a/n: this is for @spaceboyjim who, and I quote, said ‘pleaaaaase write that prompt for bellarke!!!!!!!!!’ when I reblogged this prompt, and well, apparently that was all the motivation I needed to do exactly that lmao.
it doesn’t follow the prompt to a tee, and if you ask me it’s too long with barely any plot but I still hope you’ll like it, sara! and thank you for your patience, i’ve been a really slow writer lately ^^” also, thanks to my fave @kalaswolfgcng for the feedback on this ♥
a replica of life
replica
/ˈrɛplɪkə/
noun
1. a copy or reproduction of a work of art produced by the maker of the original or under his or her supervision.
2. any close or exact copy or reproduction.
Museums reminded Clarke of fairy tales - sometimes they were too real and other times they weren’t real enough.
Every room, every exhibit told its own story. There was so much history there, so much forgotten blood and dust, souls put to rest and darkness pushed back by the reverence of the new generations. There was magic in the brush strokes used in the paintings, fairy dust glittering off relics old enough to have seen the fall and rise of Gods that were now goodnight stories, whispered by those who still remembered them.
There was pain and hope, beauty and fear, all muted and broken through the prism of time, and Clarke loved to sit on one of the benches and close her eyes, to soak it all up until her chest felt too tight and her fingers itched to grab a brush and let her feelings spill across a canvass.
It felt like a release of the soul, a catharsis that left her raw and naked, sensitive at the the tips of every nerve in her body. It was scary but exhilarating, a high that soothed her mind and strengthened her heart, and let her move forward with barely a hitch.
It was that calm that she was searching now and the reason why she was soaking up the play of shadows across Monet’s works.
Clarke couldn’t really say which painter was her favourite or even which period, but she found something enchanting in Monet’s bridges and forests, in the hidden nooks of flowers that beckoned her with their colourful petals and the promise of secrets. Strangely enough his paintings made her think of The Neverending Story, like Fantasia was awaiting her arrival just around the corner.
She was just starting to feel the insistent yet pleasant feeling to paint spreading through her chest and down her arms when loud giggling and clapping in the hallway connecting the different exhibitions snapped her out of her thoughts. A group of boys, teenagers by the looks of it, were busy pushing one another and making inappropriate gestures. One of the museum guards gave them a stern look but that was all.
Seriously? Clarke grimaced and pushed off the bench, somewhat annoyed by their behaviour.
She clicked her tongue and wrapped her scarf around her neck, slinging her coat over her arm as she reluctantly made her way out of the museum. Deciding to bypass the randy group of boys, least she did something childish like try to trip one or two of them, she cut through the sculpture exhibition, barely sparing a glance at the familiar lines of the Ancient Greek period.
Clarke knew the way to the exit by heart, having spent countless days wandering through the museum, and she barely paid attention to where she walked, thrusting her feet to lead her in the right direction. Which was why she nearly walked right into one of the exhibits.
“What the—?” She came to an abrupt stop, her nose mere inches from smacking into the stone sculpture.
Her heart was beating a wild tattoo behind her ribs and the adrenaline made everything seem a bit too sharp. Clarke put a hand over her chest and tried to calm down, tugging at her scarf that felt like a snake wounded tight around her neck.
The statue wasn’t a familiar one, at least it wasn’t there last week when she had visited the museum. It depicted a naked man looking up to the sky. He was kneeling, one leg curled up as if he was about to rise, fractured chain links dangling from his wrists, a leaf wreath donning his hair. The details on his hair were immaculate - every curl was given depth and place, a mess of waves that framed a strong jaw and full lips. His eyes were closed and Clarke spent more time than she would’ve liked to admit admiring his lashes. And then there were the freckles; a big cluster of them spread out under his eyes and across his nose, fading out down his cheeks and neck.
Freckles and eyelashes on a statue? Most unusual, no matter which period this was from. That said—
She circled the sculpture to look for a placard or something but to no avail. Huh, now that was definitely unusual.
And there was something wrong with the sculpture. No, Clarke shook her head, not wrong, but for some reason it felt like it didn’t belong, not here; like it was about to burst in full technicolor the moment Clarke took her eyes off it and walk off as if it was never here in the first place.
Clarke let her fingers trace the grooves of the leaf wreath. That was the thing, wasn’t it? The sculpture felt present, alive, and the museum was all about the past.
a/n: so, I’ve been slow with catching up with the 100 lately (exams do that to you), but today I finally got the chance to watch the latest episode. and let me tell you, I wanted to throw something at my screen. clarke’s conflicting emotions over her decision and how it affects bellamy (and her mother) vs. bellamy’s drive to save his sister and the need to prove clarke’s skepticism wrong, all brought to a sudden end when the scene cuts off with clarke bringing her hand down and letting bellamy go. i’m sorry, where’s my resolve? emotional backlash? hurt feelings? where’s my bellamy and clarke get to talk like in season 3 where he confronts her about her leaving him? where’s my bellamy telling her off her high horse? where’s my clarke says she’s sorry scene? where’s my- well, you get it.
and since i got nothing of that, i decided to spin my take on it. so have a 4x11 missing scene that will hopefully let you breathe a little easier (worked for me)
together or not at all (ao3)
He looked at her one last time, at the gun hanging from her hand, at her face - and God, Clarke felt that look spreading like poison through her lungs, making every breath a struggle - and then kept on climbing the stairs, heavy steps fading into nothing as he neared the hatch.
Her fingers were numb from clutching the gun, her wrist hurting from the pressure of having it pointed at him and not wanting to shoot him at the same time. Her eyes stung from her tears and the air rattled inside her ribcage. Then, like a puppet having had its strings cut, she stumbled back few steps, feeling dizzy, weak, and leaned on the wall behind her, sliding down on the floor, the gun slipping from her hand.
The tears keep on sliding down her cheeks and she doesn’t try to fight them. She figured that was how the monuments of the Old World felt when the nuclear bombs hit them - empty, cold, crumbling to dust, big hunks of stone and metal reduced to shadows of themselves, having lost all that made them stand proud and represent an idea.
Her left hand, the one that had pulled the trigger on him, was shaking. Clarke brought it to her face and laughed, let out a sob, was this what she had become?
One sob turned into a second one, into a third one, until she was heaving with the force of her crying, arms around her legs and pulled tight against her body, rocking back and forth in a desperate attempt to keep the panic away.
She had let Bellamy open the bunker. She had doomed her people to a possible death. She had risked the fate of the human race. She had lied and gone behind the backs of people she had claimed to care about only for it to be just another hollow promise, another hollow explanation, another deceit born out of desperation and having the world rest on her shoulders.
She took a shot but couldn’t pull the trigger, not on him. And there laid the problem.
Her ears still rang with the sound of Bellamy’s voice, with the noise from the bullet. When did she become this girl, this woman? When did she lose herself in the desperate attempt to always have all the answers, to always be right?
She was cold, so damn cold, her mind a chaos that had no beginning nor end, drifting in and out as if she could find a resolution to this mess.
At some point the shaking stopped, the tears did too, and she felt tired down to the marrow in her bones, her muscles aching from the position she had forced them into. Pain was an old friend of hers, but this all-encompassing sorrow was crushing her in a new way, a way she didn’t know how to deal with, a way she wasn’t sure she had the right to overcome.
Bellamy had been her one constant ever since landing on Earth. They had come together when it had mattered the most and had stayed together through good and bad ever since. They had led together, fought together, bled together, they were each other’s pillars. She trusted him to pull her back when things got rough and she was way over her head, and he trusted her- did he still after all she did tonight?
Was this just another way she had left him like she did after Mount Weather? The idea for them to take the bunker for themselves had been hers, born out of fear, of desperation, of fatigue of always having to win battle after battle to ensure her people’s survival. Did that make her the new monster hiding in plain sight?
But none of that mattered now. The bunker was open - the rest was out of her hands, at least for the moment.
Clarke had no idea how long she stood there, leaning against the wall and lamenting her own existence, and it took a while to register the sound of footsteps heading down the ladder.
Octavia emerged first, followed by Bellamy, with Indra at the back. Aside from Octavia’s curious glance, none of them paid her any attention. Bellamy went past her like she wasn’t even there, his gaze locked on the back of Octavia’s head, holding her hand like he was afraid she would disappear or keel over the moment he dared to look away.
Just another nail in the coffin, Clarke thought, bitterness clogging her throat. This one well deserved.
She watched them go despite the pain that caused her, she watched as they neared the corner and Bellamy came to a stop, making Octavia turn around. She watched as he said few words to her - Clarke was too far to make much of their conversation - and Bellamy released his hold on his sister, letting her and Indra go down the hallways as he made his way back to her.
And all Clarke could do was watch. In her mind, she had lost all rights to everything else.
Bellamy stared at her for a moment, his indecision and hurt written all over his face, and then squatted down in front of her, sighing deeply.
“You know,” he started, sounding as tired and drained as she felt, “when I taught you how to shoot I never figured you’d ever point a gun at me.”
“I’m sorry.” She said, barely letting him finish, fresh tears clinging to her eyelashes. She refused to let them drop, refused to make her anguish matter more than his.
Bellamy looked to the side, his jaw clenching, and nodded once before catching her eyes with his again. “I know,” and it sounded as flat as her excuse did, but it mattered just as much.
Because she was sorry and he did know but none of that could change what had happened.
Bellamy swallowed and Clarke braced for the hard part. “You left O out there.” His voice broke at his sister’s nickname and Clarke’s lower lip trembled, hating how shattered he sounded, hated that she was the reason for his pain. “And Kane. You left Monty and Jasper, Harper and Riley. You left Indra and all the Grounders to die, Clarke. When did we start playing God?”
Clarke wanted to protest - Monty and the rest made their choices, hell, Raven made her choice and they let them - but that was not what he meant, so she took another breath and attempted to put some order to her thoughts.
“I had to save as many as I could. The Grounders weren’t going to let us have the bunker. How could I have let that happen after all we’ve done to ensure our survival?”
“And that makes us better than them how?” Bellamy ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands sharply and exhaling harshly through his nose. “O won the Conclave, Clarke. You should have trusted her. And even if she hadn’t, do you think you can live in this bunker being reminded every single day of the choices you made along the way? I know I said that the people we are and the people we have to be to survive are very different people, but you forget that you’re not alone in this. You have you mother, you have Kane, fucking hell, Clarke, you have me. Can you honestly tell me that you’re alright with letting all those people outside the bunker face the radiation?”
The tears had dried upon her skin and Clarke reached up to brush the itchiness away, feeling Bellamy’s heavy gaze follow her every move. “I thought I was. I thought I was doing the right thing, making sure the human race kept living on. Now,” she shrugged and let her knees unfold, “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
They stayed like that for a long moment - Bellamy looking at her, Clarke looking back. She had no idea what he was searching for, what he was expecting from her, but she had nothing left to give.
“The Grounders are human too. Just because we fell out of the sky and understand technology doesn’t make us more deserving to live.”
She moved a bit to the side and bumped the gun, freezing the moment she was reminded of its presence. “Yeah,” her words came out strangled and she cleared her throat to echo it again, “yeah.”
Bellamy noticed her apprehension, of course he did, and reached a hand to grab the gun, folding his fingers around the stock.
Clarke couldn’t fathom how she had found the strength to point a gun at this face. For all of her pragmatical choices and carefully thought-out plans, she could never win when faced with his morality.
It was one of the reason he meant to much to her. One of the reasons why they were such good partners to begin with.
“What now?”
Bellamy turned the gun in his hand and offered it to her handle first. “We move forward.”
Her fingers started shaking again. From doubt or hope, she didn’t know.
“How?”
“By doing things the way we should have done them the first time around.” His hand was steady as he waited on her to reach forward and get back her gun. “Together or not at all.”
Clarke managed a watery smile and grasped his hand when he went to pull away, squeezing his fingers and pouring all the feelings she couldn’t possibly articulate into her grasp. Bellamy squeezed back, just as tightly if not more, and pulled her to her feet, steadying her when her legs threatened to give.
It was not like this solved anything, the world was waiting for them just around the corner and Clarke had a lot to make up for. And things between her and Bellamy weren’t magically fixed with a wand and few nonsensical words.
But she had hope.
And if hope failed her, she knew Bellamy would be there to weather the storm with her.
send me an ask telling me what you’ve voted for + your name/pseud, age, pronouns (all are optional and will be used for your character), favourite book genre(s), guilty pleasures, pov preferences, character traits, if you want romance/action/slice of life/mystery/etc., and anything else that you’d like me to try and incorporate
and you’ll get a book blurb (or even an excerpt!)
example:
for an ask like this: M, 20ish, she/her, I love magic realism and high fantasy, preferably 3rd pov, I like romance but not for it to be the main focus of the book and please no love triangles; maybe some dystopian elements? female friendship and found families are A+ and I’m all for characters learning to accept and love themselves first, thanks!
you’ll get something like this: She had no name - none of her fellow magis at the Factory did - just a bracelet with the letter M. But she was taught not to need one, not to crave the sun, not to wonder what her magic could do aside from metal pipes and supporting pillars, not to crave what was beyond the concrete walls of the Factory.
And she knew no fear, not until those walls crumbled around her and the sun burned her eyes. Not until the woman that had grabbed her hand and pulled her along as the Factory disappeared beneath their feet took one look at her bracelet and said, “Oh, you’re not the person I was looking for.”
The world it seemed, did not need another dreamsteel magi. Until it did.
(blacklist M does br if you don’t want to see this)
Soulmate au where the law, like, heavily pressures you to marry your soulmate, and they meet when one of them is coming home from a rally wearing an anti-soulmate laws shirt? Soulmate-recognizing method up to you. <3
a/n: thanks for the prompt! you didn’t specify a couple so I went with my go-to, which is bellarke, but if you had another pairing in mind just send me a new one :) the soulmate-recognizing method is ‘the first words your soulmate says to you are tattooed on your body and vise versa’; thanks to @kay-emm-gee for looking this over for me ♥
send me soulmate sunday/magic monday prompts!
#FREEDOMFORLOVE | ao3
As a general rule, Bellamy despised crowds. They were loud, stifling and he hated being surrounded by sweaty bodies with no immediate exit. It irked him and made his skin itch, his senses sharpened nearly to the point of being raw, like a screeching sound that he could hear but couldn’t turn off no matter what.
And the rally – despite it being over – well, it was making everything ten times worse.
If it was up to Bellamy, he wouldn’t even be here; it was just that he had pulled a double shift following an all-nighter, and at this point all he wanted was to slip into his bed, close his eyes and blissfully welcome the sleep. But Octavia has insisted on at least witnessing the final march and Bellamy didn’t have it in him to refuse her, not when they both supported the clause vehemently, having personally suffered from the twisted up illusion Soulmate Act IV imposed upon the citizens of Arkadia.
Sometimes staying with your soulmate was way worse than living without them, but divorcing your soulmate, let alone leaving them, was seen as a sin worse than murder, and many people suffered, trapped in relationships they didn’t truly want.
And with the increase of domestic violence and murder recently, following the latest update on the Soulmate Act, Bellamy was happy to see the people come together and stand against the government and the Act.
He sighed heavily and let Octavia tug him closer to the moving crowd, falling into step and smiling tiredly at his sister when she waved her little flag in support, grinning widely up at him. He focused on her and ignored the crowd, mentally calculating the time until he was back home.
“Cheer up, big brother. We’re making history.” Octavia bumped his shoulder with hers and he mussed her hair in retaliation.
“Yeah, yeah, and our grandkids will praise our bravery and wit.”
She rolled her eyes and was about to answer back when she was interrupted by another girl.
“With that frown on your face it definitely won’t be your looks that they’ll be swooning over.”
It was like somebody had kicked him in the chest and then electrocuted his heart back to life. His ribs burned where his words were, where those specific words were, in that slanted, loopy handwriting he had come to known nearly better than his own.
He heard Octavia coughing next to him, but Bellamy was busy taking in his soulmate – from her messy blond braid, to her startling blue eyes and the little beauty mark drawing his eyes to her lips. She was shorter than him, but not by much, and she had a presence that seemed to draw him in and warn him at the same time.
Across her black shirt, with big neon pink letters, it said – SOULMATES DON’T FIX PEOPLE #FREEDOMFORLOVE
“What?” She narrowed her eyes at Bellamy’s prolonged look. “Can’t take a joke?” Then she glanced down at her shirt, and her stance turned defensive. “Don’t tell me that you’re one of those Act supporters.”
Bellamy licked his suddenly dry lips and carefully thought over his response, aware that whatever he said next would either be the girl’s soulwords or not (it wouldn’t be the first time that one soulmate had another for their soulmate). But fuck, let them be hers if only because the way she was puffing up as an angry kitten as she was getting ready to start her tirade was making him smile.
“So,” he nodded towards her shirt, “no coffee then?”
He heard O’s quiet oh my god and winced at his poor choice of words.
“Why would that- you’ve got to be kidding me!” She was fuming, having put together the pieces, her cheeks red with anger and Bellamy fidgeted under her hot gaze. “That’s what you came up with? Coffee? Couldn’t you be at least a bit more original?” She shook her head before he could interrupt her, her finger jabbing rather painfully into his pectoral muscles. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that line?”
They had stopped in the middle of the street and the people around them were giving them curious looks, dissuaded to butt in further by his – his – soulmate’s outraged look.
“Well?” she said at last, folding her arms under her chest. “Let me see.”
Bellamy, feeling off-balance ever since she opened her mouth and said his words, lifted his shirt with no complains and let her see where the tattoo curled around the right side of his ribs and disappeared under the waistband of his jeans. Then, before he could react, she pulled his jeans down just enough to trace with her thumb the harsh curve of the final letter.
“Woah.” He pulled back and let go of his shirt, pulling his jeans up from where they had slid down his ass.
“That’s my handwriting alright.” She said sullenly and he tried not to take offence at her lack of enthusiasm.
“Sorry.” Bellamy cleared his throat; he definitely hadn’t envisioned this when it came to meeting his soulmate, but then again Octavia loved to tease him about his lack of brain-to-mouth filter in nerve-wracking situations so that might be it.
Those blue eyes rolled and she tugged the collar of her shirt aside, showing the beginning of his words, the rest hidden by her sleeve. He recognized the handwriting with just a glance, guiltily taking notice of the speckle of moles that teased over her cleavage.
“I’m Clarke.” She righted her shirt and arched an eyebrow expectantly.
“Bellamy, and this is my sister Octavia. And no, I’m not an Act supporter.”
Clarke nodded at O and turned to face Bellamy once more.
“Good to hear that.” She pulled a flier out of the back pocket of her jeans and pushed it into his chest. “Let’s see what you have to say about all of this and then I’ll think about that coffee.”
Bellamy broke into a small smile and let Clarke quiz him, tiredness long forgotten, and eager to make up for the rocky start they had.
(And maybe if there was something like butterflies jumping in his stomach only he had to know.)
a while ago, @kay-emm-gee dropped her marvelous war against the world fic and when gushing over it, I let it slip that I’ve been thinking of a pirate au myself, and she was awesome enough to ask to see my take on it. tbh, I didn’t think I’ll ever get around to writing it, but well, I did, lol. so enjoy this, Kayla, because I seriously have no idea when I’ll update it, haha.
thanks to @historicbellamyblake for the quick beta read!
Red Skies, Black Waters | ao3
Prologue
The deck of The Arion swayed with the waves and the thick ropes of the grappling hooks connecting it to the Good Fortune creaked ominously. The English merchant ship was devoid of life and Bellamy’s boots sounded all too loud when he boarded the otherwise empty foredeck.
“Captain?”
Bellamy turned around and his quartermaster, Miller, who had followed behind, pointed at the red hand-print along the railing of the Good Fortune. It trailed off and disappeared overboard, as if the person had been swept away by the waves. Or something else.
“A sedition perhaps?”
Bellamy unsheathed his cutlass and cocked his flintlock pistol ready. His uncanny sense to foresee trouble had been tingling ever since they had caught sight of the big, seemingly deserted ship, and despite his hesitation on the matter, he had ordered boarding. If it was a trap, as he suspected, Bellamy was confident that The Arion could easily outrun the merchant ship. But, if his sister’s information proved to be right, it was an opportunity they couldn’t really miss; as such, it was more than worth the risk.
Yet, for all its silence, the Good Fortune could have passed for a ghost ship.
“Search below deck.” Bellamy’s voice raised over the wind and his fellow pirates boarded one by one, pistols ready and daggers and swords filling the deck with swooshing sounds. “Monroe, find me the captain’s log. The rest of you know the drill. I want all of the cargo up here.”
Monroe gave him a quick nod and Bellamy watched as his crew upturned every barrel, every hatch, in search of the Good Fortune’s crew and cargo. His sister had insisted that this was supposed to be a gold mine for medical remedies, something that Nassau was desperately lacking.
“Captain!” Miller’s head popped up from the hatch leading to the ship’s hold and gestured towards the opening. “We found the crew.”
Bellamy made his way towards the quartermaster and jumped down the stairs, his eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness and narrowing as he observed the scene in front of him.
The hold was filled with shivering men and the off-putting smell of vomit, sweat and piss.
“It looks like yellow fever.” Miller kicked one of the laying men; he wasn’t breathing.
“But to get all of them?”
Bellamy put away his cutlass and pistol, and turned to Sterling and Atom who were waiting behind him.
“Grab what you can, as fast as you can. I want us as far away from this ship as possible.” Then he turned back to the quartermaster. “We need those medical supplies. Find them.”
Miller disappeared in the darkness and Bellamy climbed back up the stairs, breathing in the salty air that chased away the sickness from his clothes. Just as he was about to go looking for Monroe, she appeared by his side and handed him the captain’s log. He cursed when he opened to the last page and saw the low quantities of medical supplies the ship was transporting. It also had four barrels of sugar, twelve casks of brandy and tobacco, which, if nothing else, would sell well.
“And Captain, there’s something you might want to see.”
Intrigued, he followed her back to the captain’s cabin. Upon opening the doors, he was hit with stagnant air and the smell of perspiration. But what really caught his attention was the messy blond hair hidden behind the captain’s desk.
The woman was sitting with her back to the window, dress wrinkled and sodden with sweat. Her skin was pale and her face spoke of hunger, but her eyes – blue like the ocean before a storm – were lucid and watching his every step. Her lips were cracked and Bellamy found himself reaching for his flask offering her water.
He expected her to lung for it but instead she cocked her head to the side and kept on watching him. It was then that he noticed the chains binding her hands together and tying her to one of the wooden beams. Her presence on the ship had been unexpected, but seeing her bound and held against her will rankled something inside of him.
“Drink.” He thrust the flask in her hands and this time she obeyed, the chains rattling as she tipped the flask and took few small sips.
He observed her as she swallowed, noticing the dried blood around the shackles on her wrists and the broken dagger that was embedded in the beam next to the link connecting her chain. Her dress, despite its state, spoke of wealth, as did the golden thin necklace around her neck. The stubborn tilt of her chin and the way she held herself despite her situation – proud and unflinching – cemented his observation.
She was an aristocrat, there was no mistake about it. And a stupid one on top of that; after all, there was a reason why pirates were the stuff from nightmares, and yet, here she was, trying to stare him down into submission. How he hated the likes of her.
“You’re not in here.” He smiled toothily and tapped on the leather cover of the captain’s log. “Care to tell me what your name is?”
Her gaze stopped on his pistol and on the metal basket-shaped guard of his cutlass, before moving onto Monroe and giving her the same quick assessment. She drew her legs away from him, and took another sip of water before letting her hands rest in her lap, grimacing as the shackles rubbed against the raw skin of her wrists.
“Pirates.” Her voice was low and hoarse, husky from dehydration. “Of course it would be pirates.”
His smile took on a sharp edge. “What were you expecting, princess? A rescue mission?”
The nickname didn’t faze her as much as he hoped it would, and she hummed in response.
“You’re hoping for a ransom.”
Bellamy crouched down to her level and let the log fall between them, dropping all pretense. “Surely your pretty face is worth something to somebody back home.”
Her laugh was sardonic and quickly transformed into a coughing fit that she subdued with some water. Her dry lips had cracked some more and she licked the drops of blood before they could make their way down her chin.
“My father is dead. Unfortunate, as he would have gladly paid any ransom you could have asked of him. My mother, on the other hand, would never parley with a pirate, even for her only child. So you see, you either leave me with them, or you kill me now, as I’m of no use to you.”
She was taunting him to do just as she had suggested but the fire in her eyes was something he was used to seeing in his sister’s, a burning flame that could only ever grow and never diminish, a challenge to cross her and taste her blade.
Bellamy, however, didn’t plan on getting burned today.
“Mm, I have a feeling we’ll be able to persuade your mother on the matter.”
Her fingers clenched around the flask and her gaze narrowed. It seemed that he was finally getting some reaction other than disdain.
“The moment my mother learns of my capture, she would gladly watch you burn.” Her words were vicious and for a moment he was taken aback by the ferocity behind them. “Then again, she doesn’t have to wait too long for that to happen.”
Monroe shifted nervously behind him and Bellamy felt trepidation sinking in his stomach.
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded and nearly impaled her on his cutlass when she had the guts to laugh at him.
“Oh, you poor soul, you still don’t know,” she mocked and leaned forward, blond dirty tresses framing her face. “Earl Jake Griffin was murdered for treason. His work on pardoning pirates on behalf of the crown was seen as conspiracy to turn New Providence and Nassau into his little own domain, apart from England.”
Bellamy froze, as did Monroe. The Earl had been well known for his efforts to pardon the pirates and incorporate them into the British Royal Navy, and make New Providence and Nassau self-governed English colonies. His death came as a shock to him, and it didn’t spoke well for him or his fellow pirates.
The woman continued, unfazed by his stony silence. “The Royal Navy has a new decree now. Every captured pirate is to be hanged without a trial. And your precious Bahamas got a new Royal Governor.” She took a breather and grinned wickedly, as if taking pleasure from all of this. “Marcus Kane.”
Bellamy got to his feet in an instant and pushed the door open, letting it bang against the stairs leading to the quarterdeck with no remorse. Monroe followed him out and few of his crew members looked up at the sound but he waved them away.
He had met Marcus Kane twice in his life, both times back when he was still living in England, and he wasn’t eager to revisit those memories or the repercussions that came with them. Marcus Kane was bad news, he was bad news for him, for his sister, for Nassau, for every pirate sailing these seas. If he was coming for them, it would be with guns blazing and aiming to conquer, and no amount of negotiations would help them.
“Miller!” The quartermaster gave his cargo over to Connor and turned to face him. “Gather the crew, we’re leaving, now!”
Miller didn’t seem happy about it. “We still haven’t found the medical remedies.”
“Doesn’t matter. Tell Monty to set course for Nassau.”
For a moment, Miller looked like he would oppose his decision, but then repeated Bellamy’s orders and the crew was swiftly transporting the acquired cargo atop The Arion’s deck.
“And the girl?” Monroe asked.
He looked back at the cabin and the echo of chains rang in his ears.
“We’re taking her with us. She might be lying about the ransom, and if not, if what she said about the Earl is true, then we’ll need all the information she has.”
The Good Fortune rocked gently under his feet and Bellamy itched to set the ship and all its occupants, annoying blondes included, on fire. News of Marcus Kane was anything but good fortune.
“Go back on The Arion and help Raven with the cargo.” With that, Bellamy left Monroe and went to fetch the girl.
She hadn’t moved from her place, save for having stretched her legs again, and he hated how she didn’t seem to fear him even as he unsheathed his cutlass. He was, however, smug to be met with her surprised gaze when instead of plunging the steel into her body, he brought the hilt of the cutlass down on the link in the beam, pulling it out after few hard hits.
“Sorry to ruin your fairy tale, princess,” he coiled the chain around his hand and pulled her up, grabbing her upper arm to steady her when she wavered, “but you’ve yet to see the last of me.”
“Aren’t I lucky?” The bite of her voice was betrayed by her shaking legs.
“You are.” His smile was nothing short of hostile. “Nobody boards The Arion alive unless they’re a crew member.”
And with that, he walked her to the railing of the main deck, where he passed her off safely to Monroe aboard his ship. He was one of the very few pirates that were yet to go back to The Arion, and he took great pleasure in unhooking the grappling hooks and leaving the miserable form of the merchant ship behind.
The deck of The Arion was bursting with life, and the wind was strong, as if sensing the captain’s urgency and trying its best to get them as fast to Nassau as possible.
Bellamy caught sight of the aristocrat and watched her as she closed her eyes and let the wind play with her hair. Something squeezed his heart and suddenly he wished he had left her behind. Somehow he knew that if it wasn’t for Marcus Kane, this woman would be responsible for his downfall.
She opened her eyes, met his gaze and held it, until Monroe rushed her below deck.
She was going to be a challenge to break, and Bellamy would enjoy doing so.
I’m in the process of ignoring how Shannara ended, and still reeling from the latest episode of the 100, so let’s do some blogrates and name aesthetics and stuff -
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