A/N: Hello lovely readers! So I am going to apologise for this long author's note, but it is important for the story, so if could you take the time to skim through it (though I will thank the reviewers who do consistently read my author's notes) I would be really grateful.

This story is very important to me. Firstly, it's my 100th story on this website, so of course, it had to be a 100 story. I've also been working on it for a long time (basically before Finn died in 2x08). I've been hit with writer's block with this one and then was just plain busy. I've got the majority written in a rough draft, but this is the first chapter that I've properly finished.

Summary: "I am going to offer you a deal. Your companion can be taken back, left close to your city, and go free. He will be unharmed. In return, you have to agree to join our tribe." An AU story where Clarke stumbles upon a Grounder tribe. In return for sparing the life of her boyfriend, she has to go with them as part of their tribe. Reluctantly she agrees, though it doesn't mean that she has to like it, particularly their leader, Bellamy Blake. Bellarke story with some Linctavia.

I estimate this story will be about four/five/six chapters, depending on how it goes when I finally write it all. So please, enjoy my 100th story.

DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The 100 or any of the characters. I also do not own any quotes/lyrics/poetry used in this fic.

Bravery

"Becoming fearless isn't the point. That's impossible. It's learning how to control your fear, and how to be free from it."

Veronica Roth, Divergent

I

In your world, you may be able to be free. You may be able to walk from boarder to boarder, pass walls without finding your exit blocked, go out without any worry or protection. But in Clarke's world, that isn't the case. They had built their city in the middle of the forest, high walls surrounded and guarded day and night against intruders.

And she had hated it.

Now she wishes she had listened.

Currently she is in a cell made out of grey stones. She, like Finn, is unbound and untied, but it does them little good. They had been dropped through a hole down into the pit, and as far as she can tell, it's the only exit. She and Finn have already gone over every stone brick in their cell, and they can't see any way to break through.

"We should just stay calm," says Finn. He is sitting on the floor, his arms wrapped round his legs. He is lecturing composure, but his voice shakes when he speaks, and his arms are tight round his legs. "It's probably just a scare tactic."

She doesn't believe that, and she knows Finn doesn't either. Their people have told stories about what the Grounders or the Savages do to the people who venture out of the cities. They say that they cut your hands off so you can't fight, and then your feet. While in pain, they open your stomach and pull out your insides. Then they drag the knife or sword up to your chest, and pull out your heart. And finally, they cut out your tongue.

That is the tamest version of the story. Others whispered that they raped girls from the cities, passing them round from the leader of the Savages (those who claimed there was a class system like their own, from those that said they didn't have any resemblance of a society) to the lowest of the low, until the girl finally died from starvation and grief. Others said they were worked to the bone, fed the merest of portions just to keep them alive, so they could serve them.

She's not sure which fate is the worst. She feels that it won't be likely that they'll be allowed to leave.

"What were we thinking?" Clarke mutters to herself for the thousandth time.

She knows what they had been thinking. In love, desperate to escape the confines of the city, they had decided to make a dash for it. Finn had known a way round the electric fences because of a friend in the security sector. The night before they were set to take their adventure, Clarke had been unable to sleep. She pictured the wide acres of forest, bright flowers that grow in all sizes and colours, wild animals – owls and wolves and deer and horses. Imagined being able to run without people staring, scream and laugh without anyone hearing, find out what it felt like to lie in a field without people passing every five seconds.

Compared to all those dreams, she had disregarded the idea of any monsters hidden in the trees.

She has been so stupid.

Finn is about to say something, but they hear a scuffling. Both of them look up, Clarke shifting closer to him. There is no ladder that is lowered; instead a man drops down so fast he might as well be a shadow. Finn stands, and the two of them have backed up against the wall. Perhaps if he wasn't so muscular, so large, and didn't have weapons attached to his belt, Clarke might have tried to take him on. But she knows that she has no chance, especially when three more men drop down beside him.

Three of them are masked, dressed in dark material. Only the first man, the strongest one, is unmasked. His face is etched in battle scars, worn away from countless wars.

"I am the leader of this tribe," he says, somewhat stiffly. His dark eyes look from Finn to Clarke and back again, assessing them. "You have trespassed on our hunting ground."

Hunting ground? Of course. Clarke realises that, when she and Finn had been hoisted up in a well-covered net, they must have stepped into their trap. Hunting for animals or humans?

She wishes she hadn't thought of that.

"We're sorry," Finn begins when she remains silent. "We didn't know-"

"Of course you didn't," he snarls. Clarke flinches. "If you had known where you were going, you would never have come in the first place."

She steps forward. Immediately all eyes land on her. She begins to burn.

"Look," she begins. "I apologise for – that we trespassed into your territory. We didn't realise that we were disturbing your, erm, hunting ground. We promise that we will leave and never return. We swear, we mean you no harm."

She takes another step forward, though her heart is like a hummingbird against her ribcage, fighting to get free. She is too close to the man, his imposing figure bearing down on her.

He maintains eye contact with her. "That is not an option." Reaching into his belt, he pulls out a blade and throws it down in front of Clarke. Wide-eyed, she looks up at him. "You two will fight to the death. We will negotiate with the victor, and decide whether to release them."

She turns to Finn. His brown eyes look back at her, mirroring her shock. He remains standing against the wall, motionless. She knows exactly how he feels. A few days ago they had planned to make love under the wide blue sky, in a field of wild daisies. Now she is being asked to murder him – and not quickly either. A stab wound will mean a slow death. No guns here; no quick shot in the head.

She faces back to him. "If one of us dies," she hears herself ask, "then you will release the other?"

The tribe leader narrows his eyes. "We will consider releasing the one left alive."

Clarke drops her gaze slowly, looking down at the knife in her hand. "Very well." She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath, and plunges the blade into her stomach.

She gasps, cries out, falls to her knees. Her eyes tear up in pain. She knows that she had to do it, that this option was the only one she would consider, but she never thought about the pain. That's probably a good thing. Perhaps if she had known how much it would hurt, she might not have had the guts.

She wishes she had died now, as soon as the knife had gone through her skin, but she doesn't. It's not because of the pain either. Instantly there is a commotion around her. Finn is by her side, his arm over her back. When she looks at him she can see his eyes moving over her, but it is all tinged in pain.

Then Finn is shoved out of the way.

Instead one of the guards has leapt forward. Finn falls away to the side – she can't even see him anymore. All she can see is the guard. She hears him say a word in another language, and he rips off his mask.

His face has scars over it – healed scars, old scars. But she only focuses on them for a moment, because his eyes draw her. They are the darkest brown she has ever seen, darker than Finn's. And they are looking down at her, big and round.

He barks something out, and the other men grab Finn. Clarke cries out, trying to stand. "You told me he would be okay!" she yells. She can feel the tears coming through now, thick and fast. "You told me you would let him live."

She scrabbles for the blade that she had dropped, but she can't find it. It wouldn't matter in any case. The guard's hand comes on her shoulder and he pushes her back down, until she is lying on the floor.

He is ordering everyone else about in his own language. She watches as he pulls something from his belt and reaches forward. She doesn't realise he's tying her hands together until she feels the material against her wrists. Too late, she tries to pull them apart, but the knots hold fast.

"Hold still," he says. It's the first thing he's said in English.

"What are you doing?" She pictures herself being gutted like a fish. She squirms, wishing she had stabbed herself deeper, been courageous enough to go along her arms.

He looks back at her. Those eyes of his seem much harder now, nuts. "I said hold still," he repeats.

Clarke sees movement behind him. Another man appears, kneeling on the opposite side of the guard. He unrolls a bag of some sort, and Clarke's breath catches when she sees the shine of blades.

She begins to scream.

"Hey," he says, and even though she's in pain and it feels like all the bones in her body are shaking, she can't believe they use the same slang. "Stop screaming. Save your strength."

"You said that – you said you would leave us alone! I did what you asked!"

"You did," he agrees. His hands move onto her stomach; she watches him tear her thin shirt in two. He speaks in his own language to the man opposite; he replies, and the next thing she is aware of is the guard putting his hand on her face. His hand clasps on her jaw, and he sticks two of his fingers – his dirty, grimy fingers – into her mouth. Without thinking she bites down on them. She is perhaps aware of a grunt, but when she opens her eyes she can see his face unchanged.

Something else is put in her mouth. Liquid slips down her throat; she can't close her own mouth to stop it. It tastes chalky and...strangely sour – and medical.

The bottle is small and it only takes a few seconds to drain it. It is pulled away and she inhales, coughing. Poison.

The other man has been attending to her wound. He is not wearing a mask, she notices; he has creases on his face, worn like the bark of a tree. There is pain when he touches it; she cries out, thrashes. Just let me die, just stop hurting me, just let me go –

She feels wetness on it, and the stinging increases. She tries to stop him, but the guard pushes her arms above her head, holding them there. More barks, and hands on her legs, pinning her down.

She is shrieking, crying, hurling insults. But she doesn't miss the flame right by her eye. She turns slowly, somehow finding it easy to compose herself. She's going to burn. They are going to fry her alive.

She actually feels worse when she sees him hold a needle through the flame. She has worked with her mother in Medical. She knows why they sterilise the needles.

Her body thrashes, but more hands pin her down. Eyes closed she feels a finger in her mouth, shoving something hard between her teeth. "Bite down on it," she hears him advise.

Clarke feels the needle go in.

She screams.

She wakes up slowly.

It's so bright, and she blinks a few times. She is in a tent. She turns her head, a crinkling round her head. A pillow. Her head is on a fucking pillow.

Who are these people?

She sits up, and pain ripples through her stomach. Clarke's hand immediately goes to the wound. When she looks down she sees that it has been stitched up. It's a bit crooked, a bit just-out-of-medical-school, but it's done the job. The stitches are holding. The wound will heal.

It's only once she's checked out her wound that she notices that her top half, beside her bra, is naked. She hurriedly moves her hands further down, under the thick fur cover, and sags when she realises that her jeans are still on. They haven't been moved.

She stills, trying to think. What are they doing with her? They tell her that she has to die, but then they save her life? Why?

Finn. Her head snaps round, as if Finn could have been in another bed further away. But although the tent is large, it's also empty save for her. Now that she knows she's okay, she takes more time looking round. There is a small table, and when she stretches her neck she can see a map laid out. A bowl of water, a cloth next to it. On her other side, some trousers, some shirts...something that looks like underwear.

The flap of the tent moves, the sunlight flashing. She gathers the fur cover over her body. A guard (not the guard) comes through. His eyes land on her. "Our leader requests your presence."

Fingers grip the sheets of the bed. "Okay," she whispers. Her throat is dry.

Perhaps the Grounder notices, because he says, "We will bring you something to eat and drink first." He disappears for a few moments, enough for Clarke to attempt to calm herself before he comes back in. He places two small bowls in front of her. "I will come for you in five minutes," he says (Clarke wonders how he can tell five minutes have passed without a clock). Thank God, he leaves.

She stares down at the food in front of her. One bowl is holding a portion of water, which she gulps greedily. She then lifts the other bowl, sniffing. It's some sort of broth. She hesitates for a few seconds, but reasons they wouldn't save her life just to kill her. It tastes sourer then she would like and she pulls a face, but her stomach is growling and she needs this.

When he comes back she is standing, ready. She is wearing the shirt left out on the side. She has a feeling it's not specifically for her, but she'll be damned if she walks out in her bra.

The guard looks at her perhaps a little longer than normal, but he doesn't say anything, simply lifting the flap of the tent. She takes a deep breath (her wound aches) before she steps outside.

The sunlight beams down on her, and she has to blink again. She almost wishes she couldn't see, because she soon realises that there are dozens of Savages. All of them are muscular, some women, mostly men. All of them are holding some sort of weapon, a dagger or sword or (oh God) an axe. And all of them are staring at her.

It should make her cower. She wants to. She wants to run and hide.

But she remembers after her father was executed, how the people in her class looked at her, whispering into their friends' ears. She stands a little taller. At least these people are openly hostile. They don't make her bleed with a thousand tiny pin-pricks. At least they are honest about their intentions.

It feels like she is walked miles before the guard finally leads her to the tent (how do they have these things? The stories say that these people live like animals, that they don't know the meaning of having a bath. So how do they have tents, pillows, things that they shouldn't even care about? She feels like she has landed in Narnia, where the animals talk and use knives and forks better than humans). They open up the flap and lead her in. Immediately the guard bows. "The prisoner, Your Grace," he says.

He turns. "Leave us."

"Sire, is it wise that you are left alone with her?"

He smirks, and almost immediately she finds it irritating. When he speaks it's in his own language, which infuriates her even more. But what he says works, because the guard bows and leaves.

He gestures to a table, at least as big as her dining room one. "Have a seat."

She doesn't want to. She would rather be on her feet, ready to run. She would at least like to be at the other side of the table, but he pulls at a chair (a handsomely carved one at that) right next to him, and Clarke can't really see how she can avoid it. She is, after all, a prisoner.

As she sits, she observes him. The first thing that hits her is how young he is. He can only be a few years older than she is – five, six at the most. The second thing she notices is how ordinary he looks. He is strong, she can see in his muscles in his arms underneath his shirt. But when they used the other man, the decoy, Clarke never thought twice about it. The other man was huge, like a bear. It made sense.

This man, who is just a man – practically a boy even – doesn't make sense.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks her.

"Where's Finn? My friend?"

His face remains calm. He has gone to get a drink, and now places it in front of her. It looks like water, and though she wants to refuse, her throat is still dry. She thinks she sees him smirk again, but if so she ignores it. She needs to think clearly.

"He's in the cell still," he answers.

"Alive?"

He gives a nod. "Did you doubt it?"

"Yes," snaps Clarke. She leans forward. "You told us that you would only consider releasing one of us, that blood had to be spilled. And then..." She pauses. Is she hoping he'll say something now? He just stares at her. "You saved my life." The words are hard to part from her mouth.

"We did."

"Why?" It's been bugging her ever since she woke up. Why save her life? Why leap down like that to protect her? It doesn't fit them – not their words or the stories she's heard.

He looks right at her then. The gaze is so intense that it makes her shift in her seat, but she manages to stare back at him.

"You chose to take your own life, rather than killing your companion," he says quietly. "Most people are afraid of death. They will choose to cripple themselves, to kill others, rather than face it themselves. You, on the other hand, weren't afraid of it. You showed enormous bravery. We don't kill people who show that kind of courage."

She seems to absorb the words, not hearing them so much as feeling them. She can see by his face that he means it and... They value courage. She notches her head a little higher. "So you're going to release us both?"

"No."

That word feels like a slap in the face, a punch in the gut. "Then what?" she asks through cold lips.

Now it's his turn to lean forward. "I am going to offer you a deal. Your companion can be taken back, left close to your city, and go free. He will be unharmed. In return, you have to agree to join our tribe."

Every bone in her body goes rigid.

"Join you?" she whispers.

He nods. "Like I said, we admire your bravery. I would rather have you part of our tribe than waste it by killing you."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we will kill your companion and you will come with us as a slave." He leans back, his hands on his cup. "It's not my first choice," he admits, "but like I said, we don't kill people who have your kind of bravery. I would hope that, in time, you would accept our way of life."

"So I don't have a choice."

He raises an eyebrow. "You have a choice: you can decide to come freely or in chains. You can decide to let your friend live or die."

"I love him."

His face remains indifferent. Later she doesn't know why she was surprised. Why should he care about who she loves? "Then your decision should be easy," he answers. He stands again, wiping his hands on his trousers. "You have half an hour to make your choice."

"Half an-" She turns, following him to the door of the tent.

"Yes." The sharpness of his voice causes her to recoil a little. "You two arriving here has disturbed us. Our people feel unnerved at the presence of outsiders, unsafe. They're wanting to leave as soon as we can. Since we have finished hunting, I can see no reason to hold them up." He pauses for a moment, letting his words sink in. "I expect to have your answer in half an hour. If not, I'll make the decision for you."

When he returns (he gave her forty minutes; she knows by the watch she is wearing) she is in the same position, staring at the table, her finger working in the pattern of the wood. "Well?" she hears him ask.

"Will you let me say goodbye?" Her voice is thick. She clears it.

"Of course." His voice is soft. She closes her eyes.

"No." Finn is standing, pacing. His eyes are as wild as his hair, and if he could hit something he would. They have tied them together, presumably so he can't put up much of a fight. That helps them, but not her.

She tries again. "I have no choice Finn. They'll kill you if I don't, and just take me anyway. This way you get to live." Her voice sounds dead. She doesn't have any energy to put in it. It's killing her just to stand.

"And I'm supposed to be okay that you're sent away to be their slave?"

"Finn." She reaches forward, cups his chin in her hands. "Please don't do this to me. I have to be strong and I..." She feels tears welling in her eyes and wants to laugh. Their leader thinks I'm strong? He couldn't be more wrong. She kisses him, and tries to remember this feeling. He will be her last kiss. She wishes they could have slept together, could have had that happiness, use it as a memory where she is going.

But it's probably for the best. If she had ended up pregnant, who knows what they would do to her?

"Please," he whispers in her mouth, for only her ears. "You can't do this. I can't go back without you."

She pulls away. She wishes she could stay with him forever, but he's upsetting her and she can't cry. She has to show them that she's not a pushover. If she's going with them, then she needs to be as strong as they think she is.

"Tell my mom..." Her breath catches in her throat and she can't find the words. Twenty four hours ago she hated her mother, declared that she never wanted to see her again. Now she would give anything to be held by her one more time. "Tell her I love her. Tell her I'm sorry."

"Clarke." Finn is crying now, tears on his face. "You can't do this."

She looks at him. She knows that if she is responsible for his death, it will kill her. Except instead of dying, she will have to live with it. She can't go through that.

Not again.

"Goodbye Finn," she murmurs, and in that moment she somehow knows that this is the last time she'll see him. She wishes she had a notebook with her so she could sketch him, but she knows the details that she loves the most – the way his smile quirks when he's surprised, how he's always flicking his bangs out his eyes when he concentrates – would never pass to paper.

She climbs the ladder – more like a piece of rope – with shaking limbs. The sun is right up in the sky, and once again it causes her eyes to ache. He is standing with two other men, and when he sees that she is done he speaks to the two guards, and they immediately head towards the cell for Finn.

She remains motionless. Indeed, even her chest moving when she breathes makes her body ache.

"You're done?" he asks her.

She nods.

"Come with me. We'll get you ready for the trip."

Her legs feel like lead, but she forces them forward. It feels like she is walking through deep sludge, every step sending pain through her body. She can't even remember how long they've been walking when he stops her. She blinks and she sees they are in front of a carriage (a carriage). She is about to climb inside when he touches her arm.

She winces, but he doesn't seem to have noticed. "What?" she blurts out. All she wants to do is be alone.

"I don't even know your name."

Her name. It sounds so stupid, like an awkward starter conversation of a date. She's not even sure why it matters. But his hand, though light on her wrist, could tighten its grip in a moment. And if she's completely honest, she's too emotionally exhausted to try and come up with a fake one.

"Clarke," she says.

He raises an eyebrow. "No second name?"

"You don't need to know it."

He watches her for a moment. "I'm leader of this tribe – the King. Most people refer to me as Your Grace or Sire."

"I'm not one of your people."

"Yet," he adds.

She continues. "I won't call you my King."

She is a little surprised when she sees his lips quirk into a quick grin. Whoever this guy is, at least he has a sense of humour. "My name's Bellamy Blake."

Clarke looks at him for a moment. Such a normal name, such an ordinary face – besides the scars. She still doesn't understand how he became the leader. But her mind goes to Finn, imagines him being taken in the opposite direction, the distance increasing even second, the weight on her chest getting heavier at the thought.

She enters the carriage without another word.

II

The journey is three days long.

Clarke is kept in the carriage for the entire trip. The top is made out of the same material of the tent, and though it lets in light, she can't see anything outside apart from when she peeks out a hole in the wood.

Obviously this becomes old very fast.

She is brought meals, but most of the time she sleeps. She thinks it's more to do with grief than anything else. Not just for Finn, but for the life she once called her own. She thinks of the city now, and she doesn't see a tin cage. She sees her home, all the places she knows as well as the back of her hand. She would give both of them up to be able to go back.

Of course they still think she's suffering from her injury. The doctor – or whatever they call him, because he's not like any doctor she's ever known – comes in periodically to look over the stitching. He clearly doesn't speak English, but she isn't in the mood for conversation anyway.

When she peeks out from the hole, she mostly sees greenery, more than she's ever seen in her life: trees teaming with leaves, bushes with all sorts of flowers. Her legs twitch at the thought. Every now and then she sees people walking by, most of them chattering in their own language, laughing, acting excited to be going home. Sometimes she sees guards on horses.

In the city, they don't have horses. They have maybe one or two dogs or cats, but that's it. And her mother's allergic to the fur, so she's rarely ever been able to touch one. Horses are animals she's only seen in books. "An outdated way of transport," it says in the books. Outdated yes, but Clarke had stared at the pictures of them, with large heads and a bright, intelligent gaze, and had yearned.

She wishes she could just touch one of the horses. She's always loved the idea of them since she was little. And if she was on one, she would have a chance of escaping. Once Finn is safe, they'll have no leverage over her. Of course, she would have to try and find her way back. Clearly that's another motive for keeping her in this carriage: so if she manages to escape, it's unlikely she'll be able to remember the route back.

Most of the time Clarke's left alone. Most of time.

At one point she falls asleep. The carriage is actually quite comfy, with two long benches on the side and one of the back, with enough room to lie down. The material is so very soft, comfortable to sleep on. And since she has nothing else to do, at least sleep allows her mind to switch off.

When she wakes up it's raining, leaving the carriage dark. She can hear the drops against the roof. She sits up, her muscles aching, and then freezes when she realises she's not alone.

He's there, opposite her. Bellamy Blake. He is leaning against the carriage wall, his head resting against his arm. It takes her a few moments to realise he's asleep. She tries not to move. She doesn't want to wake him. She briefly wonders whether she'll be able to escape, but the idea of leaving unnoticed by a whole hunting party is unrealistic. Another idea though, a better one, is trying to get a weapon from his belt.

Not even to use against him, or any of them. In case she decides she needs to end it all because really, what life is she going to have now?

She stands quietly, trying to creep forward. The wood underneath her feet creaks but he doesn't stir. Her hands are apart, in an attempt to keep her balance. She leans forward, deciding when to try and steal a knife, when the carriage tilts. It must hit a rock or a pothole or something. Either way it throws everything sideways, including Clarke. Unfortunately it throws her right on top of Bellamy.

Before she can blink she is thrown over again. This time she lands on the floor, her head bouncing against it. She feels her arms pinned against the ground. When everything stops spinning she sees Bellamy's face above hers.

For a moment Clarke freezes. His face is so fierce that she can feel her heart leap in her throat. But it only lasts a moment before he realises that it's her. He holds his position, his weight pressing down on her body. With his eyes on her face, she feels his hands move on her stomach. He lifts her shirt and her mind goes blank.

This is what she expected from them.

All the while her eyes are on him, and finally his move down. "It's healing nicely," he says, and Clarke realises: he's looking at her wound.

He moves off her, to the side, and only then can she breathe again. "Next time, can you wake me by tapping me on the shoulder?" She doesn't reply, and watches as he wipes his face. "Last time I checked we were about a day away from home. How're you doing?"

"Apart from being attacked, fine."

"Thirsty? Hungry?"

"Fine," she repeats.

"Do you want to stretch your legs a bit?"

She shakes her head.

He narrows his gaze. "You're going to have to come out eventually."

"These are your people. Not mine." Her words taste bitter, even to her. "And if you dare say yet I will hurt you."

He laughs again, a quick sound, like he regrets it. His voice sobers. "Do me a favour and don't go out without me or a guard."

"Why?"

He leans back against one of the seats, his knees lifted up. "Not everybody likes the idea of you joining us."

"Yeah, they're not alone."

He ignores her comment. "Some are afraid of you. They're scared you might bring some of your people to us, looking for you."

"I can't stop that," she says. In truth she knows there's little chance of it happening. People disappear over the walls a lot, have gone on supply trips and not returned. The chances of survival are minimal, and the government isn't going to waste time sending search parties after people. Still, it's not going to harm her chances of being released if they think that she might be followed.

"But others have joined us before," he says, once again ignoring the comment. "So it's just the cautious ones. Most of the ones speaking out against you are my enemies."

She lifts her head. "Your enemies? I thought you were King." There is a hint of mocking in her voice.

"Show me a leader that's never had enemies," he challenges. His voice is harsh, and Clarke bites her lip, reminding herself to hold her tongue. When he speaks again his voice is softer. "I doubt they'll actually kill you. They'll probably encourage you to try to run, and then criticise me. And when we catch you, I'd be pushed to execute you."

Clarke meets his eyes. "And how would you kill me?"

"Quickly," he snaps. "If you were lucky." He stands this time. "What I mean to say is that you shouldn't trust anyone but me."

She snorts. "Are you being serious?"

"Yes." He pauses at the door. "Is it so hard for you to trust me? Have I lied to you? Have I betrayed you?"

She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to.

III

She is half-terrified when they arrive. The carriage stops, but she had heard the talking and chatting grow, like a wave. She clings to the seat, heart beating faster than she knew it could. She can't imagine what these people will do to her. Bellamy's warning runs through her head.

Clarke doesn't leave by herself, though she is tempted. But she has no idea how many people are around, or the layout. She would be better off trying to gather supplies – food and knives – before trying to get home. After all, it's taken them three days to get here; it would take her even longer, since she has no clue where she would going.

"...I'd be pushed to execute you." Clarke wonders how they would do it. Beheading? Drowning? Fire?

Well, you'd just have to outrun them.

Even she can't pretend this is a good idea. These people will know the route like the back of their hands. She would have to learn the area very well. I could always steal a horse. She imagines galloping through the forest at midnight, the cool wind against her face, the feel of flying through the air.

The door to the carriage opens. Bellamy's head peeks out. "C'mon," he says. Stealing a breath, Clarke stands.

It's dark, but there are fires dotted round the area, giving plenty of light. Clarke wishes they didn't. She can see all the faces around her, watching.

She can't help but look. A few are playing in the area, oblivious, and their screams of laughter feel out of place. Most people are unloading the carts, trunks and dead animals, but even they look at her. Clearly they have never seen someone like her before. She can't tell whether the looks are hostile or not.

Thankfully Bellamy leads her into a house – yes, a house. She has noticed the buildings immediately, cabin upon cabin. They look like one of the country houses in the old books. Obviously they're nothing like the houses they have in the city, yet Clarke can't help but be impressed. How have they managed to build all of these? It must take them ages. There a dozens of them, as far as the eye can see.

Her stomach gives a nervous flip when she wonders how many people live here.

The house even has a door, and when Bellamy closes it Clarke feels an enormous amount of relief. He takes her to a small room – one without windows, she notes. "You can stay here," he says. "I'll show you around in the morning."

"What about tonight?"

He had already turned to go outside, but pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. "Aren't you tired?"

"I've been sitting all day. I wouldn't mind a walk."

She's not sure, but she thinks she sees a glimmer of a smile on his face. "I'll come back for you once I've settled the village down. Besides, I want our healer to come and look at you first."

Clarke frowns. "It's healed," she says. "I don't want people peering at me."

"Just to be sure," Bellamy says.

The doctor does come in, and by the way he nods and smiles he has confirmed that it's fine. By that point Clarke has looked round the room. It's so modern it's scary. For one thing, there is a bed. Okay, it's a mattress, but it's lifted off the floor like the one she had back home. It's only small, but Clarke settles on it and finds it comfortable.

She's not tired though. She is restless. She wants to see the village. Bellamy seems to take a long time before he returns, as if he's hoping that she'll be asleep. But she makes sure that she's wide awake when he returns. With a jerk of the head she follows him.

He takes her into the centre first, and it takes a good few minutes to get there, through the mud-path streets. She feels like she's in an ancient town, thousands of years ago. "The well's over there," he says, pointing across. "But the river is just down that way; bit of a slope, so you have to be careful not to fall in. It can be deep too," he says, casting a look at her.

"Don't worry, I have no plans to drown myself," she mutters.

He points to another house, a larger one. "We all work there."

"Work?"

"Didn't you think it's strange how we have all this furniture?" He smiles when she guesses the answer. "We build them ourselves. It's a good way to keep people busy, and making clothes and things like that." He looks at her out the corner of her eye. "I know it's works differently in your world, but here we share things out equally."

She is about to answer when a little child leaps towards Bellamy. It's a girl, dark hair tied in a plait. She screams something at Bellamy, who laughs and answers back. He picks her up, talking to her in a soft voice, before putting her down. The little girl shoots Clarke a smile before running off again.

"You'll have to learn the language, y'know," he says as they begin walking.

"I'll pass thanks," she says, not really listening. Her eyes move over the buildings. People are still awake, like a swarm of bees, always working. She's not sure what time it is, but surely since it's dark everyone should be in bed?

"Hey." He grips her shoulder, moving her in front of him. "I told you what will happen if you run off. There is no chance you'll survive."

She looks right at him. A part of her wants to tell him that not only would she survive, but she would make it back home. But the best way her plan will succeed is when Bellamy doesn't suspect her.

It's not difficult to raise a hand to her a face, for a weary tone to enter her voice when she says, "I'm just tired."

She peeks out from under her eyelashes. He is looking at her, and even though his face is schooled into a mask of indifference, she thinks she sees some softness in his gaze.

"Okay," he says. "I'll take you back."

It feels like forever until they get there. After taking a walk through the camp she notices that this house is bigger than most. Not only that, but it's built better. And when she enters the house she sees all the little details that she missed: how there are doors leading to other rooms, a large smooth table made of sturdy wood. It even looks like there are pictures in frames on the walls, but Clarke doesn't take long to look at them.

"Nice house," she says as Bellamy leads her back to her room.

He tips his head, acknowledging the compliment. "I like it," he replies, a sort of wistful smile on his face.

That's when it twigs: the largeness of the house, how detailed it is. "This is your house?"

"This is where the leader of the clan lives," he says. "If there was a new king I would have to leave." His hand goes to the handle of the door. "Sleep well." She waits when he door closes, listens to the lock slide shut.

The next few days Clarke begins to learn more about this tribe. She learns that, aside from the warriors and guards, most people speak their native language. She even manages to pick up a few a few words, such as ones for food, water, medicine and other ordinary things. She learns that most people fear her. They are...not hostile. They tolerate her. Some scuttle out of her way when she walks by, pulling their children with them. Others glower at her. Only Bellamy speaks to her with ease, his body relaxed. But Clarke isn't grateful for this. In fact, it irritates her to no end. At times when she is getting water, or even just walking round camp aimlessly, she thinks she feels his eyes on her. When she looks, sure enough he is there, but he always seems to be looking in the other direction or talking to someone else. And there is always someone for him to talk to. He is constantly surrounded by members of the guard (who can tell by the certain clothes they wear – and the fact that they seem the strongest, most muscular, biggest people in the village) and villagers come up to talk to him.

She's trying to figure out the hierarchy. It's not easy. Clearly Bellamy is at the top of it. But she's certain there are other people who are important too. There are the elders who have wrinkled skin and wise eyes. Women who aren't afraid to speak out, glancing everywhere and seeing everything. Another boy, one about as old as Bellamy, who seems to glower at him when he isn't looking. She thinks there is some sort of council. These people have a meeting shortly after she arrives, though what about she doesn't know. Naturally, she is not allowed in.

For a few hours she is on tenterhooks, wondering if it's about her. She wonders if, despite Bellamy's words, she will be killed. She forces herself to sit calmly. She isn't afraid of death. And if the choice is to live with them or die – well, she knows which one she would choose.

But when Bellamy comes out he looks pleased, and chatters to her as normal. Whatever was discussed, Clarke figures it went his way.

She is watched over by members of the guard. They don't stick to her side like glue, but whenever she turns around they are always lurking in the crowd, watching her. And indeed, who isn't? All the villagers stare at her. She supposes it shouldn't be a surprise. There are few people with blonde hair in this tribe, and not the golden colour like hers is. She is weaker too. When she has to carry water it takes her forever, and her hands gain blisters which eventually burst, becoming even more painful. Thankfully she's used to being on her feet for long hours at a time, so she copes. Just.

What she misses the most are simply hours of solitude, time when people aren't looking at her or whispering. These were hard enough back home, but it's near impossible here. The only time she has is when she is shut up in her room – or rather, prison.

But it is a bedroom. They could have shoved her in a cell, made her sleep on the hard floor. Instead she is allowed a soft mattress, furs to put over her bed to keep her warm, regular meals. And why offer her a life here? Is it really simply because of bravery? Looking at the scars over their bodies, it's clear these people fight a lot of battles. Courage, bravery, is likely to be favoured and admired here.

That lesson is reinforced a few nights after she arrives. She is fast asleep in bed (once Clarke falls asleep it is deep, since she is so exhausted from the hard work) when she is jolted awake. It's sudden, like she has been torn away from the land of dreams. Barely a second passes when she realises why. There is another body on the bed.

Hands, rough and dry, pin her body down. Her first instinct is to scream, but her mouth is covered. She can smell alcohol, so strong is almost stings her eyes. She feels another hand pulling the covers away from her, at her clothes; she reacts swiftly, raising her leg and jamming it between his. Clearly whoever this is hadn't expected such an attack; he lets out a low but forceful cry.

She uses her legs to throw him off her. It works, though because his hands are still on her top half she falls down with him. Now unpinned, she lunges for him. Her legs are stronger than her arms, and she kicks him hard in the back. He lets out a cry, but when he turns he seems to be at full strength. He shoves her back onto the bed, so hard that she feels all the breath escape from her body. His hand pins against her throat and she can only let out a little whimper.

She doesn't know who he is – she knows it isn't Bellamy, he's much broader – but she knows she's likely to die. Hopefully that's all that will happen. But she refuses to go down without a fight. Her arms shoot out to his face instead of going at the hand around her neck. She hears his sharp cry when she finds his eye. The pressure round her neck increases and she everything goes dark, God she can't breathe –

It all seems to happen at once: a thousand voices fill the room; the pressure round her neck releases; she feels something wet hit her face. But all she can focus on is getting air in her lungs. She coughs, breathes, leans forward. She feels a hand on her shoulder and knows, without even needing to check, that she's safe.

When her vision finally clears again, she sees her attacker is dead. He is lying on the floor, but in this position she can see the blood trailing over the wooden boards. His eye, the good one, is open but unseeing. Her stomach turns and she leans heavily on her arm, bile twisting threateningly in her stomach.

There's a hand on her shoulder, and it's then she realises someone is speaking to her. She looks at Bellamy. He is leaning over her, and at first all she can see are those brown eyes, as round and huge as the moon, bearing down at her.

"...don't know how he got in here. What did he do to you?" He puts pressure on her shoulder. "Clarke," he persists.

"He didn't do anything to me," she manages to croak out.

She feels his fingers pass over her throat. "I wouldn't say that," he murmurs. "You're already starting to bruise."

"That must be why it feels like my throat's been squeezed shut."

She hadn't meant to be funny, but it gets a laugh out of Bellamy, and of the guards who had come in to help. One of them speaks in a low, gruff voice.

"What did he say?" she asks.

But to her surprise, it's the guard that answers. "I said that it's a brave woman who can laugh after she has been attacked." And when she looks at him, she sees his eyes are trained on her, and they're not hostile. She thinks there may even be a hint of respect there too.

She is taken out of the room, and into a larger one. At home, it would be called a living room, for there are chairs, footstools, blankets and even something that looks like a sofa. She is placed next to a roaring fire. It feels like she's going into shock, because she registers things in short bursts: a cup of tea placed in her hands, a blanket thrown over her shoulders; the crack of a log as the fire burns.

Finally she feels something on her hands. When she looks down she sees that it's another person's hands on hers. Looking up, she sees Bellamy's face.

"Drink your tea," he murmurs. He lifts the cup to her mouth and almost tips it down her throat. She's tried this sort of tea before; its flavour earthy and strong. To her surprise it's not as unpleasant as she thought. It does the trick of bringing her back. The room seems to appear to her again, bright and harshly vivid.

"I'm sorry," he says to her then, as if he can tell she's woken up.

"Why?"

He looks away, his mouth twisted. "It was my fault he attacked you. Nile was a rapist, and I banished him from our village. My guess is that he decided to take his anger out on you."

"But why?" she repeats.

He gives a shrug. "He won't have known that you weren't my guest. He would have thought you were a friend of mine, and decided to hurt me by hurting you."

"A guest that you lock in her room?"

He stares at her. "I haven't locked you in for two weeks."

She digests these words slowly. Everything feels detached for her, and she almost doesn't realise the danger she had been in.

Bellamy continues speaking. "I don't know how he got in. He must have been determined." He looks back at her, and after a moment rests his hand on her arm. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "Forgive me, Clarke."

She wants to yell at him, to tell him that she'll never forgive him. But in truth she is angry at him because he forced her to leave Finn behind (Finn, her only love, who already feels like part of a dream) and come to this strange place. And seeing him, bent down in front of her, face torn in regret, destroys any momentary fury towards him over this attack.

"It's not your fault," she says quietly. After all, who knows better than her what guilt can do to you?

"I should have killed him."

"No one ever lost any sleep over being too forgiving." She's certain she's heard that from an old film, a line that she always believed in.

"I would have, if he had raped you." It's not just the words but the anger in his voice that makes her wince. He sighs, standing. "I had thought that favouring you would have been enough to protect you. Clearly I was wrong."

She shakes her head. She remembers her father being dragged forward in court, found guilty of treason; her mother begging them to spare her daughter's life. "I have a way of attracting trouble," she says almost to herself.

He had been peering into the fire, but when she speaks he looks at her. There is a hint of a smirk on his face, a corner of his mouth lifted like he doesn't want to smile but can't help it. "Some people do," he murmurs. He steps forward, arms open like he would pick her up, like he would hold her. After tonight, she almost wishes he would. "I have another way to protect you. If I can I'll do it tonight. Whatever happens, go along with it, understood?"

She finds herself nodding. He replies with a jerk of the head and leaves her in the room.

She closes her eyes, leaning on the chair. She had never believed that being here would be this complicated.

In less than an hour he is back, this time with the doctor. He bends over her old wound (already she has new wounds and old ones), and speaks to Bellamy. "It's doing well," he translates to Clarke. "In a few days he says he thinks the stitches can come out."

Clarke nods. Her mother would have left them in longer, but she's anxious to have them out. They always say that doctors make the worst patients.

The doctor looks at her neck and murmurs. She doesn't ask what he says; nothing can be done for bruises. The tea alone seems to have helped. Already she feels better, more awake.

Once the doctor leaves he focuses back on her. "It's time," he says.

"Time?" she says blankly, and when he gives her a look it registers. "This thing you're doing to protect me?"

He nods again. "Can you stand?"

She must be feeling better, because there's a flash of pride and indignation within her. "Of course," she snaps, pleased that she sounds stronger than she feels. She pushes herself up.

She had expected a smile from Bellamy, but he only nods. He's obviously distracted. He pulls a band off his own wrist and gives it to her. "Tie the front bits of your hair behind your head. Your face needs to be clear." He looks down at her clothes, the ones that she has been wearing since they had found her. "I'll get you something else to wear. It's important," he insists when he sees her open her mouth.

He leaves and returns. To her surprise it is a dress, made out of soft white fur, without a stain or mark. It reminds her of warm blankets at home, and she finds herself eager to put it on. "Change into this."

"Are you going to explain?" she asks as she takes it.

"I'm protecting you," he snaps. "You could be more grateful."

She narrows her eyes on him. "I'll change," she says, eyes indicating the door. He hesitates for a moment, but instead of leaving he simply turns around, somewhat stiffly. She can't understand the change in him. He had been kind, almost comforting to her, but now he's so grumpy she wants to slap him.

He saved your life, a little voice reminds her. Surely you can trust him now?

She almost laughs out loud at the thought.

"I'm done," she says. The dress is short sleeved but covers her chest well. It's so soft that it makes her want to take a nap. It must be late now.

His eyes look over her like she is a prized horse. "That'll do," he concedes. She feels another stab of annoyance. He comes to the door, reaches out and pulls someone in. She is surprised when she sees it's a woman.

Her hair has lost its colour, but instead of being white, it's silver. She is the oldest person in this village that Clarke has seen. And she's blind.

But her face is smooth, and though Bellamy has hold of her she doesn't stumble. In fact she seems to have better posture than the people half her age. Bellamy speaks to her softly in his own language. He brings her over to Clarke, and she doesn't move.

"So," the woman says, her voice clear, "you're the talenco everyone is talking about."

"Tal-?" She glances at Bellamy.

"It means outsider," the woman explains. Her hand reaches up and touches Clarke's face. "You're very beautiful my dear. Of course, the young always are."

"I'm always amazed how much you can see," says Bellamy. There is finally a smile on his face, and his shoulders have lowered.

"And I'm always amazed how many times I have to remind you that you don't need sight to see," the woman answers, her voice trembling a little. "It wasn't your sight that got you through the war, was it? I believe that was your courage. Young Octavia knows more than you to trust her heart. It will be so much easier if you learn to do the same."

Clarke glances at Bellamy. His mouth closes, and a part of her wants to laugh out loud: she has never seen him silenced before. She looks back at the old woman with more respect.

She is still gazing at her face. Her eyes are a pale colour, and though it's clear the woman cannot see they are scanning Clarke's face.

"It won't be easy for you here," she says.

"This isn't my home," Clarke agrees.

"I don't mean that you will struggle to adapt," she corrects her. Those eyes scan her, her hand resting on her cheek. "I sense that you've already had a difficult life back where you were born." She notches her chin up. "Loss is something you never forget. And the pain never eases, no matter how many years go by. I'm afraid I know that from experience."

This time Clarke jerks backwards. Bellamy's hand is placed on the woman's shoulder. "Babaduo, cut it out."

"As I said, you don't need sight to see." This time the words aren't accusatory. They are spoken softly, and her sightless eyes linger on Clarke for an extra second. Her head turns in Bellamy's direction. "It's late, child. Unless you have something more to add, you had best go get a few members of the guards in here."

Bellamy leaves the room and Clarke quickly says, "What's going on?"

The woman glances back in her direction. "We are going through with a ceremony that will tie your bloodline to his. To attack a member of the King's family is an act of treason, punishable by any way the King chooses. And usually, when a member of their family has been hurt, they aren't very forgiving. Few will risk doing so. He is giving you the best protection he can possibly give you."

She blinks, startled by the answer. Tying their bloodlines together? How...primitive.

"How will they do that?"

"To bring your bloodlines together, we will hold a ceremony. When asked, you will give me your hand and I will make a cut across your palm. I will do the same with Bellamy's. You two will link fingers, pressing the cuts together, symbolically merging both your bloodlines. I will then tie pieces of cloth on those cuts to mob up the blood. Once those cuts dry, you will take Bellamy's cloth and tie it round your wrist. He will do the same with yours. That will show the other members of the society that you belong to his bloodline."

She absorbs these words, running them through her mind. It doesn't sound too bad. After all, soon she'll be gone, soon this will all be just a memory. Only here will she and Bellamy be linked.

"What about the hair? The dress?"

"They are our customs," replies the old woman.

She doesn't like it. But Bellamy is going through all of this trouble, bringing these people in, and she knows he won't stop. Besides, of all the things he could do, this is relatively simple.

Thankfully it's short. They speak in their own language so she has no idea what's happening. All she knows is that she and Bellamy are surrounded in a circle. She is directly opposite Bellamy, and he looks a little pale. Perhaps he's rethinking all of this. She's half-hoping that he will.

But when the woman holds out her hand, Bellamy gives it to her without a second thought. He doesn't even flinch when the knife slits through his skin, a red line instantly rising. So Clarke makes sure that when the knife goes in, she doesn't show how much it hurts. The worst of it is when they have to press their palms together. His fingers slip through hers and then bend, holding them together. Her hand tingles and she remembers – the last hand she held was Finn's. Just like that, another last erased, another memory gone.

Before she knows it, the cloths are tied over the wounds and it's over. The people file out, including Bellamy, and Clarke slowly relaxes. It's over. Somehow it felt like it drained energy from her. It's been a long night.

She falls asleep, and she doesn't think she's slept for more than five minutes when she is being shaken awake. "C'mon Princess," she hears Bellamy say. "It's time for bed."

"Princess?" she asks. She sits up slowly.

"Yeah. Now that you're tied to my family, that's your title. People may call you that. Better get used to it." He lifts her up and Clarke realises that he's taking her back to bed.

She holds firm. "I'm not going back to that room." She can still picture that man on the floor. His blood, seeping out into the wood.

"I'm not taking you there," he says. He is pulling her through the house, up the stairs – the first time she's ever gone up them. The house is sturdy. This place must have been built years ago, an existing town before the End of Days. The stories – or maybe she should call it the propaganda – said that all the towns were obliterated or uninhabitable. Clearly they were wrong.

They seem to be wrong about a lot of things.

He opens a door and shoves her inside. For a few moments Clarke's mind grinds to a halt. Maybe it's because of the shock, or the fact she's tired; but it's more likely because the room is so beautiful. For starters, it has two sets of large windows. Looking through them she can see right up to the stars. Somehow they seem brighter than she's seen them before, and for a few moments she just stares. There is another fire lit in this room, bigger, and almost unconsciously she moves towards it.

When she finally lowers her eyes, they are drawn to the bookshelf. It covers an entire wall, and every shelf is filled. She used to love reading, back home. There was nothing else to do but read, and even then...

Her father always complained about the lack of good reading material. Never outside the house obviously, but he would always said that all the books that were legal were complete bullshit. No one ever told stories that involved rioting or rebellions; even little snippets about the government being corrupt weren't allowed. Of course, that left books about teenage problems being solved, about good people who never did anything other than exclaim about how beautiful everything was or how smashing things were. The Twins at St Clare's was always very popular.

He kept books hidden, under the floorboards. She had always known about it, ever since she was little. Her father would always read her short stories, ones about pirates capturing princesses, animals that turned into humans, falling stars that once landed on Earth that became people. She had always thought that it was fun to keep it a secret from Mom, never occurred to her that it was treason to keep these sorts of books.

She runs her fingers over them, unable to help herself. It's strange, what memories will do to you.

"Here." She had forgotten Bellamy was there, and now she jumps. He hands her a shirt and pair of trousers. They are lovely, made of soft fur, like the dress she's wearing. "You should get changed."

"What about my clothes?" she asks.

"What about them?" he replies. "You're part of our tribe now. You need to look the part." He heads towards the door.

She does change. She wants to chuck the dress over the floor, but at the last second she gently places it over the chair. It is very pretty. But her eyes can't stop going round the room. It's not even the fact that it's the most modern place in the entire village. There's something about it, something she can't quite place.

Bellamy comes in, and he looks so knackered that she feels a quick stab of sympathy for him. He nods to the bed. "Go ahead," he says. "You must be exhausted." Before she can reply he lifts his shirt off.

It all clicks into place in that moment. "You're – I – this is your room?" She glances round. "But – why?"

His eyes are blank. "You were just attacked," he says, as if he's talking to a two year old. "It's not safe."

"I thought that by doing this bloodline thing you were protecting me!"

"I am." His words are calm. "It's just a precaution, until people get used to the idea." His eyes linger on her for an extra moment before he says, "It's not like we're doing anything – if that's what you're worried about."

Her face heats up. "No," she manages to get out. "But-"

He holds up and hand, and when he speaks she can tell he's losing his patience. "Clarke, I'm exhausted. And unlike you I have to get up in the morning. I get you don't want to do this. I get that it's uncomfortable. But you're staying here tonight. I'm not going to change my mind." He stares at her for another moment, before he says "Get – in." It sounds like his teeth are gritted together.

Clarke's legs feel like they're made of ice, and just as hard to move. Somehow she does, somehow she gets in the bed. Even though she knows nothing will happen, she imagines brides felt this way when they first had sex with their husbands in arranged or unwilling marriages. Her back is to him, and she doesn't move all the while she hears him walking round the room, even when she feels his weight come down on the mattress, even when he blows the candle out. The room isn't completely dark – the fire is still going. For some reason that makes it worse.

She is focussed on his every movement. She hears his steady breathing, measures it, panics when it changes. The distance between them is small, centimetres at the most. She thinks how easy it is, to reach over and touch her. That he's strong enough to pin her down and silence her screams. How he could rape her and no one would stop him.

That night seems to last forever. There is no clock, nothing to measure time to. She has no idea whether hours have passed or minutes. She starts counting, simply repeating numbers in her head, not bothering with animals like sheep or birds. On last count, she gets to over ten thousand.

The next thing she knows sunlight is drifting in. It isn't a harsh light in the room; it's softer, almost buttery. It's early.

She is about to roll over when she hears a noise. She freezes, and while she keeps still she tries to sense where he is. He's not on the bed; she knows this, though she doesn't know how she knows this. After a few minutes she hears another noise – the sound of something being shuffled aside, lifted off a table. She keeps still, trying to stabilise her breathing. Like he said, he needs to be up in the morning. With any luck he'll leave and she'll be able to do – well, to move around a little more freely.

It's hard to know when he's gone. She thinks that he's trying to be quiet for her. For a brief moment she is touched by that thought, but it quickly dies. To be honest she doesn't want to think about it, because she doesn't have a clear answer. She doesn't know what his intentions are. All she knows for certain is that, for now, he hasn't hurt her.

When weight comes down on the bed she tries very hard not to tense up. Every little movement sends a little spark off across her body, in her stomach. When he touches her wrist she feels a shiver climb up her spine. His movements are careful, deliberately gentle so not to disturb her. He gently tugs the cloth off her hand, and a second later she feels pressure round her wrist. He ties it so tight that she feels a sharp tug, a constriction.

Too late, she's opened her eyes.

Instantly she meets his gaze. His eyes are already on her, and that tells her he knows she was awake. They stare at each other. Clarke wonders if he's going to touch her, and then realises that his hand is still on the cloth. He hesitates, following her gaze, and then removes it.

"Sleep in." His voice is softer than normal, but she's not certain if that's because he's tired. The skin under his eyes is dark. How much sleep did he get? "There's food in the kitchen. If you ask the servants will get you something. Either send a guard or come for me if you need me." With his other hand he briefly touches her hair, which still has the front bits tied off from her face. "Your hair stays like this, okay?"

"Why?"

"It's to do with status. It's another sign that you belong to my bloodline." He stands up, but not before tugging the piece of material round her wrist. "This stays on too."

This time it's an order.

"There are so many ways to be brave in this world. Sometimes bravery involves laying down your life for something bigger than yourself, or for someone else. Sometimes it involves giving up everything you have ever known, or everyone you have ever loved, for the sake of something greater.

But sometimes it doesn't.

Sometimes it is nothing more than gritting your teeth through pain, and the work of every day, the slow walk toward a better life.

That is the sort of bravery I must have now."

Veronica Roth, Allegiant

A/N: I know, another author's note! But I just want to clear up a few things in case you have questions:

1) I know that the Grounder characters – Indra, Gustus, Lexa etc – aren't in the story much. But as I said, I started this fic when the show was in early season 2, and at the time these characters were either minor characters or not in it at all. Besides which, I had fun with writing the original characters. I hope you liked them.

2) I understand this chapter is very long, so GOLD STAR for the people that read it all. I hope it wasn't a hard slog! I know that it is very long, but I don't write short chapters – I don't like stories where you have chapters where very little happens. When I update, I want to give you a chapter filled with a lot of things happening. For those of you that felt this was a bit too long, I will assure you that in my calculations (not my strongest point, I'll tell you that) this is the longest chapter. I wanted to set the scene and (hopefully) encourage you to follow and keep reading the story.

3) I worry that Clarke and Bellamy are a little out-of-character for this fic. What do people think? Are they OOC? And if you do think so, do you like their characters?

4) As I said, this story is going to be 4 – 6 chapters. I will try to update the story about once a week, but please remember I am super busy. But I do have an outline written out, so it shouldn't take me too long to put it together.

5) I hope you like the quotes! I particularly love Veronica Roth's quotes from the Divergent series, because I feel like it relates to this story quite a bit. If you ever have any questions about the quotes, feel free to ask me.

So thank you for reading! As a little favour, could you please leave me a review and tell me what you thought? As I have mentioned, this story is very important to me, and I've worked really hard on it. I would love to let you know what you think.

Hours to make. Seconds to comment.

PLEASE REVIEW!