part i: at world's end

The fire is under his feet. Bellamy can feel the sneaking, creeping flames licking at his heels as he runs. Grounder screams echo in his ears, and the burning in his muscles is nothing to the burning in his throat. The air is hot and dry, the fault of the dropship's rockets blasting the forest around him to ash. As the fire pursues him still, a flash of a line from one of his mother's often recited poems flits across his memory: some say the world will end in fire.

He laughs, desperately amused, never having thought that fire would be the end of him. Void was to be his fate: floated, for some reason or other, because he was nobody, a janitor, a seamstress's son, the brother of a girl who shouldn't exist. The Council wouldn't think twice about floating someone like him, an expendable. Bellamy had resigned himself to that fate, even after coming to Earth because the Council doesn't forgive, doesn't forget. He was a condemned man, and he knew it.

Then she came along. With first derision and then kindness, she had made him become someone more. She told him he mattered, that he was needed. After yelling and bleeding and almost dying for one another, he finally believed her, believed in her. She needed that—someone else's faith—just as much as he did. A bond forged in blood, it saved them when enemy forces threatened to destroy the home they had made for themselves down on the ground.

Now, as he runs, the flames that she set in motion still seek to claim his feet, but the memory of her retreating up the dropship ramp—all golden rage and flushed defiance—kindles that resilient spark of survival in him. He runs faster. The air grows cooler, and the sound of crackling wood fades, leaving only his labored breaths and pounding feet.

The world is on fire, yes, but it will not end today, not if he has a choice in the matter.

part ii: hell is burning

The fire is at his back. It is greedy this time, billowing out in radiant blooms behind him, above him. Chasing him down the narrow vent, it swallows up the men who want him dead, serving as a momentary ally. Their alliance is a fickle one, though, and soon it seeks to consume him too. So Bellamy scrambles, heading towards the dark at the end of the tunnel—there is no bright, guiding light to aim for down here, under the mountain, just shades of black and grey.

Sweat drips down his neck, and his damp palms slip against the heated metal of the vent as he tries to crawl away from the flames. He always thought the underworld would be cold, at least that was what he had imagined when he was young and still listened to his mother's stories. To him, it was supposed to be dank, moist caves connected by the five rushing, roaring rivers, a place where a chill was constantly at your back and warmth just out of reach. He couldn't have been more wrong.

Under the mountain, there was no relief from the heat. It was suffocating, relentless, and at this moment, insatiable. It is clawing at his back, and there is no cover from it, no one to shield him. She told him he wouldn't be going alone, but promises on the ground are impossible. Bellamy knows that better than anyone, which is why he descended into this hell at her request, because he also believed it was worth the risk. He is alone in this vent with the fire at his back, and the only reason that he is able to scramble those last few feet to the end of the tunnel ahead of the flames is the reminder that she can't lose him too.

When he crashes down onto the grate, the fiery column above him puffing out one last roar before evaporating, he smiles and then he laughs. He laughs, because hell is burning, and this time he was the one to light the match.

part iii: kindling

The fire is in his heart. The flame is small, still needs tending, but Bellamy figures the kindling has been gathered for a while now. Ever since he returned from the Mountain, there has been an unspeakable, necessary closeness between him and Clarke. She won't let him out of her sight for long, and somehow he doesn't mind. It feels nice to have her at his back again, to have her to walk side-by-side with him. With the turmoil of settling the surviving delinquents back into camp and solidifying the truce with the Grounders, they don't have much time to talk, but it doesn't matter. He knows what they are to each other, and what they could be, even if she isn't ready.

So he waits. He watches as she learns to heal, lets her grieve and find peace with nothing more than the offer of friendship. Given his own trials, he supposes he needs time as well. She learns that she can laugh again, and that crying is okay as long as it stops eventually. A year passes, and her small flame is still there in his heart. There are several moments where he thinks of extinguishing it, allowing it to blow out so that only smoke remains, but the light in her eyes whenever she looks at him that won't let him. She doesn't love him, maybe never will, but that bond forged of blood, and now fire, runs so deep between them that he still holds out hope. So, Bellamy tends the flame, never letting it grow too big, but keeps it going nonetheless.

Then one sunlit day in the forest, they are on a hike and talking of nothing in particular, and she smiles at him, large and bright and free. That simple smile ignites the kindling and her tiny flame roars to life, a conflagration unrestrained as it races through his veins. Stopping in his tracks, he swallows harshly because his throat is dry and the air is oppressive. His whole body flushes at the heat, and when she turns around in confusion, he tries to explain. The words don't come, but she smiles again and extends a hand. Carefully, he takes it, intertwining their fingers. After a moment of staring at how well their hands fit together, he looks in her eyes and smiles at what he sees.

For him, the fire is in his heart, but for her, it is in her eyes. Bellamy can see it dancing there in the light blue shadows, and even though he knows flames of that color are the most dangerous, he thinks that maybe, this time, he won't run from the blaze. Instead, with her hand in his, he steps forward into it, unafraid and ready to burn.