Hey guys! So I decided to extend the one shot haha. This is the first of four part I have planned, but I'll only be writing the other three parts if you guys really want me to because it is hard to juggle writing and exams right now :)

Let me know when you finish reading! ENJOY 3

Ps - there is not a WHOLE lot of Bellarke. This part mainly focuses on Clarke and her relationships.

Nowhere Found

i.

They practised for hours.

Hours upon hours of boxing stances, of upper cuts and right crosses, of jabs and hooks. Her father kept insisting she'd become stronger if she continued to push herself, but she felt weak and tired. She felt like having her mother's carrot soup and watching the sunset like they used to. But her father was persistent.

It was warmer in the living room then she expected, even with the windows open, and her shirt was beginning to stain with the inner release of her body, her arms trembling as she struggled to maintain them in a defensive position. Clarke clenched her hands, waiting, always waiting, for what her father was about to instruct her to do.

"Make sure you don't tuck your thumb in your fingers," her father told her. He reached forward, his hands overlapping hers as he guided her fists in the correct position. "There. Like that. Now swing."

She did.

Her father shook her head. "Again."

Clarke sighed. She dropped her hands, ignoring the way her father's lips curved, a pure indication that he was about to tell her to be strong, to never give up. She spoke before he got the chance to lecture her. "Why do I need to learn this anyway, Dad?"

Her father straightened his posture. He's been trying to avoid this conversation since he's been teaching her defence moves for the past few months. She didn't understand. There are Guards here, officers, people who can protect them from the horrors of what the war created that live outside the gates.

They're safe inside these walls, inside The Ark, that's what he always told her. That's what she was raised to believe.

"Come here." Her father crouched down, his hands extending towards her. Clarke took them and allowed him to pull her forward. He rested his grip on her shoulders. "When you get older, you are going to learn that some things aren't how they should be, that things should be better."

Clarke worried her eyebrows. "Why?"

Her father squeezed her shoulders. "Don't you worry yourself on that just yet, okay?" When she nodded, he managed a small smile. The feature looked strained on his face. "Remember this for me. Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in."

His eyes are big and red, and Clarke has never seen her father without his familiar look of mischievousness. She rested her hands on his and intertwined their fingers. Her voice was unwavering.

"I won't."

Her father grinned. "That's my girl," he murmured. He leaned forward to press his lips softly against her cheek before standing up, resuming to their previous positions. He nodded at her hands, clenching in fists. "Now twenty more minutes, your mom will have dinner ready soon."

Clarke rose her chin, curved her muscles, and swung and swung until her body ached and her mouth grew dry. She was panting by the end of the few final minutes, but her father was happy, and it made her smile, made it worth it.

ii. - SEVEN YEARS LATER -

Sometimes she wonders if what's outside the gates is better than what's inside.

It's something that all citizens of the Ark have wondered, have dreamed, have painted and drew and sold for additional rations. There are stories, campfire discussions that tell the tales of the bandits who scavenge the woods and murder those who are not protected by the security of a refugee base.

But neither of them has ever stepped a foot outside of the camp.

Clarke presses her face against the glass of the window, her eyes peering at the various colours that extend past the walls. The trees are beginning to brighten in the approaching autumn, a season where the Ark is busy with trades and rations in preparation for winter. A winter that comes every year, yet manages to kill the same amount of people.

It's a system, trading food for supplies, trading supplies for food. That's how the citizens of the Ark live. That's how the Exodus War left them, with the remaining survivors of the losing side being held in refugee bases located across the country. This is all they know. All Clarke remembers. Just living in a box and performing in monthly trades in order to receive enough food to see the next one.

Her father used to tell her that the way they lived was punishment for being on the wrong side of the war. He said, and evidently so, that the base guards only protected the more privileged side of camp and harmed the less privileged side.

She's heard of the incidents of course, of the one incident where Roma Rae was raped and then executed for falsely accusing a Guard. Only there were seven witnesses supporting her case, claiming she was telling the truth.

Chancellor Jaha disagreed.

"Clarke?"

Clarke blinks, her eyes tearing from the landscape in front of her to look at her mother, standing beside the kitchen table. Abby places her clasped hands in front of her, wringing her fingers. "The Trade is starting soon, darling," she informs her.

Clarke nods. "Do you have everything?"

Abby manages a sad smile, her eyes shifting to the surface of the table beside her. Medicine and health supplies they are able to create for extra rations lies in a pile on the wood. It looks smaller than last time, and Clarke can notice the bags under her eyes, indicating the hours she spent making them. Clarke knows, she has them, too.

"It's not much. Should be enough to receive an amount of rations to last us until next month," Abby mumbles, her tone yearning.

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. They haven't been able to make as much since her father died, each month being especially cruel with Abby's increasing shifts at the medical bay and Clarke's increasing amount of work at school. They struggle, but they get by. They have to.

Clarke takes the few steps towards her mother in two strides. She places her hand on her shoulder, her fingers wrapping gratefully around the material of her shirt. "It'll be enough, Mom," she reassures.

Abby smiles. It'll be enough.

There's a breaking of silence as The Trade horn sounds, informing the Ark citizens to begin meeting in the camp square and stand at their scheduled booths. They have the same booth every year, in the area with the least protection and the most theft. Not that the Guard does much protecting anyways.

Abby exhales deeply. "Ready?"

Clarke reaches forward, gathering the pile of medicine in a basket and covering it with a cloth. Her eyes shift to meet her mother's, brown and yielding. She takes her hand in hers, squeezing her palm.

"Ready."

iii.

Clarke's feet begin to ache by the late afternoon.

The square is crowded as expected for the month of October, members of the camp surrounding the booths that offer their favourite or needed items, items that include supplies for baking, or games for the backyard, or health care packages. There's a murmur of hurried voices as people attempt to bargain for special deals, as they beg to pay with one ration pack instead of two.

It's no use. The seller needs as much to survive as the buyer does.

Guards line the perimeter of the square, eyes shifting between passing citizens, hands wrapping instinctively around their weapons. Their bodies are pressed together as if to create a cage around them. No way in, no way out. Clarke smirks. A cage, that's what the Ark is.

Clarke glances at the remaining pile of medicine that rests on the booth, bottles and caps with names that their customers can barely pronounce. They've been able to sell a steady amount for six packs of rations, enough to last them almost two weeks. With the half mark of the Trade approaching, it's also enough to worry her into thinking they'll have to skip meals. Again.

Fortunately for them, the prince of the camp, Wells Jaha, spends every Trade at their booth, giving double the rations that they expect him to. This Trade, he gave them triple, given him and Clarke's previous relationship and him wanting to resume it.

It's understandable that she doesn't since his father got her father killed. It's a typical issue for him and his prior girlfriends.

"Clarke."

Her mother's elbow connects with Clarke's waist sharply. Clarke sighs, turning her body to her mother questioningly. Abby meets her gaze momentarily before she can speak, jerking her head towards the man who walks toward them, chin high and three guards accompanying.

The crowd parts a path for them, most of them glaring in surprise. The higher end of the population rarely bother to waste their time buying trades from this part of camp. More commonly, the more privileged citizens (those who aren't raped and starving and suffering) are those who's ancestor's were on the winning side of the Exodus War. The heroes.

Like her father said, life in the Ark is a punishment.

"Ms. Griffin," Chancellor Jaha greets as he approaches them, ordering the guards to the side with a swift of his hand. He turns back to them and nods in acknowledgement, eyes settling on Clarke. "Clarke, how is school?"

She swallows. Fuck you. "It's fine, sir," she tells him. She even manages a damn smile.

Jaha hums in satisfaction with her response. It makes her want to shove a ration down his throat. "That's good to hear. Do you mind if I speak to your mother for a few minutes?"

Clarke purses her lip, not liking the feeling of anxiety in her stomach. She blinks, glancing sideways at her mother, who nods in encouragement. Abby's frame is rigid as she taps a reassuring hand on her daughter's shoulder, her eyes never leaving Jaha.

"Of course, sir," Clarke agrees. He'd also have her permission to hang himself in the mean time.

Jaha smiles, graciously almost, at her before turning his attention to her mother. Abby acts instantly, stepping away from the booth, the place where she stood beside Clarke already cold and desperate to be returned to.

She grins tightly at her behind her shoulder. "Keep the booth under control."

Clarke nods. She exhales deeply, watching as her mother follows in step with Jaha, her face downcast in an attempt to shield her expression from her. The pair of them walk with their back towards her, the guards shortly behind. The crowd parts again at their exit.

She stares angrily at the outline of their frame. Jaha has never expressed any interest in how Clarke and her mother have lived their life, other than the occasional execution of a family member. She feels her body tense at the thought. If he even fucking touches -

"Miss. Griffin?"

Clarke flinches at the sound of her name. Her vision tears from the disappearing figures, tilting her face to the source of the deep voice that called her. Her gaze rests on a man in front of her, eyebrows quirked and hands shoved in his front pockets. The curls of his hair fall against his forehead, just above his dark eyes.

She blinks. "Sorry."

He offers a small grin, and she knows him, of course she knows him. Bellamy Blake. He's been coming to the booth every Trade for the past few months, trading the limited rations he has for medicine she knows he barely recognizes. He's almost ashamed when he asks for it, as if he's afraid of revealing the reason why he needs the medication.

Even though, by now, everyone in the East end knows.

It's hard not to hear the screams eliciting from Aurora Blake in the residence on the corner of Clarke's street. Clarke has even tended to her before after his younger sister, who's in her grade, Octavia, begged her for weeks to help their dying mother. Doctors and nurses are accustomed at a high cost, even those who work in the East end.

It's against the law, could very much get her killed, but she couldn't do nothing. Her father wouldn't do nothing.

Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in.

Bellamy glances behind his shoulder, eyebrows knitting together when he turns back to her. "Not usual seeing the chancellor in this part of town," he voices. His tone is deeper than she remembers, stronger. He crosses his arms over his chest. His arms are stronger, too.

Clarke pursues her lips, her eyes hardening. "I'm sure he doesn't like it either."

He hums in agreement, and there's a look in his eyes that suggests he holds the same disgust for Jaha such as hers. His gaze falls from hers, glare narrowing as he analyzes the pile of medicine in front of him. She watches as he mouths the name of the pills on his lips. Of course he knows the words. He's seen enough death and sickness by now.

"How is she?"

His eyes lift to hers, looking away momentarily, and she follows his line of vision to observe Octavia standing at a booth a couple yards away. Clarke sighs, they both have people to worry about protecting.

His voice is low when he talks. "Octavia doesn't seem to realize it's almost time," he tells her. He turns back to her, gaze returning. "I just need something to help minimize the pain."

Clarke nods in understanding. She reaches towards the pile of medicine and grabs a bottle of herbs her mother cooks for the patients who are slowly giving in to their sickness. She extends it towards him, and he takes it from her grasp, his skin brushing hers. He turns the bottle in his hand, eyes searching.

"She shouldn't be able to feel anything by the time . . . "

She doesn't finish her sentence, and he doesn't ask her to. He places the bottle on the table in satisfaction and reaches into the pocket of his pants. After a moment of silent searching, he pulls one ration pack from his jeans and places it in her palm. "It's not much," he tells her, tone cursing the circumstances, "but I hope it's enough."

The figures of Jaha and her mother reappear in her line of vision behind Bellamy's shoulder as they begin to return to the booth. Clarke looks at Bellamy, the bags under his eyes, the dirt and exhaustion on his face. She grins sympathetically, grins and thinks of her father as she leans forward to grab another bottle of herbs from the booth and tosses it towards him.

Bellamy catches it in his hands.

"It's enough."

He shakes his head. "Miss. Griffin - "

Clarke looks at him, and this is what humanity feels like. This is how it feels to be human. She jerks her chin towards the approaching images of Abby and Jaha who are gaining closer to where they're standing. "You better hurry, my mom isn't as a lenient," she warns him. There's a pause, and they're both silent and staring. "And it's Clarke," she decides to add.

There's a glint of gratitude in Bellamy's eyes that he seems incapable to speak on. He swallows thickly, frozen, not moving until he glances at his sister one more time, allows her appearance encourage him.

He looks at her then, his eyes dark and bold in contrast to her blue ones. Brooding and calm. His gaze doesn't leave hers as he takes the second bottle, doesn't leave hers as he begins to back away from the booth. "Clarke," he mumbles, in parting, in appreciation.

She nods at him, gestures for him to go, closes her eyes softly when he's out of sight.

Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in.

iv.

The Trade ends five hours later.

The hush of the crowd has since vanished from the square, the pitying people with empty pockets having to return home and face the disappointed expressions of their family. It isn't unusual for there to be suicide-murders in the days following the Trade. It's better than starving is what they suppose.

Clarke lets the pounding of water wash at the dirt on her hands as she scrubs a cloth against a plate. This is tradition for her and her mother. They come home, have dinner, and Clarke does the dishes as Abby counts the pile of rations they made and the pile of medicine they sold.

This year, although, Clarke knows they sold more than they made. With the exception of Wells Jaha.

"Did we make much?"

It's silent, and Clarke glances over her shoulder to see her mother leaning her hands against the table. Her head is downcast, immobile. She's been like this since she returned to the booth after speaking with Jaha. "We could have made more," she tells her, her voice strained.

Clarke sighs. She places the wet plate on the rack to let it dry with the others. Of course they could have made more, they always can. But her mother works at the medical bay, and jobs can get desperate people a few extra rations and a source to get supplies from in order to participate in the Trade. They'll manage.

Turning to face her mother, she leans her body against the kitchen counter. "I'm not sorry for that," she whispers.

"You shouldn't be sorry. You should be terrified."

Clarke can feel the tension of her body build as her mother speaks the words. She knows who's voice that is. She knows who's fear that is. Jaha. She's looking at her mother's back when she speaks. "What did he say?" she questions.

Abby exhales deeply. She lifts herself from the table and turns to face her. Her expression is as torn as Clarke expected.

"He wants us to stop our visits to those who need it."

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it . . .

They've always figured Jaha would find out about their additional work at the houses that need it. There are sick people, sick people who can't afford the luxury of hospitals. Sick people who's family has to watch them suffer without being able to do anything. There's Bellamy Blake, there's his mother, his dying mother, and there's Bellamy. Bellamy. A son watching his mother die.

Clarke feels her heart falter and it hurts. This is not fair, this is not what humanity does to each other. "What?" she manages to say. Her voice is barely a whisper, barely a sound, yet it still sends a cold sensation down her body.

Abby shakes her head. It hurts her just as much and she doesn't try to hide it. "This place is built on a system. If we perform in procedures that are against this system, then, in theory, we are against the system as well. And we are punished. We would be executed."

Executed. Clarke hates that word. Hates that idea. Execution by hanging, a hanging in the camp square for everyone to see, for the unprivileged to fear for and for the privileged to be entertained. There's an execution every week. There was an execution for her father.

Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in.

Clarke isn't scared. She's furious.

"So we just let them suffer?"

Abby struggles to say the word. But Clarke knows what she is about to say, already knows what Jaha had told her to say. "Yes," she responds, voice heavy.

Clarke shakes her head. This is now howe she wants to live, to survive. She does not want to turn from those who require her help. "This is wrong," Clarke tells her. This is wrong. This is poisonous.

She doesn't need to say it, her mother already knows. Her mother has lived in the Ark for longer than she has, has seen more death and weakness and suffering. This is how they live. This is how they spend their lives, going from Trade to Trade, starting a family only to curse it due to the underwhelming amount of food.

This is it. This is their life.

Abby steps forward to where her daughter is leaning on the counter. Her fingers twirl around a strand of Clarke's hair before she tucks it behind her ear. The gentle gesture isn't enough to rid Clarke of her shivers.

Her voice is pained when she speaks. "That's the Ark."

That night, as Clarke lays awake in her bed, the sound of Aurora Blake's screaming echoes throughout the camp. And she can't help. She can't do anything.

That's the Ark.

v.

Ark History is a boring class.

It's been a couple of days since the last Trade, and the discussion Clarke and her mother had afterwards is still a conversation she plays on repeat inside her head. The laws and rules that she must refuse to help people, must refuse to make their life easier. It's bullshit.

And so is Ark History.

The class, and most of the population of students at Ark High, is segregated into two different sides. This isn't by law, or by suggestion, but by the sheer truth that the privileged and unprivileged students cannot interact without either one of them trying to punch the other. Usually, when that does happen, the privileged gets their ass kicked.

Honestly. It's the only entertainment the unprivileged gets.

And so yet again, the two opposing sides of the Ark have the same layout in her Ark History class. The teenagers who grow up in the west end seem a lot more interested in the importance of the Exodus War and the amount of casualties they had in comparison to the losing side. To Clarke's side.

Because, apparently to Mrs. Finch and the other privileged students, the Exodus War was necessary and fair. That the outcome of the war has a good idea of how humans should treat each other and how humans should live. That goodness has come from the Exodus War. That, thankfully, the Ark has come from it.

Yes. Yes, thank God for the Exodus War.

"Only two more months, Clarke. Two more months and we're out of here."

Clarke smiles at Harper's words of encouragement as they walk down the hallways of Ark High. She doesn't usually spend her time trying to make friends at her school, the reason being she worries more about making sure her mother is comfortable with their lifestyle, but Harper is a friend. A nice one, too.

"We still have to deal with this crap after we graduate. It's going to be awesome," Clarke huffs.

Harper shakes her head in agreement, a grin playing at her lips. They step outside of the school, the autumn sun a warm sensation to the coolness of Ark High. A coolness that runs uncomfortably under Clarke's skin every time she attends. It's the only building where she has ever known what air conditioning feels like.

Harper seems to bask in the sunlight as well, passing by the scurrying of students desperate to get home with ease. "Imagine if we didn't have to. Imagine if we only knew - "

She stops short, eyes falling in front of her with a worried frown. Clarke raises an eyebrow and follows her line of vision to where she's staring at the person standing in front of them.

Octavia Blake.

"Hey, Clarke. Can I talk to you for a second?"

Her voice is a whisper, almost low enough for Clarke to miss it. She nods her head, turning to Harper, who still has a quizzical look on her face. Octavia Blake doesn't talk to anybody at school.

"Don't wait up. I'll come to your house when I'm done," Clarke informs her. She rests a hand on her back, and Harper stares at her momentarily before grinning. She begins to walk down the block moments later.

Clarke turns back to Octavia. Something must be wrong.

Clarke receives the confirmation to that assumption quickly. "My mom's been getting worse," she murmurs. Her eyes shift to the crowd of students around them that are parting from the building. "I don't know what to do."

Clarke shakes her head. "The medicine I gave your brother should work."

Octavia shrugs. Her hair falls loosely around her shoulders, and Clarke doesn't notice how exhausted and desperate she looks until she tucks the strands behind her ears, presenting the drooping of her eyes.

She hugs her textbooks closer to her test, gaze burning. "Sometimes it doesn't," she tells her, and Clarke remembers the screaming she heard coming from their house a couple days. "Sometimes it works, and then sometimes she screams more."

Clarke sighs. She knows what that means. She knows she doesn't have much time left. She bites on her lip, struggling to answer.

"Octavia!"

They both turn to the source of the person calling her name, and Clarke can hear Octavia sigh heavily when Bellamy comes into view, his arms outstretched in annoyance. Clarke's heard the stories, the Blake siblings, love each other so much they hate it. Clarke's always envied those who had someone like that.

Bellamy begins to walk towards them, his young face noticeably older as he passes through the teenagers around them. He nods at Clarke in acknowledgement when he reaches them, his eyes averting to Octavia. "You know mom is waiting - "

Octavia ignores his presence and looks to Clarke. "Is there something you can do or not?"

Clarke exhales deeply. Her heart suddenly feels heavy in her chest under the desperation of her gaze. And then Bellamy is looking at her, questioning, knowing, and the pressure multiplies. The pressure becomes more painful, because there's nothing she can do, even if she wanted to. And that feels worse.

She slowly shakes her head, eyes softening. "Octavia . . . "

Octavia scoffs. She swallows thickly, a notable lump moving through her throat, and her gaze hardens. "You know what," she grits through her teeth, sharp edges scraping, "forget it."

She steps forward, her shoulder hitting Clarke's as she leaves, her footsteps heavy and stomping. Clarke sighs and tucks her hair behind her ears, watching as Bellamy turns to follow her. He pauses momentarily, turning his body to face her, his expression unreadable.

"She still thinks she has a chance of surviving," he explains. He doesn't need to. She gets it, she does. She's been desperate before, that's how her relationship with Wells started.

Clarke nods in understanding, but she can still feel the burning sensation of tears at the back of her eyes. "I get it," she mumbles. It's okay, she gets it. This is what the Ark does to people, turns them against each other.

She expects Bellamy to leave, expects him to give her the same treatment her sister did. But he doesn't. He stands there, expression unwavering, his gaze focusing as he looks at her. She doesn't know what he found, but it's enough to make him stay.

"Thank you," he voices, his tone a soft contrast to his sister's previous one, "by the way, for the medicine."

Clarke nods. His eyes make it hard to look away. "Yeah," she whispers.

Bellamy sighs, offering her a sad smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He looks away then, and the loss of connection weighs heavily on her as he turns from her, towards Octavia.

She watches as he jogs up to catch up to her, watches as Octavia throws her hands up when he tells her something, watches as they argue.

At least her actions were enough to satisfy one Blake sibling.

vi.

The sun is beginning to lower behind the sky as Clarke scribbles notes on her textbook, small doodles that reflect her disagreement in the text. She's on her stomach, her feet in the air as she lays on Harper's bed. Ark History homework is as boring as Ark History.

Her pencil glides towards the illustration of a man she recognizes. Commander Dante. She's heard Mrs. Finch speak of him, how he led the losing side of the Exodus War to a battle they had no hope of winning. How he fought to save as many lives as possible, even at the expanse at his own life.

Mrs. Finch says he's a tragic figure in the war, but the unprivileged side of the Ark see him as a hero.

"Hey Harper?"

Harper looks up from her spot on the floor, her own pencil pausing in her hand. Her eyes are narrow and light when she looks at Clarke. "What's up?" she wonders.

Clarke sighs. She closes her textbook and pushes it to the side of the mattress, lifting herself into a sitting position. "Do you think we're supposed to be like this?" she asks her. She's never talked about it with anyone other than her mother. She doesn't know what other people think, alway's assumed it was the same thing.

Harper shrugs. "I don't think it matters what we think," she answers, and returns to her homework.

Clarke shakes her head. She leans forward on the bed, wanting, needing her to understand. This is what her father would do, this is what her father would want her to do. Get people to understand and fight back.

"It does."

Harper exhales deeply, turning back to her. She takes the bottom of her pencil and points it to a illustrated figure in her textbook. Jaha. "Tell that to him," she challenges, and Clarke knows she wants the same things, just doesn't know how to get them.

Clarke understands, because neither does she.

She sighs, getting up from the bed and taking her textbook with her. She places the book against her chest, placing the pencils in her front pockets. It's dark outside of the window, and Clarke can see the Guard lining up on the streets for security reasons.

"I should probably get going," she tells Harper when she turns back to her. "My mom should be back from the medical bay soon."

Harper nods. "Yeah. Okay. I'll see you around, Clarke," she bids. She offers a smile, and Clarke see's the line between her forehead, see's her thoughts examining the conversation they just had.

Clarke walks towards the door, her hand on the doorknob. She glances over her shoulder at Harper and breathes deeply.

"I don't think it's supposed to be like this, by the way."

And then she leaves, exiting her room, and entering the East side of the Ark.

vii.

The chill from the autumn air makes Clarke shiver as she walks along the perimeter of the camp to her cabin. It's dark outside except for the occasional lanterns that light the pathways, and the reflection of a Guard's badge as they stand spaciously to the side.

Clarke thinks of her mother being home soon, thinks of the dinner that will be prepared and served when she returns. She wonders if she'll recall her conversation with Harper to her mother, wonders if she'd get angry for talking about the "R" word.

She rubs her hands against her shoulders, breathing deep, knowing that her cabin is only a couple minutes away. She's momentarily distracted by the hum of voices that echo throughout the air, and she looks to find two guards staring at her, their heads close as they whisper.

Fuck.

Clarke begins to put a quicker pace in her step, and she hears footsteps following, tries to remind herself Guards are there to protect, not to harm. But then she hears a whistle, and remembers Roma Rae, and she doesn't like the feeling of panic that swells in her chest.

"Hey pretty lady! Where you going?"

Damn it, damn it, damn it. Her parents used to warn her about these type of situations, how she should continue to walk, don't stop walking. Yes, Clarke, just don't stop walking. You'll be fine if you don't stop walking.

She feels them before she turns the corner onto a street, feels the two guards walk side by side beside her. She recognizes them, they usually stand outside of the medical bay when Clarke visits her mother at work. She knows they recognize her too.

"Abby's daughter, huh?"

The older one, Dax, pounders, his eyes sneering as he stares down at her. He jerks his chin towards Connor on the other side of Clarke, both expressions hungry. Clarke slowly peels her arms from her chest, clenching her fists at her sides.

Her heart is fast, and her breathing is overlapping, but she clears her head, trying to remember what her father taught her.

Connor reaches forward to twirl a strand of her golden hair. "Well, Griffin, why don't we - "

Clarke gasps when she feels him touch her, and she turns towards him, her palm connecting with the right side of his face. The stinging of her hand subsides when Dax wraps his arm around her waist, another hand covering her mouth, and pulls her into a nearby alleyway.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . .

Her head cracks against the brick wall as Dax slams her onto it, her textbook falling below them as his hand slipping from her mouth. Clarke uses the advantage of releasing a scream, strong and powerful, and she's screaming and screaming and screaming until she feels Connor push her hands above her head, and Dax cover her mouth again, this time with his lips.

No. No. She bites down on the tongue that tries to open her mouth, hard, and he draws away from her, spitting out blood. Clarke screams again, desperate, hoping for anyone to hear. Her eyes search the houses around her, and her heart plummets when she see's bedroom lights go out, when she sees people hiding.

Connor connects his knee with her stomach, and she coughs, her breath halting.

"Shut the fuck up," Connor growls.

Clarke struggles against his hands that holds her arms up and her eyes analyze the scene around her. Remember what your father taught you, Clarke. You stupid idiot remember something.

Her eyes land on Dax, wiping at his mouth, and she grunts, lifting her foot and pushing her heel against his private area.

Dax doubles over, and the slight fall in Connor's grasp allows her to rip herself from his embrace. She pushes against Connor, pushes him against the wall, and runs in the direction of her house. Run, run, run.

But it's not enough.

Connor fists her hair in his grasp and pulls her backwards. She stumbles, tripping over her feet and falling backwards onto the pavement, her head impacting harshly with the concrete.

Clarke blinks. It's blurry. She can't fucking see.

She feels a weight on top of her and it doesn't take long for her senses to realize someone is straddling her. Hands connect with her cheek, fists slamming against her flesh, and she cries out, feeling blood and weak. Weak and blood.

Everything hurts, everything and everywhere.

There's a crunching of knuckles, a sound of grunting, and the weight is gone from her body. She gasps at the breaths that are slowly returning to her. Her chest feels heavy and laboured, but the guard on top of her is gone, she's weightless.

Clarke coughs. The sound of scrabbling still echoes throughout the alleyway, and she turns her body painfully so she's lying on her stomach. She props herself on her elbows, looking towards the source of the noise.

God damn it she still can't fucking see.

She can make an outline of figures as her vision begins to clear. Can see a person on top of Connor, punching him, hitting him, can see Dax walking behind them, his hands raised.

Connor pulls out his gun, pulls the trigger, but the person moves his position on top of him, and the bullet goes through Dax's forehead.

Dax drops to the ground. Dead.

"Fuck."

That voice. Holy shit she knows that voice.

Bellamy Blake.

No. Damn it, no. Leave, Bellamy.

He curses again as he's thrown to the side, as Connor grunts and begins to hit him from his position on top. Clarke can see the outline in the night and she struggles to lift herself from the ground, but she manages.

Fight, God damn it, fight, Clarke.

She limps towards the textbook laying on the pavement across from her. Her vision is still blurring when she picks it up, when she holds it steadily in her hands. She stumbles towards the scuffle in front of her, raises the textbook above her head.

There's a crunching noise when she crushes it against Connor's skull. A lifeless noise as he stops his movements on top of Bellamy.

Connor falls to the pavement, crashing, and Clarke does the same, her body surrendering now that the danger is gone.

She breathes deep as the reminder of pain occurs, and she places her fingers on her face, feeling open flesh and wounds. Her hands come in front of her face. Blood. So much blood. When she lowers them, she see's Bellamy crawling towards Connor, his fingers at his pulse.

Clarke swallows thickly. "Is he?"

It's dark out, but she can still see him nod. Can see the curls of his hair damp with sweat. "Fuck. Fuck," he curses.

Clarke can feel the shattering of her heart inside her chest. Capital crime - the death of a guard. She thinks of self defence, then is reminded of Roma Rae, of her pleads. Reminded of her execution.

No.

Bellamy lifts himself from his position on the ground. He bends forward to grab Connor's ankles, dragging his corpse across the concrete, towards the dumpster. He grunts as he lifts the body into his arms, a dead body, and throws it into the dumpster, doing the same for Dax.

It doesn't matter. Jaha will figure it out. He'll figure it out and he'll kill them.

Bellamy wipes his hands on his jacket, trying to rid his skin of death and blood. After he's satisfied, he walks over to her, his steps heavy to her ears. He bends in front of her, his hands reaching to softly grip her shoulders.

"You okay?"

No. "Yes."

His eyes search her face, and she can feel him wince when he notices the blood, can see him swallow thickly. He closes his eyes momentarily, his fingers softening around the material of her shirt. "Okay," he whispers when he opens them, "come on."

His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her up into a standing position. She leans into him, her forehead against his neck and her arm around his shoulders. He holds her close, her cheek against his heart as they limp away from the alley, away from the crime scene.

viii.

She's almost unconscious by the time Bellamy assists her in walking up the porch steps to his cabin.

Her head is lulling to the side, her breathing laboured, and the only thing keeping her mildly awake is the continuous words of comfort Bellamy whispers, the continuous words to stay alive.

Stay alive, even though, in about a days time, both of them will be dead. Stay alive, even though she's never felt alive before anyways.

Bellamy fumbles with his key when they reach his door, his arm still tightly wound around her as the other inserts the key into the doorknob. He twists the knob, opening the door to his home and helping Clarke over the thresold.

Octavia appears at the top of the stairs. "There you are. I was starting to - Holy shit. Clarke."

She stumbles down the steps, her hair pulled into a pony tail and her brown eyes shifting between the two bloody people in front of her. Bellamy shakes his head. It's not his blood."Help me get her to the couch," he tells her.

Octavia nods. She lifts Clarke's other arm around her shoulders, her and Bellamy almost dragging her to the living room. They gently lower her onto the cushion of the couch, her body propping up against a pillow.

Octavia splutters at the new found blood on Clarke's skin under the light. "What the fuck happened?" she demands. She kneels in front of Clarke, her hands resting on her knees as Bellamy paces the room, his hands at his temples.

"Guards."

Octavia swallows. "Did they . . . "

Clarke shakes her head, blood bubbling at the shape of her lips. "Almost," she whispers, and the answers descends a feeling of uneasiness in the room. Octavia gently squeezes her knee.

She knows what they're thinking. Poor girl, almost raped. Poor girl, almost killed. But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore except for the fact that Bellamy and Clarke murdered two Guards tonight. Murderer. That's what she is now.

Clarke can hear Bellamy clear his throat, her eyelids are too heavy to see anything. "Where's mom?"

"Sleeping," Octavia informs him.

Bellamy nods. His arms cross over his chest, calculating. "Good," he says, and then Clarke hears footsteps, his footsteps, quicken in a different pace. "Just, keep her awake, clean her wounds, I'm getting Abby."

Clarke panics. Her mother can't see her like this.

Octavia tilts her head as Bellamy leaves, and her touch disappears from her knee then, and Clarke craves the soft contact yet again. She drops her head against the cushion of the couch behind her, her eyes drooping, mouth tasting blood.

This can't be it. This can't be how it ends.

Her father couldn't even taught her how to defend herself for nothing, her mother couldn't have spent hours making extra rations for nothing. Her countless days spent trying to find a way to make her mother's life easier can't be for nothing.

Her mother. God, just don't hurt her mother when she's gone.

There's a gentle padding against Clarke's cheek, and she opens her eyes to see Octavia on the couch beside her, wiping her face with a cloth. Her other hand comes up to hold her chin as she scrubs against the blood. There's no use, there's too much.

"How do you feel?"

It's a stupid question that they both know the answer to, but Clarke decides to lie for her anyways. "Fine."

Octavia sighs, her lips turning into a small frown. She presses the cloth lightly against the dripping of blood on Clarke's cheek, her fingers soothing against the open flesh.

"God," she whispers, her voice strained, "now I feel bad for yelling at you today."

Clarke can't help the low murmur of laugher that releases from her. She stops short, a pain rising in her stomach, and it makes her cough uneasily. Blood squirts from her mouth and down her chin.

Octavia hushes her, shaking her head. "It's okay, it's okay. Don't laugh. Just heal," she tells her. She uses the cloth she's holding to wipe at the splash of red that was just poured from her lips.

She looks at her then, her eyes yielding, and Clarke can see she's as scared as she is. As broken and damaged as Clarke looks. Octavia's already losing her mother, and she'll probably lose her brother too. All in one month, one lifetime. It's not fair.

"Clarke!"

The sound of her mother's voice is strained and frightened as it echoes throughout the walls of the cabin. There's an inner desperation that awakens at the sound, a needing, her eyes searching frantically for her. Octavia drops the cloth from Clarke's face, lifting herself from the couch and standing to the side.

Abby appears in the living room then, Bellamy behind her, her hands at her mouth.

"Oh no," she mumbles between her fingers, "Oh, baby."

Abby takes the steps towards her, her frame shaking and vulnerable as she sits herself on the couch. Her fingers trace the forming scars and bruises on her daughter's face, and she feels weak. So weak. Her daughter.

Clarke breathes deeply when she feels her mother's hands form her face, her palms against her cheeks. A familiarity of comfort overwhelms her, and she's reminded of when her mother would hold her as a child, scare the nightmares away.

Only this isn't a nightmare. This is reality.

Abby turns her head, glances over her shoulder at the man standing behind her, his arms crossed across his chest. The man who saved his daughter, for now. "Thank you," she whispers, and he nods, in understanding, his eyes hooded.

"I know this issue isn't solved," he mumbles, and his eyes can't seem to look away from the large cut that scrapes along Clarke's jaw, "but I'm sure she needs her rest. We can figure it out when she wakes up. You're both welcome to stay."

His eyes shift then, towards Clarke's drooping ones, and she notices the glint of sadness in them before he touches Octavia's shoulder and leaves the room.

ix.

Clarke hisses as her mother presses the cloth against a sensitive patch of skin, her teeth greeting together.

Abby winces, pulling the bloodied cloth from her face. "Sorry," she mumbles, her brown eyes calculating. She reaches forward to remove a strand of hair from Clarke's face, tucking it behind her ear. "Talk to me. Please."

Clarke sighs. They've been in the living room, Abby applying pressure to her daughter's wounds, for two hours, both of them silent. A silence filled with burning questions and expecting answers, a silence filled with the lack of detail about the night they just experienced.

A silence that drags and drags to the thought they're both dawning to hear.

Clarke shifts her position on the couch so she can better face her mother. She looks at the bags under her eyes, the despair that rounds her cheeks. If she wants to talk, they need to talk about the outcome they both know is going to occur.

"They're going to kill Bellamy and I, aren't they?"

Abby's breath hitches, and her eyes instantly darken. "We'll figure something out - "

Clarke shakes her head before she can continue. There was a line, a line in humanity that Clarke vowed herself to never come close to, to never even look at. She crossed that line the moment she cracked the textbook over Connor's head. The moment she took another life.

There's a trembling inside her when she allows herself to remember it. Allows herself to remember she isn't the only victim. Allows herself to remember that Bellamy is risking his life because of her. This is happening, all of the blood and the tears, is happening because of her.

Her voice is small when she speaks again. "Does this make me a monster?"

"Clarke . . . "

There's a bursting of emotions that seems overwhelming suddenly, and Clarke chokes on the sobs threatening to escape. She thinks of how it sounded when Connor's skull crunched, remembers the bullet entering Dax's forehead, feels the anxiety she felt when they pushed her into the alley, their arms caging her.

"They didn't give us a choice," she whispers, voice already breaking, "they never give us a choice."

And then she gives in. Gives in to the inevitable outcome of what's ahead, gives in to the guilt and the fear and the longing for another life, a better life her father encouraged her to find.

Her head drops, but her mother is there to pick it up, is there to wipe the tears as she finally releases her sobs. Clarke doesn't bother to gather herself, doesn't think of Bellamy and Octavia, who can probably hear her being weak, all she thinks about is her mother's arms around her, and how, for the first time, they don't make everything better.

x.

There's blood everywhere.

Red seeps into the skin of her body, every inch, crawling along her flesh and covering every pale patch it encounters. Becoming her, being her. All she sees and breathes is red, all she is blood and death.

Death. Death to what's to come and what she already brought.

Clarke scrubs at the blood that sticks to her, but it doesn't peel, doesn't move. Her entire body is basked in the aftermath of Connor and Dax, of Bellamy, of whatever innocence she was satisfied with keeping. Whatever innocence gone. Dead.

She screams, shrieks even, but no one hears. No one sees. No one is around, and she's alone, alone with blood on her skin and surrounded by nothing but darkness. And death. Always death.

I am become death.

"Clarke? Clarke!"

Clarke gasps, her eyelids fluttering open at the sound of her name. Her breathing is quick and heavy, her chest rising quickly from where she lays on her back on the couch. She feels the weight of hands on her shoulders, her eyes following the arms to the face of who they belong to.

"Bellamy?"

He nods, even in the dark she can see the comparison in his eyes. "It's just a nightmare," he reassures her, voice deep. He's sitting on the edge of the couch, his expression blank, and he draws his hands away from her shoulders, his fingers draping past a blanket she hadn't realized was comforting her.

Clarke sighs. Nightmares and reality are all the same now.

Her eyes shift from his face to study the room, landing on her mother's sleeping form on a cushioned chair. She stares at her, stares at the cloth she holds in her hands, the ring she still wears on her finger.

This isn't fair. Bad things shouldn't be happening to her anymore.

"She refused to go to sleep," Bellamy informs her. His voice matches the blackness that surrounds them. "I offered to stay up."

Clarke tilts her head back to him, eyes locking in a steady gaze. She ponders the flatness of his expression, the exhaustion in his eyes. He needs the sleep more than she does.

"You don't have to," she tells him.

Bellamy shrugs, his lips pursing in a straight line. "I don't think I would be able to sleep anyway."

She sighs. She's sure if her body wasn't collapsing on itself she wouldn't have been able to sleep either. Her eyes scan the bruises underneath his cheek bones, the cut on his lip. His skin keeps the stain of blood on his neck, and she knows it isn't his.

Clarke looks at him. He lost as much as she did, he's sacrificed as much as she has.

She doesn't know where to begin, how to show her appreciation. Her fingers curl around the material of the blanket, squeezing to find her voice. "Thank you," she murmurs. She swallows thickly, doesn't know how else to say it, how else to show him.

Bellamy stares at his hands in his lap. "I guess we're even now, huh."

Clarke offers a small grin, the attempt not genuine enough to reach her eyes. She shuffles on the couch, propping herself up on her elbows and leaning her side against the cushion to sit. The action almost causes new bruises to her body.

When she looks back to him, he's gazing at her, expression pained. It makes the growing lump in her throat extend in strength.

She leans forward, close enough to see the freckles on his face throughout the darkness. "What happened tonight . . . " she begins, her voice strained. He needs to know she's willing to fight, needs to know if he is. "I know what might happen, I know they won't listen to our side of the story."

Bellamy nods, his jaw locking.

"But we have to try."

His gaze softens, eyebrows scrunching together, and she knows what he's thinking, what he's feeling. It's impossible, there hasn't been a single citizen in the Ark who has been freed from crimes such as the ones they committed, no matter the amount of witnesses or statements.

She reaches forward in the darkness, her hand finding his, and she soothes her fingers against the roughness. Think of your mother, think of Octavia.

"No matter what, we don't give up," she vows, "okay?"

Bellamy closes his palm around hers, squeezing her hand.

"Okay."

xi.

The sun is rising higher in the sky when Clarke wakes up again.

It's almost too revealing, the image of brightness and light too strong for her recovering vision, too beautiful to be seen by her murderous eyes. But then again, it might be the last beautiful thing she sees.

She blinks rapidly, scanning the room to see Bellamy gone from the last time she saw him, his body slumped against the side of the couch. She remembers his desperate looks and unconvincing tone from last night. Tries not to think of what that means.

Clarke stands up from the couch. Her head is spinning in contrast as she walks to where her mother remains on the chair, and she pushes her hair back, bending to kiss her on the forehead. She looks so gentle and restless, almost peaceful.

Clarke studies the cabin around her, her footsteps light on the wood beneath her as she walks towards the other end of Bellamy's home. Him and Octavia don't seem to be awake yet, which is odd due to the placement of the sun in the sky, it should be late morning by now.

Picture frames are plastered against the walls. The photos are black and white, consisting of a young Bellamy Blake, an older version of him (probably his father), and Octavia. The smiles look genuine and sincere. Beautiful.

Clarke turns her head when she hears a cough coming from the line of rooms on the one side of a wall. It sounds wet and hoarse, sick. She walks towards the door that is slightly ajar, her hands bracing the doorknob.

She tilts her head inside the room to see a sleeping figure on the bed. Aurora Blake.

"What are you doing?"

Clarke jumps at the sound of his voice, and she turns, her eyes locking with Bellamy's as he leans against the wall behind her. He appears cleaner than before, the stained blood now removed from his skin, and he looks at her with a hint of curiosity in his gaze.

She glances slightly behind her shoulder to where Aurora still rests. "I just wanted to see if there was something I could do to help," she tells him.

Bellamy shakes his head. "You know there's not."

Clarke sighs. She knows that, he knows that. She takes a step closer towards him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Where's Octavia?" she wonders. She can't imagine her not being here, not thinking of every possible way to save her brother.

There's a flicker of despair in his eyes when she says her name. "I told her to go to school today."

"Oh," Clarke says, confused. She watches as he walks past her towards his mother's room, reaching forward to pull her door closed. She takes that as an introduction. "I know we have a lot to talk about - "

Bellamy pauses. He turns to face her, his lips parting open and his eyes narrowing. He shakes his head. "Clarke . . . "

There's a vulnerableness to him that makes her feel weak. "What?" she asks. Maybe he's confused, or scared, or both. Maybe he's just worried about Octavia.

Bellamy doesn't respond, his eyes not breaking from hers, and she can feel her breathing quicken. There's a message in his gaze that he's speaking without words, and she doesn't want to listen, doesn't want to look at what he's saying. Because what he's saying isn't possible.

She's heard stories about the Blake family, how they protect each other fiercely, how they protect everyone fiercely. So he wouldn't do this.

He wouldn't turn himself in.

He can't. He promised her last night.

"No. No." Clarke walks towards him, pressing her finger accusingly at his chest. "You can't do that. You can't give up. Think about your mother, think about Octavia - "

His eyes harden. "That's what I'm doing."

Clarke scoffs. That's selfish. He's stupid and selfish. "There's as much blood on my hands as there is on yours," she pleads with him, trying to convince him. Don't be an idiot, Bellamy. God don't be a hero.

"I'm not going to let us both get killed, Clarke."

A surge of anger releases at his words, at his expression, the brokenness and sadness that swims in his eyes. He's serious, he's serious and she knows she's not going to be able to change his mind. To change his decision to try.

Clarke's glare hardens, and she slaps him.

Her palm is red and stinging, and there's tears in her eyes she isn't able to control. His jaw locks, and he turns back to her, a pink shadow already covering the surface of his skin. It's swollen, but she doesn't care. Neither does he.

Her voice is shaky and weak when she tries to be strong. "Coward."

He stares at her, his eyes shifting, and she doesn't bother to wipe at the wetness underneath her cheeks. She's angry, and pissed, but God he can't do this, he can't do this for her.

"Clarke."

Her mother's voice is desperate when Clarke hears it, but she doesn't turn to her, doesn't look away from Bellamy.

"We should leave," Abby suggests, her tone longing. Clarke sniffles, because she knows her mother must be aware of what he's planning to do, she must have always known.

But her feet don't move. And neither does her eyes. She tries one more time, one last attempt for him to fight back. "You don't have to do this," she whispers. It's all she can think of without breaking down.

"I do."

And she knows she can't do anything else. She knows he's not changing his mind.

Bellamy Blake is turning himself in.

Clarke swallows the large lump of emotions that has been gathering in her throat. She blinks the tears that are clouding her vision, looking at his brown depths a moment longer before turning her back on him. There's nothing for her here anymore.

She walks. Walks towards her mother, Abby's hands outstretched, walks towards the front door, walks away from him.

Clarke stops before she reaches the living room.

Her eyes study the couch she spent the night on, and she remembers the blood, remembers Bellamy saving her. She feels her heart pace fast and her cheeks flush.

I'm not going to let us both get killed, Clarke.

She releases a long breath, soothing, calming, and turns to face him. He's watching her with a blank expression, and she wants to slap him again, wants him to show that he's as scared as she is for him.

Clarke steps towards him, her face scrunching in sadness, and crashes herself against his body.

Her arms wrap tightly around his neck, her mouth open and pressing against his shoulder. He smells like strength and hope and fear all at the same time. His body is rigid, immobile as she feels him wince in her embrace.

She squeezes him. Feel something, God damn it.

And he does. His head falls against her hair as he returns the sentiment, his breath shallow. His arms are loose when they wound around her waist but his body is close, and that's enough for her.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers against his ear.

He nods. Doesn't say anything. She pulls away, her eyes shinning with tears, looking at his face one more time.

Bellamy Blake. She doesn't really know him. And he doesn't really know her. But she can't seem to let him go.

But she has to.

"May we meet again," she says, voice cracking.

Bellamy offers a small grin, a sad one, and she pretends not to notice the hesitance in his eyes. She breathes deeply before turning away from him again, ignoring her mother's calling of her name as she exits the Blake cabin, her body shaking when she walks down the porch steps.

xii.

Abby tries to convince her it's for the best.

The sun is beating heavy on their shoulders through their open window, and the heat that courses through Clarke's body is pure and strengthened at her words. She shakes her head, thinks of Aurora, thinks of Octavia.

"Don't, mom," she hisses, her tears of sadness has since been replaced with the feeling of anger, "this is not right. This shouldn't be happening."

Abby swallows thickly. "Clarke - "

"You convinced him to do this. Didn't you?"

Her mother doesn't say anything, and it makes the burning weakness within Clarke's stomach grow tighter. Her fingers curl around the kitchen chair she's leaning onto and she releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "That's sick," she gasps, tone trembling, "how could you?"

Abby's expression is distant. Her eyes shift away from her daughter, and she glances at the sun, at the brightness of the sky. She sighs heavily, and it angers Clarke more to see her unfazed by her actions.

The silence drags on, and Clarke shakes her head in disbelief.

She steps out of the kitchen, she can't be in the same room as her anymore. "Dad would have been so disappointed in you," she murmurs.

And then she leaves, entering her bedroom and slamming the door shut behind her, waiting for the horn to signal the beginning of Bellamy's execution.

xiii.

The sun has already set, and Clarke holds the pillow closer to her chest, familiar with the tradition of Ark hangings starting at dawn.

In a couple minutes, Bellamy will be dead, and it'll be because of her.

Octavia won't have a brother, because of her. Aurora won't have a son, because of her. Bellamy won't have a future, because of her.

And it feels like a similar cycle that the Ark seems to produce. Having people, everyone that the unprivileged citizens love and care for, suffer for whatever crime has been committed. Having them starve, then killed for stealing food. Having them raped, then execute them for fighting back.

She knows that if she were to come clean, to tell the council that she was apart of the murders of Dax and Connor, they wouldn't believe her. They wouldn't care. They would take Bellamy for his confession, they would believe him when he says he was responsible for both their deaths.

Dying and killing. Killing and dying. It's a cycle that the Ark won't break.

Clarke sighs. She crinkles her nose, wrinkles it, waiting for the smell of her mother's cooking to fill her senses. She's probably making her carrot soup, an unfair advantage to get Clarke to forgive her or to move past an argument every time they in one.

Clarke pauses when she doesn't smell anything.

She gets up from her bed, slipping on her shoes from the floor beneath her as she exits her room. The cabin is cool, lifeless, and Clarke scrunches her eyebrows together when her mother doesn't come into view, when she doesn't see her anywhere.

She rubs at the goosebumps forming down her arms. "Mom?" she calls. Once, twice, a third time.

Nothing.

She huffs, walking into the kitchen, searching for anything to explain her mother's absence. She checks the stove, still off. Checks the pile of rations, it's still all there. There's nothing missing. Nothing new.

Clarke feels a sudden chill down her spine when she turns to see a note resting on the kitchen table.

She walks to it, her steps hesitant and heavy, her breath cold. Her fingers are trembling when she slips the light piece of paper between her hands. It's a note, with her mother's handwriting, her mother's signature.

A note.

Dear Clarke,

By the time you read this, darling, I'm afraid it'll be too late. There is much to discover in this world, and for this reason why I hope you know that whatever happens today, whatever decisions I make, I will not regret it. I will not regret it because it will be for you, and your freedom.

I am very proud of the woman you have become. You remind me so much of your father, and I know he would have been proud of you, too. Remember to always think of what we taught you, and soon you'll realize why we taught you it. Soon you'll realize what all the lessons and teachings were for.

A change is coming, Clarke. A change that I hope you are able to create and experience in your lifetime. It has been building for some time now, your father and I were both apart of it, and I hope you will become apart of it, as well.

Don't trust the Ark, and trust the Grounders, follow them home, Clarke. But, most of all, trust yourself.

I love you. Be good.

Mom.

"No."

No, no, no.

Mom.

Clarke drops the notes from her hands, and it's hard to breathe, hard to think. She feels the flash of hopelessness strike her chest, feels her heart caving, and it's too much. Too many thoughts and aching to believe this is happening.

There's a breaking of sound as the horn blows, the piercing noise a shattering to her bones. This is what she's been planning. What she told Bellamy, what she told Clarke, it was all going according to how she wanted. Her mother wants to save them both.

Clarke drops the paper from her grasp and runs, faster than she can think she can, faster than she's ever ran before. Her feet are burning by the time she reaches the camp square.

By the time she see's her mother, standing on the stage, a noose around her neck.

"Mom!"

Abby's eyes lift from their focus on the ground, and Clarke can see the pained glaze in them even through the distance and darkness that they are separated by. She shakes her head, a warning, yearning her not to come any closer, not to look as they tighten the rope around her neck.

Clarke doesn't listen, she won't allow her to do this.

She rushes towards the crowd of people that surround the stage. Various pairs of eyes land on her as she pushes past them, soft murmurs, quit voices, whispering "that's her daughter, that's the one who was raped."

She feels an arm wrap around her wrist, pulling her back. "Clarke." There's a voice in her ear, and she turns to look behind her, see's Octavia's cautioning. "Stop."

Clarke rips herself from her grasp. No.

Her legs begin to weaken when a Guard positions Abby in the centre of the stage, on top of the box that will drop her to her death. Clarke feels her pulse slamming into the bruises and wounds that still cover her body. And she feels sick again. Dizzy.

Her voice is low when she strains her mother's name. "Mom . . . "

Strong arms wrap around her waist, pulling her from the front of the stage, and she thrashes, arms and legs kicking wildly as they pull her further into the crowd. The encounter catches the attention of the Guards standing nearby, but she doesn't care. They tried to kill her before.

"Clarke," the voice whispers, and Bellamy's husky tone is hot against her ear. "Clarke."

She shakes her head, her vision blurry with the impending amount of pressure that builds behind her eyes. She can't lose her, not her mom. Please don't make her lose her mom.

The Guard steps over the threshold, his fingers around the rope, and she feels Bellamy's hold tightening on her, expecting.

Clarke panics. She can't breathe. Her eyes lock with her mother's, her daring and bold gaze, the gaze that taught her how to talk, how to run, how to fight. Fighter's don't die like this. Hero's don't die like this.

There's a low murmur from the stage, and a nodding from Chancellor Jaha, and the Guard pulls on the rope, the stage opening beneath her mother.

"No!"

There's darkness, and the sound of cracking. Clarke struggles against Bellamy's hand that covers her eyes, struggles against his iron muscles that hold her shaking frame. She curses, sobs, removes his fingers from her vision.

And then she see's her. See's her mother limp in the air, her neck bent.

"Oh my God," she whispers. And then louder, powerful, lonelier. "No . . . "

Her father is dead.

Her mother is dead.

Clarke breaks. Her knees grow weak as she collapses, but Bellamy's arms catch her before she falls to the ground, before she falls by herself. She lowers herself onto the dirt, onto her knees, and bends her forehead against the soil.

Her father is dead.

Her mother is dead.

Bellamy holds her arms from behind, his stomach curving her back, and she can feel the whispers of comfort that he sends her. Telling her she's alright, that she's not alone.

Clarke's never felt so alone in her life.

Alright guys! That's the first part, haha. If I get a strong enough reaction, I will continue with the three other parts that I have planned, which feature Clarke learning of the rebellion and joining. If you guys are interested, let me know :)

Happy Bellarking! xoxoxo