down the length of Persey's back, and—

Bellamy normally has to stop himself after that.

It's one thing to have sexual fantasies about the girl you've accidentally formed a platonic political partnership with.

It's another thing entirely to think about sharing your fucking soul with her.

Everything is different on the ground.

On the Ark, Bellamy was a janitor; a man with a weasel daemon was a sneak, a crook, and couldn't be trusted to do anything more than pick up people's trash. On the ground, Bellamy becomes a leader, and yeah, he'll admit it— he goes a little mad with power for a while.

Clarke is always there to challenge him, though, to balance him out. Even with the threat of Grounders and constant death, Bellamy prefers life on the ground; he's able to actually do things here, to be his own person, and Octavia doesn't have to hide anymore.

Apollo settles the moment she takes her first step onto the ground, shifting into a beautiful peregrine falcon and soaring above their heads. She's free for the first time in her life, laughing and victorious, and it's everything Bellamy ever wanted and more. Even if he dies down here, Bellamy knows that that moment would make it all worth it.

Then the Grounders come, and things get worse. Then Raven and her sharp-faced fox fall to the ground, saving their lives half a dozen times her first week here. Then the Ark lands, and things get… well, not better, but not any worse, either.

Then Finn dies, rescued from a torturous death by Clarke's knife. The sight of his beagle daemon disappearing forever in a burst of Dust will haunt Bellamy's nightmares for the rest of his life.

He can't imagine what it will do to Clarke, or Raven.

But life goes on for the rest of them, even without Finn. They work together with the Grounders to get their people out of Mount Weather, and it's a strange, uneasy truce. The Grounders all have large, vicious daemons, and they look at the members of Camp Jaha like they're a small, tasty snack. Only Lincoln treats them all with respect, is courteous to everyone, even as his copperhead snake daemon watches them with appraising eyes.

It's worth it, in the end, when they get the kids out of Mount Weather. They're all pale and bruised; Monty and Jasper collapse into Clarke's arms when they see her, babbling nonsense about blood transfusions and bone marrow. She pets their hair and shushes them gently while Arthur grooms their daemons. Jasper's raccoon wraps her tiny arms around Arthur's neck, hugging tight, and Monty's flying squirrel is practically bouncing off the walls, leaping excitedly around their heads.

Bellamy is surprised to get the same treatment, when they see him; he's never been in the middle of a group hug before, and he can't say he wants to be ever again, but he's happy to see them, so he'll tolerate it for a little while. It's better when Octavia comes barreling over to join them, almost knocking them over with the force of her hug, and it's better still when Bellamy snags Clarke's arm and drags her over, tucking her under his chin. She laughs, for the first time since Finn died, and Bellamy thinks that maybe things will be okay now, after all.

At least, he thinks.

"We're not going to survive the winter," Abby says flatly, "We don't have enough food stored up. Last year we managed to use up the rest of the rations we had saved on the Ark, but we don't have that luxury this year. We need a plan."

"We have hunters going out every day, Abby," Kane argued, "We've been saving as much food as we can."

"It's still not enough!" she snaps, and they all know she's right. Abby and Clarke have the same frown; it's really freaking Bellamy out.

"Lincoln, how do the Grounders survive the winter?" Clarke asks, and Bellamy thanks every deity in every pantheon he can think of that they have her as a voice of reason. If left to their own devices, Kane and Abby would just argue over things for hours, never actually coming to any conclusions.

That's probably why they started letting Clarke and Bellamy sit in on these meetings. They said it was because the Grounders recognized them as the leaders of the 100, but everyone knew better. They knew that nobody would get anything done if it wasn't for Clarke.

Bellamy isn't sure why he's there. Probably just to back-up Clarke. Kane and Abby have been known to try to gang up on her, even if they don't agree with each other.

Lincoln hums, thoughtful. "Most villages have livestock," he says, "They also grow a lot of their own food. There is always plenty to spare; I would advise meeting with the different clans."

"We already have a peace treaty," Kane says, eyes sliding to Clarke as if checking to see if she would break. They all know how that treaty was made; they all know what Clarke did.

Clarke just sits there, silent and stony.

"That was a peace treaty, not a trade agreement," Lincoln says, "They have the food you need to survive."

"What would we offer them?" Bellamy asks, "It's a trade agreement, right? What do we have to trade?"

"Medical support," Clarke says, and yeah, that's pretty genius, actually, "They don't have a lot of healers, and we have a lot here. We have our technology and Lincoln has taught us Grounder remedies and treatments; they could send us their sick and injured to take care of."

"We could even train some of their healers," Abby says, smiling, "That's perfect, Clarke!" She strokes her gila monster daemon, who is curled up on the table basking in a stray patch of sunlight.

"That's good in theory," Lincoln says, "But they won't agree to the terms." His daemon, wrapped around his neck like a venomous piece of jewelry, hisses in agreement.

"Why not?" Kane asks, annoyed.

"There are no true warriors in this camp," Lincoln says, "They wouldn't trust you to keep their sick safe enough to heal. You'll need to get warriors if you'll want them to agree to your trade agreement."

"We have warriors!" Kane says. His German Shepherd daemon bares her teeth, as if to prove his point. "We have the Guard. Beyond that, almost everyone in the camp has at least basic firearms training."

Lincoln shakes his head. "Yes, but they are not Grounder warriors," Lincoln explains, "There are… rituals, our warriors do. They're dangerous, but surviving brings great honor to their clan. This treaty will only work if you have

Clarke nods, as if this all makes sense to her. "We need to respect their customs if we are going to have any hope of trading with them," she says, and Lincoln nods his assent, "So what are these rituals, exactly? How many people would need to do them?"

"There is only one ritual," Lincoln says solemnly, "And you would only need one warrior; one is all you'd need to prove a point."

It suddenly clicks in Bellamy's mind. "They don't think we're strong enough to survive it," Bellamy says, and yeah, that pisses him off. "They look at our daemons and they think that we're weak."

"Most do," Lincoln says, "But I know better." He meets Bellamy's gaze steadily. "I know your sister has the heart of a warrior, Bellamy Blake. Do you?"

Kane sucks in a breath. "It can't be him,"

"It has to be me," Bellamy says, "You said it yourself— for whatever reason, the Grounders recognize the four of us as leaders. Dr. Griffin and Clarke can't do it; the risk is too great, and they're too important to the camp. You're the captain of the guard, and a member of the council. Things would fall apart without you." Bellamy smirks, self-deprecatingly. "I'm just a janitor, right? If I die, I'll be easy to replace."

"Bellamy," Clarke says, and she sounds wounded. He doesn't look at her— he knows she'll try to talk him out of it— so he looks at Arthur instead. The cat's fur is bristled and he hisses at Bellamy,

"I can set up a meeting with the appropriate clan leaders," Lincoln says softly, breaking the tension in the room, "And I can take you to our spiritual leader, who will guide you through the ritual."

"If I pass— If I survive," Bellamy says, steadfastly ignoring Clarke's angry gaze boring holes into the side of his head, "They'll agree to our trade agreement?" Lincoln nods.

"They'd be fools not to," he says.

"Fine," Bellamy says, "I'll do it."

The Grounder village they're meeting at is about a day's journey away. It's a bit awkward, traveling with Lincoln, who keeps asking Bellamy about Octavia's childhood, and the adults, who look at Bellamy's daemon and see someone untrustworthy. Clarke would normally be his saving grace but she is still furious with him, and she spends the trip alternating between glaring at him and picking stupid fights about nothing. Everyone is exhausted by the time they stop to make camp for the night, and it's not long before the campsite is filled with the sounds of snores and deep, slow breaths.

They don't need to keep watch, not anymore; there's no danger of attacks from Grounders or Mount Weather. Bellamy tells himself it's habit that's keeping him awake, even though he knows it's really nerves.

Lincoln wouldn't tell him any details about the ritual he'd be undertaking the next day; he would just quietly reiterate the danger, the low chances of survival, and remind Bellamy that he didn't have to go through with it.

"It's your life, and your choice," he had said, "If you don't want to do this, I'm sure that your people can find another way to survive."

But Bellamy knew there wasn't another way; and besides, if he didn't do it, Clarke probably would. She loved throwing herself into dangerous situations, and… he didn't want her to throw herself into this one.

Bellamy glanced over to where Clarke had bedded down for the night. She wasn't far, just two feet away from him, but the distance felt like miles. She was curled up with the blankets covering her head, but Bellamy knows she isn't asleep because Arthur has been staring at him steadily for the past hour, watching him toss and turn and panic.

It's always easier to tell people secrets in the dark. Maybe that's why Bellamy decides to say it.

"I recognized you, you know," Bellamy whispers, "Our first day here."

He feels rather than hears Clarke stiffen next to him. So not as asleep as he'd thought, then. It's too dark to see her face, but he can picture her expression easily: the slightly furrowed brow, the frown flirting on her lips. Before (before Dax, before Mount Weather, before Finn—), that look on her face would have been all it took to put him on edge, to want to start a fight. Now, the thought of it fills him with an almost unbearable fondness, makes him smile until his cheeks ache with it.

"What do you mean?" Clarke asks. Her voice is soft, hushed; it makes the moment feel almost unbearably delicate, something that can be crushed between his fingers with only the tiniest amount of pressure.

"Like your heart," Persey whispers, quiet enough that only he can hear. She rubs her fuzzy head against his cheek as Bellamy lies there. He automatically tries to listen for the mechanical hum that had been ever-present on the Ark, but instead he only hears the wind rustling through the leaves and the slow, steady sound of Clarke's breathing.

It's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.

"Bellamy?" Clarke asks again. Arthur shifts slightly from his spot curled on Clarke's chest, his eyes glinting an unearthly blue as they reflect the dim moonlight. "Where did you recognize me from?"

Bellamy winces slightly. He hadn't wanted to play true confessions tonight, and it would probably be easy to convince Clarke that he had just recognized her because she was the doctor's daughter. But Bellamy is very aware that he might die tomorrow, and that this could be his last real conversation with Clarke. He's not going to spend it lying to her.

And… well.

There are a lot of confessions he has stored up for Clarke Griffin, things he only dares to think when he's on the edge of sleep, so close to it that he could almost be dreaming. He's nowhere near emotionally prepared to share most of them with her tonight, but this is one thing he can tell her. It's not enough, but it will have to do.

"We met once, on the Ark," he finally says, "When we were kids. It was right after Arthur settled."

She doesn't say anything for a long time. She's probably flipping through her catalogue of memories in that big brain of hers, trying to find it. Bellamy knew she wouldn't remember— it had been years ago— but he felt strangely disappointed, almost hurt. Maybe he'd been imagining that tether that he thought existed between them, built in that moment of vulnerability between two children and forged as adults here on earth. He'd wanted her to remember, but… she doesn't.

It feels an awful lot like a rejection.

"You-" Clarke starts, and her voice cracks. She sounds like she's about to cry and Bellamy is momentarily terrified, as he always is when faced with her tears, but then she clears her throat. Quietly steels herself. "You told me that Abyssinian cats were probably the ones that were worshipped in Ancient Egypt. And… about Bast. And Cleopatra."

"Yeah," Bellamy says.

"I didn't realize that it was you," Clarke whispers, "I- you were so different, and…"

"I knew it was you right away, Princess," he confesses, "As soon as you confronted me on the drop ship about opening the door. I saw your eyes, and Arthur… and I knew." He chuckles. "I was right about the Bast comparison. All you did on earth was fight— with me, with the Grounders, with Mount Weather… and you always win."

Clarke hums, thoughtful. "But Bast was a goddess," Clarke says, "Not a princess." Her voice is huskier than normal, and it does delicious things to Bellamy's insides. His heart is hammering in his chest, and he wouldn't be surprised if she could hear it.

"Do you want me to call you Goddess, then?" Bellamy asks, and it's fitting, somehow; he would worship her if she let him. His voice is a low rasp, and he knows there's no disguising how fucking wrecked he sounds.

He thinks she'll turn away or change the subject, but instead her small hand reaches out and finds his in the dark. She twines her fingers through his and he feels a sudden shift in gravity, as if he's being pulled closer to her instead of to the earth itself.

"Survive tomorrow," Clarke demands, as imperious as any queen or deity, "And you can call me whatever the hell you want."

Lincoln leads them to the outskirts of a Grounder village. It's the farthest they've ever been from camp and Bellamy drinks in the sight of the wooden houses. "We could do this, too," he thinks, staring intently at a paddock of sheep munching placidly on grass, "We could survive this way."

He turns to look at Clarke and she's looking right back at him, wearing her determined face. She sees the potential here, too, sees how important this treaty is, and Bellamy feels the weight of hundreds of lives on his shoulders. If he fucks this up, they're all dead.

No pressure.

They stop in front of a small house a few hundred yards away from the village. It's small but well-made; there's even a small porch, which Bellamy is stupidly charmed by. Bellamy is so distracted by how picturesque it all is that he almost doesn't notice the small, gnarled woman sitting on the porch, crushing together herbs with a mortar and pestle. She pauses when they approach her house, staring at them with milky blue eyes.

She's got an owl daemon, a huge snowy white creature with enormous eyes. "Athena," Bellamy thinks, "The goddess of wisdom." It's a stupid reason to trust someone, but the sight of her daemon instantly puts Bellamy at ease.

"Go," Lincoln says, and gently shoves Bellamy towards the house. Clarke automatically moves to walk with him but Lincoln holds her back. It feels strange, not having her next to him, but Bellamy knows it's for the best.

He needs to do this on his own.

"Ai laik Bellamy kom Skai Kru," Bellamy says, forcing his voice not to waver. The old woman and her owl daemon pin him with twin stares, and he feels like they're dissecting him with their eyes, judging his worth. She raises one delicate gray eyebrow when she looks at Persey, who bares her tiny teeth at her gaze.

"Are you here to be tested, Bellamy of the Sky People?" the woman asks in accented English. Bellamy nods and the woman smiles, as if he's already passed one of her tests. "Good. I think that

"Be safe," Clarke murmurs into his shoulder, and then she's gone, following Lincoln to the meeting site. Bellamy watches her go, watches until her blonde hair disappears into the greens and browns of the forest, and then he turns to the woman, who is watching him watch Clarke with undisguised fascination.

"Okay," he says, "I'm ready. Let's go."

The old woman She leads him to a cave hidden in the depths of the forest. There are jagged stalactites hanging around the mouth of the cave, giving it the appearance of a cruel, gaping mouth; it looks wrong somehow, and Bellamy fights back a shiver.

"Sit," the woman says, and Bellamy does, crossing his legs and holding Persey in his lap. The woman rifles through her bag, pulling out thick bristled brushes and jars of inky paint. The brushes are beautiful and well-made, and Bellamy spares a moment to think of how jealous Clarke would be, how she would clutch them in her hands and smile.

"Stay still," the woman orders, and that's all the warning Bellamy gets before she's dipping a brush in one of the jars and dragging it across his face. It's surprisingly cold and Bellamy wants to jerk away, but he forces himself to stay still. The woman smiles at him then, her owl daemon softly hooting in approval.

"Good," she murmurs. She tells him to close his eyes and he does, feels the way she paints across his eyelids. She's making a mask, he thinks, and Persey squirms in his lap.

"You look like Jasmine," she whispers up to him, trying to break the tension. Bellamy fights back a hysterical smile. He's absolutely terrified, but there's too much riding on this; he can't afford to lose it and fuck everything up.

"Do it for Octavia," he thinks, "Do it for Clarke. Do it for everybody."

"These are the markings of a warrior," the woman says, "May they make you brave, and help you survive your trial." She sets the paintbrush down, wipes away a stray smudge on his cheek. She smiles, satisfied. "You are ready."

"What do I need to do?" Bellamy asks. The woman shakes her head, amused, and— yeah. He shouldn't have expected a straight answer. The woman hands him a small satchel, which he immediately swings over his shoulder.

"All will become apparent in time," she says, and Bellamy wonders if that mysterious mumbo-jumbo bullshit is a learned skill or something that people are just born with. She smiles at him and pats him gently on the shoulder, the kind of motherly touch that Bellamy had forgotten he liked so much. "Good luck, Bellamy of the Sky People."

"Thank you," Bellamy says. He squares his shoulders. Takes a breath.

Then he walks into the cave.

"It's fucking dark in here," Bellamy mutters. It feels like they've been walking for hours; he can no longer see even a pinprick of light from the mouth of the cave and it's putting him on edge, making him nervous.

"Don't you have a lighter with you for moments exactly like this?" Persey asks, and Bellamy fumbles around in his pocket because he does, thank God. They'd found hundreds of the things in an abandoned bunker a while back, and they've been amazingly helpful. He flicks it on, holds it up; the light is dim, but it's still light, and that's all that really matters.

"What do you think this test is supposed to be, anyways?" Persey grumbles, "Because so far it just feels like a lot of walking."

"She said all would become apparent in time," Bellamy says, and then he stops, cocking his head, "Do you hear water?"

"Yeah," Persey says, "It's somewhere up ahead, I think."

The tunnel they're in slowly widens, opening up into a cavernous room. There's an honest to God river running through the middle of it, and Bellamy is so glad that Lincoln took the time to teach the 100 to swim all those months ago, even though the sight of the water still makes him feel nervous, almost sick.

The feeling worsens the closer he gets to the river until he's practically shaking with it. It's not just fear, it's something else, something wrong, and Bellamy's instincts are telling him to run, to get away. But he knows he has to do this so he takes off his jacket and lays it on the ground, tightens the straps of the woman's satchel tighter around his shoulders. He's just about to take the plunge into the water when Persey shrieks.

"What's wrong, what's wrong?" he asks, frantically running his hands across her fur to check for injuries. She sobs in his arms and it's the worst sound Bellamy has ever heard.

"I can't cross the river, Bellamy!" she cries, burrowing herself in the crook of his neck, "You're going someplace that I can't follow!"

It feels like someone dumped a bucket of ice down Bellamy's back. They never talked much about Severing on the Ark, aside from veiled references in their history classes, but everyone knew that it was an abomination. The idea of being Severed from Persey was absolutely excruciating.

But maybe it wasn't actually Severing. Bellamy's mother had told him and Octavia stories when they were young, about warriors and witches that could go long distances from their daemons without feeling pain. They'd had to undergo some sort of ritual to do it, and yeah, that makes a lot of sense. He and Clarke had always wondered how the Grounder warriors could be so far from their daemons, had speculated about a difference in range due to genetics, but this… this would answer all their questions.

"I don't…" Bellamy starts, voice cracking, "I don't know what to do, Persey. I can't leave you."

"You have to," Persey says, and she's right, he knows she's right. Bellamy tries to look at her, to memorize the sight of her, but the tears in his eyes are making everything blurry and indistinct.

"It's going to hurt," he whispers. He doesn't say, "We might die," because she already knows. There's a wet patch on his shoulder from where she's crying. "I love you, Perse, God, I love you so much, I'm so sorry-"

"Go, just go," she says, and he sets her gently down on his jacket. She curls up into a tiny ball and he's tempted to quit, to cut his losses and run.

Men with weasel daemons are cowards. They're inherently selfish, and only look out for their own interests. Bellamy knows all of this. People have been telling him that for years.

He also knows that they're wrong.

Bellamy closes his eyes, prays to a god he's not sure he believes in.

Then he jumps into the river.

It's the worst pain he's ever felt.

It's worse than starving, being stabbed and punched and beaten. It's worse than the hemorrhagic fever. It's worse than all of those things, plus some, and it's getting worse with every second.

Jumping into the river is pretty terrible in it's own right, because it's freezing cold and has a surprisingly strong current; Bellamy has to fight his way across, has to violently splash his way to the surface to take a breath. But it's the distance from Persey that's truly excruciating, that makes it feel like someone is taking a dull knife and slowly slicing him to ribbons. He's tempted to let the currents drag him under so he can drown in peace; death would be a relief, after this agony.

He's about to close his eyes and stop fighting, finally stop fighting, when he sees a flash of blonde hair out of the corner of his eye. "Clarke?!" he screams, water rushing into his mouth. She can't be here, she can't. Bellamy forces himself to swim the rest of the way across the river, his muscles screaming.

He finally pulls himself up onto the bank. The distance from Persey is searing, violently white-hot agony, and Bellamy vomits from the pain. It takes a few minutes to finally compose himself, to stop heaving up his guts on the river bank. He finally looks up, trying to find that flash of golden hair in the dark.

"Clarke?" he rasps, voice sounding like sandpaper. He flicks the lighter on, and it miraculously still works. He holds it up, looks around, but there's no one there. He's alone.

For the first time in his life, he's entirely alone.

He must have been hallucinating; Octavia would never let him live it down if she knew. Hell, Clarke would never let him live it down, though he thinks she would be strangely flattered.

It's the images of Octavia and Clarke's faces in his head that gives Bellamy the strength to stand up, to stumble further into the cavern. He doesn't have far to go; he only makes it about fifteen feet before he's met with a dead end.

"What..?" Bellamy says, reaching out to touch the wall. He's almost delirious with pain, feels like he's going to die any second, but he forces his eyes to focus. He holds the lighter up to investigate the wall and almost laughs. "That's it, huh?"

The wall is covered with bloody handprints. Some are so faded that they're practically invisible, but others look newer, more distinct. There are names under each handprint, too, giving a macabre roll call of every Grounder warrior to ever exist.

It's strange; not long ago, this would have been the full list of Bellamy's enemies

He pulls the satchel off his shoulder and opens it. Inside is a small jar of paint, the same paint that the old woman smudged on Bellamy's face, and a small, ornamental knife. He touches the edge gently with his fingertip and it's gratifyingly sharp; he's thankful for that, as he drags it across his palm, because the physical pain grounds him, gives him something to focus on other than the torment of his separation from Persey. He spreads the blood across his hand, covering it from fingertip to palm.

"Blood demands blood," Bellamy whispers, and then he presses his bloody hand against the wall, pressed down hard. The handprint it leaves behind is almost perfect, and after that it only takes a few minutes to write his name next to it in with the inky paint.

The pain from the separation doesn't hurt anymore; his link to Persey feels the same, now, just… stretched, as if the distance between the no longer matters. Even so, Bellamy runs all the way back to her, splashing his way across the river as quickly as he can. She runs to meet him, leaping up into his arms and nearly knocking him over. He collapses to the ground and throws his arms around her neck, sticks his face into the fluffy fur at the ruff of her neck.

"Persey, you…" Bellamy says, staring at her in wonder, "You're beautiful." She's so much bigger now, with huge ears and a sharp, clever face. Her fur is a beautiful mix of red and gold and brown, and she's tall with long, lanky legs. She's beautiful, yes, but she also feels right, feels settled in a way that she never had before.

"What does it mean to have a coyote daemon, Bellamy?" she asks, and her tongue lolls out of her mouth like she's laughing. It's a good look for her, really.

"I don't fucking care," Bellamy says, "You're perfect. You're absolutely perfect."

The Grounders and the Ark leaders are brokering the treaty agreement in the village square. It takes Bellamy a lot longer to get there than it should; he's emotionally and physically drained, and his hand is still periodically dripping blood. Even so, he's elated, almost giddy, both from surviving and from being settled— really settled— for the first time in his life.

Those good feelings evaporate when he makes it to the village. To an outside observer, everything would look like it was going well. There are no weapons in sight, and Abby and Kane are talking politely with the Grounder leaders. But Bellamy can tell things are going poorly by the tight line of Clarke's shoulders, through the way her hands are clenching together periodically. She's probably gone through every possible outcome of this meeting and come up with no good solutions; right now, she's probably trying to figure out a way to find a miracle.

Bellamy's not sure when he gained the ability to read Clarke like a book, but he's not questioning it. He's just hoping that he can be that miracle.

The Grounders see him first, and fall silent at his approach. Clarke and the other Arkers swivel to look at him. He'd be lying if he said it wasn't extremely gratifying to watch Abby and Kane's eyes widen when they

Clarke just looks at him, her eyes sliding from his Grounder warpaint to Persey standing tall by his side. She finally smiles, the kind of smile she gets when she figures out something important. Bellamy grins at her, victorious, and it might be pathetic but it's the best moment of his life, really, just being alive and having Clarke smile at him like he's the last vital piece of a puzzle she'd spent her entire life trying to figure out.

Then she scowls, her whole face darkening. She rises from her seat and stomps over to him, grabbing his still-bloody hand and shaking it in his face.

"You didn't even put a bandage on it, you heathen," she hisses, rinsing the blood off with the skin of water she kept strapped to her side. She always keeps some bandages on her in case of emergencies and she quickly wraps up his hand, muttering at him angrily the entire time.

He smiles at her indulgently, lets her fuss over him; it's nice, really, to have someone take care of you, even if it's Clarke who is always sort of mean about it. The Grounders are still watching him and Clarke curiously, and Persey huffs out a laugh before walking over to sit next to Kane's German Shepherd daemon.

It's much, much farther than any normal person's range— most people can stretch their bond five feet at most, maybe six if they can stand the discomfort. Persey is a good twenty feet away and Bellamy feels perfectly fine. Kane and Abby look horrified, and the Grounders look impressed. Clarke is silent next to him, still clutching his injured hand, and for a moment he's terrified that she'll think he's some sort of freak.

But then he looks at her, and her face is triumphant. Bellamy isn't quite sure what to do with that.

"As you can see," Clarke says, walking back to sit next to her mother. Bellamy follows after her like a dark, bloody shadow and stops to stand behind her chair. "We do have real warriors in our village. You said earlier that anyone could wield a gun, but not everyone could pass the test— you're right. But Bellamy is proof that we have both guns and Grounder-style warriors. We are here to stay."

Bellamy prides himself on giving good speeches, on being charismatic, but Clarke's easy confidence blows him away. The Grounders are equally impressed, and it's not long before they've brokered a very generous treaty and trade agreement. The Grounders even offer up their guest cabins for them to spend the night in, which Lincoln assures them is a sign of the upmost respect.

"You did well, Bellamy of the Sky People," Lincoln says, nodding his head at Persey, and Bellamy had never been looking for his approval but it's nice to have it, all the same.

"You made quite an entrance, back there," Clarke says. She's leaning against the door of his cabin, Arthur twining around her ankles, and she makes such a pretty picture that Bellamy is half-tempted to stand up and kiss her, right there. But he's exhausted, and the bed in the Grounder guest house is surprisingly comfortable, so he stays right where he is. He knows she'll come to him.

She doesn't disappoint. She walks in, closing the door carefully behind her, and takes a seat at the edge of the bed near his feet.

"You know me," Bellamy says, shifting his legs slightly to make room for her, "I'm a sucker for that dramatic flair."

Clarke looks like she wants to roll her eyes. Bellamy is honestly impressed by her restraint. "I'm not kidding," she insists, "You swept in right when things were getting bad, all bloody and with a fierce-looking daemon…" She trails off, reaches out her small hand to trace the paint that's still smeared across his face like a mask. Her touch burns; it's the best thing he's felt in a long time.

"You look like a Grounder," Clarke whispers, and then she flushes, quickly taking her hand away from his face like he tried to bite her.

"I feel like a Grounder," Bellamy admits, "But I don't think that's a bad thing. I finally feel like I'm me, for the first time in my life."

"A coyote suits you," she says, nodding in agreement, "The weasel never did."

"People didn't like coyotes, back in the day," Bellamy says, scratching Persey behind the ear. They fit together better now; she's curled up next to him with her head lying on his chest, and it's as easy as breathing. Bellamy wants to laugh from the dizzying relief of it. "They thought they were pests."

"Well, if the shoe fits," Clarke says dryly, and Bellamy snorts, partially because it's funny but mostly because he's so unused to Clarke attempting to crack jokes.

"That's cute, Princess," he says, twisting his leg to kick her gently. She swats him away, but she's smiling, so Bellamy feels as if he's won something.

"You know, I asked around a little," Clarke says, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger in a nervous gesture that Bellamy has never seen before, "Lincoln told me that the mythological coyote was a trickster, but that he was also important. He gave people fire, and the lunar cycle…" Clarke trailed off, her brow furrowing. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

Bellamy is staring at her because she's beautiful, and she's talking about mythology, and a lot of things have changed today but the overwhelming affection he feels for her will always be his one constant, his true north. He doesn't know how to verbalize that, though, so he makes an indistinct gesture with his hands in the hopes that it would convey something— anything. Persey sighs deeply, a sound Bellamy translates to mean that he's an idiot.

"Bellamy loves you," Persey says, matter-of-factly, and Bellamy looks at her in horror because what the fuck. "He loves you, and would like to do a whole bunch of pathetically domestic things with you, if you'll let him." She pauses. "If you'll let us."

Bellamy holds his breath. Clarke is staring at him like she's never seen him before.

"Oh," Clarke says, very quietly. She and Bellamy stare at each other for a long, long moment, and he's convinced that she's trying to think of a way to let him down gently when she coughs and says, "Um. Yeah. Same."

"Same?" Bellamy says, because Clarke might be the love of his fucking life but that's pathetic. "Really, Clarke?"

She blushes a bright, brilliant red, the color spreading down her neck and disappearing down her shirt, and Bellamy would trade all the knowledge in the world just for the chance to see how far down the color goes. "Shut up," Clarke grumbles, and Bellamy's eyes snap back to her face, "I love you too, okay? I'm just— I'm bad at saying it."

"That's okay," Bellamy says, and he gently pulls her down until she's lying next to him, her head on his shoulder and her body curled around his. She fits as if she was made for him, and that's a heady thought he has to tuck away, save for later. "I know."

Arthur jumps up onto the bed steps around them carefully so he can curl up against Persey, who automatically shifts to accommodate him. Bellamy raises his eyebrows in surprise when Arthur begins to purr.

"Fucking finally," Arthur sighs, and yeah. Bellamy can't help but agree.

"Hey, Bellamy?" Clarke whispers later, long after he thought she'd fallen asleep. "What's Persey's real name?" He laughs, because he hadn't thought about it, but after today… well. It's strangely appropriate.

"Persephone," he says, "Her name's Persephone."

Author's Note (take two!): Here's the complete list of everyone's daemons... even the ones I didn't mention in the fic.

Bellamy - weasel— coyote (Persephone)
Clark- Abbysinian cat (Arthur)
Octavia- peregrine falcon (Apollo)
Jasper- raccoon (Jasmine)
Monty- southern flying squirrel (Rosie)
Finn- beagle (Bella)
Raven- fox (Hadley)
Lincoln- copperhead snake (Marya)
Anya- cougar
Murphy- fruit bat (Crowley) : MALE
Abby- Gila monster
Jake- tabby house cat
Wells- rabbit (Ferrier)
Kane- German Shepherd
Jaha- beatle