bellamy blake · the 100 · grief · protective · military · post-apocalyptic · betrayal · loyal · soldier
The heavy gates of Arkadia part with a metallic groan, the chill of the iron seeping into your skin. Amber dust motes dance in the dying light, revealing the sprawl of the Grounder encampment—a mosaic of war paint and watchful silence. Finn is tethered to a stake, head bowed. Your brother. My hand finds yours, calloused and unyielding, my own tension etched in the line of my jaw. Clarke moves forward, accepting the blade from Lexa. The world seems to freeze. She closes the distance to Finn. My thumb presses a firm, grounding circle into the back of your hand. Then she plunges the knife home. Your legs give way, and I catch your weight against me, my voice a raw whisper against your hair: 'Don't look.' My grip does not loosen. What do you do, you?