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Ruthlessly Alive, Chapter 9

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“I can’t find him anywhere,” Syl said, coming up next to Murphy. “Finn’s fucking vanished, and the first courtship ritual is tomorrow morning.”

“Hey, it’ll be fine.” He assured her, face deliberately calm. “Clarke’s made her decision. Nothing he says to her will change his mind. They’re still enjoying their dinner, and you and your friends are keeping an eye out for him.”

“I just don’t get it. He’s been bitching about finding a peaceful solution since we landed, but as soon as we actually find one he decides to make it his mission to fuck it up.” She snarled.

“Syl, you need to relax. Worrying about what he’s going to do gives his actions validity. It gives him the power to ruin things. May I suggest treating him like a complete moron instead? That way when he inevitably does something stupid, he’ll be written off as the village idiot instead of a threat.”

Syl’s eyes widened in wonder. “You think that’ll work?”

“Better than worrying about not being able to find him.” He replied. “Besides, if our people see you panicking, they’ll be on edge, waiting for something bad to happen. Given the nature of tomorrow’s ritual, it’s best that they remain at ease.”

She studied his face for a long moment, before standing on tiptoe and pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. “Thank you.” She murmured. “I’m gonna get Miller to keep an eye on the dropship tonight, but I’m going to bed afterward. Feel free to join me.”

“I’ll try. I’m going to help Octavia and Lincoln set up for the ceremony, so we’ll be up late. I don’t want you to wait up for me. You need to rest after today’s training. You’re going to be miserable tomorrow.” He reminded her.

She grimaced. “Right. Can’t wait.”

He chuckled. “Go to bed. I promise I’ll keep an eye out for Finn, just in case.”

“Goodnight.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before darting away to find Miller. He had no idea how she had so much energy, especially considering what Miller had told him about her sleeping habits.

“She likes you.” Octavia declared, materializing out of nowhere. Murphy sighed.

“She doesn’t know me. Well, she knows parts of me. I know why she likes those parts, at least.” He smirked. “For the time being, this is mutually beneficial. I have it on good authority that she needs stress relief.”

“And you?”

“I deal with you every day. I need the stress relief too.” He joked.

“Murph.” She scolded. He rolled his eyes.

“She’s attractive and enthusiastic, and I like fucking.”

“And she’s smart, and a capable warrior.”

“True.”

“So, why won’t you pursue her?” She asked, exasperated. “She wants you, and you want her.”

“Even if I were looking for a houmon—which I’m not—maybe give me more than a couple of weeks to make that kind of decision? Besides she’s under enough stress as it is. She doesn’t need to be courted by anyone right now. At least let her settle into Baltim before you start throwing suitors at her.” He instructed sternly.

“I’m not going to throw suitors at her. She already has one.”

“She doesn’t. But even though she doesn’t, she doesn’t need one right now. She needs someone who can fuck her to sleep and let her do her business during the day. She has enough to deal with now. She doesn’t need more. Don’t interfere.”

“Too late.” Octavia grinned. “But I’ll ease up until we get home.”

“When we get home, I’m taking the trading mission to Azgeda.” He reminded her. She scowled.

“You are not going to Azgeda. The last time you went, they nearly killed you. Sending you again would probably be enough for their Haiplana to declare ware on Trishanakru.” She snapped. “I’ll find someone else to take that mission. You stay in the King’s Guard.”

“You’d make me stay?”

“If it means keeping your head on your shoulders? Absolutely. If you try to go, I’ll chain you up and dangle you off the tallest tree.” She warned.

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Syl caught up with Miller at the gate—he was settling on for a long night on watch, snacks and blanket at the ready. “Hey.”

He turned to look at her. “Hey. What’s up? Did you find him?”

She shook her head. “Murphy thinks we should stop treating him like a threat, and more like the village idiot.” She replied.

Miller sniggered. “Well if Murphy thinks so, we should…”

“Oh come on. It’s not even like that. It’s a good idea! Treating him like he can ruin things means people will think that it’s actually possible to ruin it.” She huffed, crossing her arms stubbornly.

“Just giving you a hard time. We should still tell Clarke, just in case. Just so she knows what to expect.”

“Agreed. I need to head to bed because I’m welcoming the elder from Trishanakru in the morning. Can you catch her up when she gets out of the dropship?”

“Yeah, sure.” He agreed, dropping into his seat. “I don’t get why Raven insists on staying with him.”

“He’s her family. They’ve been together forever. I get it. But that doesn’t change the fact that he cheated on her, lied about it, and is now actively sabotaging our best—probably only—chance at peace.” She replied, voice low and irritated.

“I bet he thought that peace meant Clarke would end up back where she started. At his side, admiring him and taking him seriously.” He snorted.

“Idiot. I can’t believe I’m wasting so much of my brain on him.” Syl groaned. “I have so much more to deal with.”

“So don’t deal with him. Leave him to me and Wells. I bet Wells will look for any reason to smack Spacewalker around.” He chuckled. She shot him an odd look. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” She raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Did I notice someone’s sexual tension before you? That’s unheard of.”

“Would you just shut up and tell me?” She snapped. He snickered.

“Wells has it bad for Reyes. I’d bet money on it.”

“We use a barter system.”

“It’s a fucking expression, Syl. An expression that means ‘I’m fucking positive that Wells pops a boner every time Raven talks nerdy to him.’ Seriously, watch them next time she starts explaining something scientific.”

She gazed at him, a little horrified. “Really? Are you sure?”

“As positive as I can possibly be about heterosexual attraction, yeah.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”

“To be fair, when Raven’s talking science, you go into science mode. You stop really thinking of anything else. It’s pretty hard to shake.”

“Do I really do that?”

“Why do you think you’re currently planning a fecal purification center? Jasper mentioned wasted methane once and you were done.” He scoffed. “Get out of here. You need to sleep. I’ll keep an eye on everything, and I’ll get you if I need anything, I promise.”

“Thanks, Miller.” She smiled, dropping to press an affection kiss to his forehead. “You’re the best.”

“Damn right. Get out of here.”

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Clarke shook Syl awake almost violently the next morning. “Jesus, you don’t need to give me whiplash to wake me up.” She groused, rising to a sitting position. Her muscles screamed at her—protesting her every move.

“Sorry. Trishanakru’s elder is showing up soon. I figured you might want to wash up and have breakfast before your day goes crazy. If you’re as sore as I am, I figured you’d want as much time to get ready as possible.” Clarke grumbled, hating the fact that it was morning.

“Yeah, fine. Good morning, by the way. How was your date?” Syl asked, stretching gingerly and slowly climbing to her feet.

“It was nice. Thank you for setting it up.” Clarke blushed. “It was nice to get to know each other without everyone else listening in and interrupting.”

“So no one interrupted?”

Clarke’s face darkened. “No. No one’s seen him, either. But Miller told me that he was AWOL last night. Even if he does come to me, there’s nothing he can do to change my mind.” She was practically growling. “Bellamy already told me about his girlfriend-turned-assassin. It’s not news to me.”

“Nothing to worry about then.” Syl breathed a sigh of relief.

“No, I still want to keep an eye out for him. He’s a loose cannon right now. Things aren’t going his way and I feel like he’s losing it. I don’t really know how far he’ll go to get his way because I don’t really know him. Can you get Monroe and Harper to keep an eye out for him today? Especially during the ritual.” Clarke looked anxious.

Syl watched her, concerned, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever you want. Let me know what you need, I’ll make it happen.”

“Thanks, Syl.” Clarke replied gratefully. “I need to go borrow some poison from Lincoln. I’ll see you later. Miller and Wells have your breakfast.”

She headed out of the tent, shoulders tight and exuding faint yet constant anxiety. Syl didn’t blame her. She was going to stab and poison her fiancé today.

Clarke made her way through the camp towards Octavia and Lincoln’s tent. Along the way, Miller and Wells fell into step with her, giving her quick updates on the state of the Hundred—Ellie skinned her knee, Vex bullied a younger girl out of her rations, Raven and Jasper were arguing over their limited equipment, so they’d need to figure out how to split their time with the tools they had available, Monty wanted to form a foraging party and had a list ready—before splitting off again to resume their own tasks.

“Lincoln? Are you awake?” She asked when she arrived at her soon to be brother-in-law’s tent. He poked his head out a second later.

“Good morning. Did you need something?” He asked.

“Yeah—do you know any slow-acting poisons that I can use during today’s ritual?” She asked. “Bellamy mentioned that Trigedakru warriors traditionally carry poisons and cures with them.”

“I do. Wait here.” He replied, ducking back into his tent before returning with a small tin that was filled with vials. “This one is made with a purple moss that’s found by the river. It causes vomiting, headaches, and hallucinations within minutes, but it doesn’t kill you for days.”

“Do you think that’s enough for the ritual?” Clarke asked him anxiously. “I don’t want to hurt him or risk him dying if I do something wrong.”

“Then this is the one you should use. Would you like the cure?”

She shook her head. “No. But could you tell me what the cure is? That way I can prepare it myself.”

He smiled approvingly. “Of course. There’s a black beetle that lives in the same area as the moss. They feed on the moss. Crush them to make a cure. You’ll only need a handful.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”

“It is.” He chuckled. “But better than dying, don’t you think?”

She nodded. “Could you take Monty to forage? He can bring back beetles for me.”

“I can take Monty to forage,” Octavia said from inside the tent, pushing past Lincoln a moment later. “I wanted to go hunting for tonight’s dinner anyways. We can’t feed Irene dried meat. I don’t think her teeth are strong enough.” She was fastening her shoulder guard to her jacket.

“I didn’t even think of that,” Clarke whispered, a little frantic. “Is there anything else she needs? I don’t want to offend her.”

“Oh, you won’t. She wouldn’t expect you to cater to her needs, given all that you have to accomplish. But you should be wearing Bellamy’s courting gift when she arrives. Look nice, too. Get someone to do your hair. You want to show her that you’re proud to be Bell’s houmon.” Octavia instructed. “She raised us, so she’s very protective. If she thinks you don’t appreciate him, she’s likely to find a reason to declare your courtship failed.”

“I do appreciate him!” Clarke cried.

“I know that, and you know that. It’s not me you need to prove yourself to.” Octavia reminded her, before pausing. “Well, yes, you need to prove yourself to me, too. But I already mostly like you.” She revised. “Pull out all the stops for Irene. Go wash your face and do your hair and put on your jacket. Show her a queen.”

Clarke’s stomach was doing somersaults now. “Okay.” She mumbled. “I’ll do that.”

Octavia rolled her eyes. “Relax. You’ll be fine. Don’t lose your teeth now.” She scolded. “We agreed to this alliance because you’re opinionated and bold and fearless. Go get Raven to do your hair, put on your jacket, and start pretending you’re queen.” She gripped Clarke’s chin, forcing the shorter blonde to meet her eyes. "Pretend you’re queen until you believe that you are. You saw how Anya spoke and behaved. Pretend you’re her. Hold your head high, speak forcefully, make sure they know that your opinion is final. Do you understand?”

Clarke nodded, spine straightening as Octavia spoke, meeting the steely gaze with one of her own. “I understand.”

“Good. Go.” She demanded, turning Clarke around and gently shoving her in the direction of Raven’s tent. Clarke immediately adapted to Octavia’s commands, jaw held aloft as she strode across the camp with purpose.

“Raven?” She called just outside the tent. “I need your help.”

Raven poked her head out, looking unusually disheveled. There were dark circles under her eyes, the whites of which were bloodshot. Her face looked somewhere between exhausted, worried, and annoyed. “What?”

“What happened to you?”

“Finn is missing.”

“He’ll be back,” Clarke said, hoping she was exuding confidence and reassurance instead of anxiety and annoyance. “If he’s not back by the end of the ritual, I’ll even help you look for him.”

Raven’s smile held some thankfulness but was largely forlorn. “He was gone before I even noticed. As soon as he thought you might be in danger, he disappeared.”

“He’d do it for anyone if he thought they were in danger. He doesn’t approve of the marriage. I can’t say I blame him—it’s not how we were brought up. I do wish he’d respect my decisions though. This is my choice, and I’m quite pleased with it.”

“I know. I’m working on getting through to him, Clarke, I promise.”

“It’s not your responsibility, you know. You’re already on board. He needs to get with the program fast because this is happening whether he likes it or not.”

“Right.” Raven looked down at her feet. She could read between the lines. She knew that if Finn endangered the alliance—and by extension, the Hundred—Clarke would banish him and have the full support of the rest of the Delinquent Council and the Grounders. “Did you need something?”

“Yeah. Could you do my hair before the Trishanakru elder gets here? I want to put my best foot forward.”

“Uh…your hair?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure. Come on in.” She said, stepping aside for her soon-to-be queen. Clarke smiled gratefully, and Raven took Clarke into her hands. “So, how are you feeling about today?” Raven asked as she got to work.

“Honestly, I’m nervous and jittery, but Octavia bullied me into acting confident. I’ll be fine once I’m dressed and ready."

They talked through the day to come as Raven finger-combed and twisted and knotted and tied until Clarke's hair was perfected—two french braids at either side of her head, and braided down the center so that it was half up, half down. She looked regal and vicious—an elegant counterpart to Octavia’s ferocity.

“Holy crap, Raven.” Clarke breathed, examining her reflection in a tiny hand mirror that they’d scavenged in the art-supply store. “I look amazing.”

“Hell yeah, you do.” Raven smiled. “Now go wash your face and get dressed. I’ll go get your breakfast and make sure that everyone in the welcoming party is ready. Have you seen Bellamy yet this morning?”

“Not yet. We were up late, so I let him sleep in. And I didn’t want him to see me right when I woke up. I was super sore from yesterday.”

“Yeah, that training is no joke.” Raven winced. “Monty came through with some anti-inflammatory tea. It was pretty tasty. Paired well with the breakfast berry mush crap that he feeds us in the morning.”

“Really? I’ll have to go find him and snag some of that. I don’t think I can lift my arms long enough to stab someone in this condition.” Clarke replied dryly. “Thanks again for the hair, Raven. It’s beautiful.”

“No problem, princess.” Raven winked, pulling her out of the tent and pushing her towards their communal “sink”, and waltzing off in search of food and their council. Clarke scrubbed her face clean, before traipsing back to her own tent to pull on the beautiful fur jacket.

Ultimately, she didn’t have to go searching for Monty—Monty came for her instead. He shoved a bottle of hot tea into one hand, and a bowl of breakfast berry mush into the other. “Eat. Drink. No more skipping breakfast, and that tea is to loosen up your muscles.” He sounded stern and scolding.

“I was just about to come find you.” She assured him. “Raven told me about the tea.”

“Sure, the tea. But what about the food? You didn’t eat a full breakfast yesterday, Clarke. You’re going to collapse at this rate. You were a medical candidate. You know better than to allow yourself to skip meals. Malnourishment is dangerous down here—even more than on the Ark.” He chastised her.

Clarke narrowed her eyes. “If I’m going to be a queen, I can’t stuff myself while my people are going hungry. I won’t be that kind of leader, Monty.”

“None of us are going hungry anymore.” He snapped. “Now we’re all well fed, and we need you to be healthy and have your crap together because you’re going to be our Queen and we’re all depending on you. We depended on you before, but at least you had us to fall back on. Now we’re just your advisors, and all of our decisions are with you and Bellamy. Our alliance—our lives—are in your hands, and that means jack shit if you’re dead or delirious from hunger. As of now, I’ve made it my personal responsibility to make sure you stay healthy. We’re all going to have long, happy, prosperous lives, including you.”

There was a ferocity in Monty’s tone that booked absolutely no argument. “Fine. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I need to run—Octavia’s taking me foraging. I’m getting your fiancé coming by in a minute to make sure you’ve eaten.”

She went rigid. “What?”

“Bellamy. He wanted to spend some time with you before the elder showed up. I told him that you hadn’t eaten yet, and were liable to forget when you have a lot on your mind.” Monty replied. “You might think I’m overstepping, but he’s about to be your literal life partner, and he needs to know the warning signs for when you’re going full-martyr on him.”

“Monty!”

“Relax. I literally just told him that you spend so much time thinking and organizing that you forget. That’s mostly true.” He shrugged. “This is my condition for being okay with this, Clarke. I’m okay with this as long as you promise to take better care of yourself.”

Clarke glared at him. “Fine.”

“Fine.” Monty agreed, equally obstinate.

She sighed. “Be safe. Don’t forget my beetles.”

“I won’t. See you soon. Try to relax. I can feel your tension from here.” He informed her before sprinting back out of the tent, no doubt to meet up with the ever-impatient Octavia at the gate.

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The contingent from Trishanakru—including their elder, Irene—arrived with very little fuss or fanfare. They were greeted by the Delinquent Council (minus Miller and Finn) at the gate, along with Bellamy and Lincoln who took the liberty of translating from Gonasleng to Trigedasleng and back between the Hundred and the visiting warriors.

Irene herself spoke perfect English—Gonasleng, they reminded themselves—and immediately set about invading Clarke’s personal space and asking invasive questions. She wasted no time plowing through the camp, inspecting every nook and cranny to see if their potential was oversold to her by the emissaries who had been sent to fetch her. She seemed begrudgingly impressed by the time she was finished and lunch rolled around.

Monty served her—the finest stew he could muster with his limited resources, and passed Clarke a bottle of beetles in the next moment.

“I appreciate that you’re taking the time to observe our traditions, skaigada.” The terse woman tutted as she ate from her bowl with pursed lips. Apparently, she was used to far better food. Next to her, Bellamy had been sporadically tensing all day but had yet to interject. She supposed that meant they were doing well so far.

“Bellamy has been so kind to us, and his protection—allowing us to join his people—is more than we ever could have asked for.” She smiled up at him, body tilting towards his. He placed a comforting hand on the small of her back. “The least we could do in return is learn and respect your customs. They’ll be our customs soon enough, after all.”

Irene studied her with a steely gaze. “Pretty words.” Clarke’s heart sank.

After lunch, Octavia and Lincoln led Irene away to supervise as they set up their ritual ground. Anya would be arriving soon—she had insisted on being present for each ritual to ensure that they were taking place as quickly as possible. Clarke kept her head high as Bellamy steered her towards her tent, but as soon as they were inside her shoulders slumped and she let out a shaky breath.

“You’re doing well,” Bellamy assured her, placing his hands on her shoulders, thumbs brushing her collarbones in gentle circles. It was soothing.

“She hates me.”

“She hates everyone. She’s old as dirt. When you’ve lived as long and met as many people as she has, you can’t help but hate everyone. Trust me, she likes you as much as she can possibly like anyone.” He said. “She just needs to like you enough to agree to oversee the courtship rituals. She appreciates that you’re obeying tradition. You’re doing fine.”

She looked up at him, searching his face for…not dishonesty, but false appeasement. As always, he seemed earnest. “I’m taking your word for it.” She replied, leaning into his touch.

“You look beautiful, by the way.” He said, grinning cheekily. “I love your hair. Did Octavia do it for you?”

She shook her head, blushing. “Raven did.”

“She did a great job. If she ever wants to give up on machines, she should take up a career as a master of ceremonies.”

“I’ll let her know.” She joked weakly. If Bellamy was trying to distract her, he was doing an amazing job. His hands were warm and heavy and she could physically remember how it felt to have them squeezing her ass. “Hey, so I’m gonna kiss you.” She informed him. He looked delighted for about two seconds before she wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on tiptoe, and pulled him down to meet her lips with his. She figured he was still delighted, but she just couldn’t see it.

Somehow—she lost track—they ended up on the bed with her in his lap, trading quiet conversation and slow kisses. Then, the tent flew open.

“Oh, sorry to interrupt.” Murphy said, not sorry at all. In fact, he looked really fucking amused. Clarke kind of wanted to smack him. “Ceremony’s supposed to start soon. Syl told me to let Clarke know that she has everything you need, ready to go.”

“Thank you, Murphy. We’ll be out in a minute.” Bellamy replied, voice rough. Though tempted to bury her face in her fiance’s neck, she turned to look Murphy in the eye, staring stonily into his smirk. He raised his hands in mocking surrender and backed out of the tent, sniggering under his breath. “I didn’t realize how long we’d been here.” He admitted.

“I really don’t want to stab you.” She said, curling closer into him. His grip tightened around her.

“Don’t worry. Really, it’ll be alright.” He assured her. “You can make it shallow if it really bothers you. I’m more worried about the poison.”

“Oh great!” She cried, trying to pull back from him. He only held her tighter.

“I was joking.” He chuckled—a low, comforting rumble. “I trust you.”

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Apparently, while Bellamy and Clarke had been…canoodling, Octavia, Syl, Wells, Murphy, and Lincoln had been hard at work under Irene’s watchful eye. The mouth of the Dropship had been transformed into a stunning altar—littered with flowers and trapped with pretty white fur. “Seems like a shame to use white since we’ll just get blood on it,” Clarke said quietly to Syl.

Syl snorted. “Yeah, you’ve got a point. But this is step one of your multi-step wedding. If it’s not beautiful and memorable, that means I’m a terrible bridesmaid. So you best stab Bellamy as beautifully as you possibly can. I expect a work of art to match my fur-and-flower masterpiece.”

Clarke grinned, laughter bubbling up. “You’re ridiculous.” She looked back to the altar. “It’s really gorgeous. Somehow, I can’t believe their weddings look like this.”

“I added some of our traditions in. Or—traditions from before the bombs.” Syl admitted. “Octavia looked almost offended by how many flowers I wanted. Apparently, during the courting period, they’re barely used. But I remember some of those old romance movies we used to watch and I couldn’t help myself.”

“Oh my god.” Clarke stared at her in awe. “Syl, you’re my maid of honor! You might actually be the first ark-born maid of honor.” Wedding parties had all but been rendered obsolete since all weddings on the Ark were bare-bones ceremonies with no decorations or extraneous details. Now that there were preparations and rituals and frivolity, the title suddenly held meaning.

Syl’s eyes widened, then almost immediately filled with tears. “Holy crap.”

“We'd better tell Raven, Harper and Monroe that they’re bridesmaids before they kill you for your title.” Clarke laughed tearily, pulling Syl into an enthusiastic, too-tight hug.

“Are you two alright?” Octavia asked, coming up behind them and rapidly growing alarmed at their sudden tears. “Why are you crying?”

“They’re good tears,” Clarke assured her croakily. “I’ll explain later.”

Octavia nodded, wary but ready to move on immediately if it meant avoiding tears. “We’re ready to start the ritual. I think the people who wanted to attend are all here.”

Clarke looked over her shoulder at the crowd that had amassed—most of the Hundred stood near the altar, waiting for the ceremony to start. She let go of Syl. “My murder weapons?” She asked, and Syl immediately pointed up to the altar.

“There’s a cloth bundle up there with the knife and the poison and your medical supplies, and a cup of moonshine. Poison the moonshine and give it to him. You have what you need to cure the poison, don’t you?” They were walking forward, and suddenly the whole thing felt so much more real.

Clarke nodded. “Monty went and got it for me this morning.”

“Good,” Syl said, stopping in front of the Dropship door. “You’ve got this.”

“Sure.” She agreed halfheartedly, turning to walk up to Bellamy’s side.

She found herself thanking every single deity she’d ever heard of for asking Bellamy about the rituals in advance. Irene was speaking quickly, presiding over the ceremony with practiced and rapid efficiency. Unfortunately, Clarke couldn’t understand a word of it, since she was speaking Trigedasleng so fast that it barely sounded like she was fully forming words.

Then, Bellamy was picking up a knife. “Em gonplei ste ai gonplei, en taim yu bilaik led raun, ai na fis yu op.” He recited. She was glad that she recognized that phrase—when he’d explained the ceremony, he’d told her when she’d have to do or say specific things. That included a brief lesson on how to say the things she’d need to say. She held out her hand to him, and he ran the knife across her palm. She couldn’t help but wonder if it had been sterilized.

He pulled a small bottle and a long strip of cloth from his pocket, quickly uncorking the former and tipping the (sludgy, slimy) contents into her hand. It stung like a motherfucker, but at least he was taking the time to sterilize it. It dried surprisingly fast and felt almost gelatinous when it did, and that was when he began gently bandaging her hand. “Ai na fis yu op, kom ai fis yu op deyon."

Irene began speaking again—slower this time, but still in Trigedasleng. This time she could hear the question that would prompt her response. “Yu na dufa yu houmon?" Irene asked.

“Em gonplei ste ai gonplei, en taim yu bilaik led raun, ai na fis yu op." She recited, anxiety spiking to an all-time high. She unfolded the bundle that Syl had left for her, picking up the vial and pouring it into the cup of moonshine. She handed it to Bellamy, who dutifully took it and slammed it back. She stared at him, wide-eyed, but he only winked at her, a teasing smile lighting his face. How can he possibly trust me so completely after only a few days? She fretted. They’d need to have a chat about his survival instincts at some point.

She reached up and unfastened his shoulder guard and cape, followed by his jacket and shirt—folding them carefully and placing them on the white fur. When he stood shirtless before her, she picked up the knife. There was a murmur in the crowd, and she looked up at him. He gave her a reassuring nod, but said nothing.

She placed the tip of the blade to his lower abdomen but hesitated. He placed a hand on her shoulder, rubbing small circles into her shoulder with his thumb. He’d figured out how to calm her so quickly—he was always so reassuring. And now she was going to stab him.

It was quick—she didn’t want to stab him slowly, after all—a short but forceful thrust and her knife (which must have been sharpened) was buried to its hilt. Bellamy groaned against gritted teeth, not wanting to cry our and startle her or the crowd. The crowd was startled anyways.

“What the fuck?” One of the Hundred—Harper, probably—screeched.

“What the hell are you doing? You’re supposed to marry him, not murder him!” She wasn’t sure who was screaming what anymore, but she was grateful for Octavia, Lincoln, and Murphy who were lined up and ready to push back anyone who tried to interfere. She could faintly hear Wells explaining the ritual to the crowd, but her heartbeat was thundering in her ears.

“Lie down.” She told him, assisting him as he immediately complied. “How are you feeling? Is the poison presenting yet?”

“I feel sick. I might throw up. You sound far away.” He told her dutifully. She nodded, hoping that vomiting was as far as she’d let it go. She strung her needle, soaked it in fresh, unpoisoned moonshine, applied pressure to the wound, and methodically pulled out the knife. She cleaned the open wound with moonshine, too. Then, she set to work stitching him back up. So far, this was going well.

Bellamy turned to his side and heaved, vomiting on the beautiful white furs. “I was right.” She whispered to him. “I told Syl that the white fur would be ruined.” He laughed weakly but fell silent quickly. It (understandably) hurt to laugh.

She ground the beetles into a paste, just like Lincoln said. He grimaced but forced it down when she fed it to him. Then she set about sterilizing everything, pouring moonshine over his wound, wiping away the excess blood, washing her hands, and finally bandaging his midsection. “You’re all set.” She told him, and he stood on shaky feet. Then, louder, she said: “Ai na fis yu op, kom ai fis yu op deyon."

Irene looked pleased and spoke again, once more too fast for Clarke to even try to comprehend. Bellamy was taking her hand and presenting it to Irene like a trophy, and the elder was preparing to tie something around her wrist—a strip of red cloth, it looked like—when suddenly Bellamy spasmed with a pained gasp and dropped to the floor with a reverberating thud. Clarke fell to her knees beside him immediately—he was convulsing violently, and there was blood on his lips.

“Octavia, hold him down before he hurts himself!” Clarke yelled. She was running through all the possibilities. Had Monty gotten the wrong beetle? No, Octavia had gone with him. Did Lincoln give her the wrong poison? No, Octavia would have corrected him. Did the moonshine react poorly to the poison? No, moonshine would dilute the properties of the poison, if anything. This was just like…

She looked over at the knife. She hadn’t sterilized it before stabbing Bellamy, because Syl would have done that before putting it with her supplies. Right?

“Syl! Did you sterilize the knife?”

“Of course I did! Do you think I’m brand fucking new?” She snapped, panicking.

Octavia looked up, alarmed, realizing that this wasn’t what Clarke had planned. “This isn’t part of the ritual?” Clarke shook her head. "Clarke, our healer can—“

“No. I’ve got this. It might not be what I had planned, but it’s my responsibility.” Clarke interrupted. “Monty, I need seaweed, bandages, and more moonshine.” Monty took off like a bullet, Jasper hot on his heels. “Lincoln, help me carry him inside. I need to get him onto one of the tables in the dropship. Wells, keep everyone out, I don’t need an audience to distract me."

Wells and Lincoln complied, the latter pulling Bellamy up to be carried between himself and Octavia. She turned to Irene. “I’m sorry, I know the ritual is important but—“

“He’s your priority. The ritual can always be redone, but only if he survives. Go.” Irene pushed her towards the mouth of the Dropship, and Clarke disappeared inside with Syl and Miller hot on her heels. She didn’t notice Irene following her, taking up quiet and watchful residence in a darkened corner.

“Clarke, our healer is here. Diggs is good. He won’t get in the way, but he knows more about how to treat our illnesses than you, just because he was raised here.” Octavia insisted. “Let me get him to help you. Please.”

Clarke bit her lip but nodded. Octavia rushed out, yelling for Diggs, and Clarke got to work. She unbandaged the wound and checked the stitches. Monty returned, Jasper in tow, and set to work on creating a poultice while Clarke re-sterilized the wound, watching for excess lymph or pus as she worked.

“Someone poisoned the blade.” She whispered to Syl. “I don’t know how long it was left unattended, but this is just like Finn’s wound from when we had Sterling captive. Remember?” Syl looked up at her, alarmed. “Lincoln, do you know what Trishanakru warriors poison their weapons with?” Clarke demanded.

Lincoln frowned, but nodded. “Diggs will be carrying the cure with him. Octavia, too.” He responded, looking back down at Bellamy’s wound. “That’s what he was poisoned with? I thought you were using the poison I gave you.”

“I did. Someone poisoned my blade, and it looks like the injury one of our people had when Sterling was our prisoner. He wouldn’t give us the cure, so I had to keep him alive until the poison was out of his system, but that took too long and it took a serious toll on his body. I don’t think I have that kind of time.” She said, words gaining speed as she rambled.

“Hey, chill out. You’ve got this.” Syl demanded.

She did have it. As soon as Octavia returned with Diggs, she explained and Diggs had his collection of bottles out of his bag in a flash, helping her dress the wound. She took the poultice from Monty and Jasper, pressing it into his heated skin before bandaging over it.

Then they waited. Clarke wasn’t totally sure when he’d passed out, but he was eerily still. “Miller.” Clarke beckoned him over. “As soon as Finn is back, I want him detained.” She instructed once he was close enough. “I don’t know if he had anything to do with this, but I want him searched for that poison. Syl, I want you and Octavia to go check out the art supply store. If he were to stash it anywhere, it would be there. It’s too risky to keep it in his own tent since he lives with Raven.”

Syl and Miller regarded each other anxiously. “You really think he did it?”

“I have no idea. But I think he’s the only one who’s upset enough about the terms of our alliance to do something like this.” Clarke admitted. “If one of our people is responsible, then we need to handle it early, or else it’ll all fall apart. We can’t afford that, and you know it.”

They looked uneasy, but her tone booked no room for argument. They left the Dropship to keep watch, leaving her with Jasper, Monty, Lincoln, and Octavia, watching Bellamy and waiting.

“I was right to be worried about the poison.” Bellamy groaned, and Clarke was so relieved that she could have cried.

#grounder!bellamy

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