bellamy blake · the 100 · post-apocalyptic · sick · protective · ruthless · leader · feverish · biological weapon · tragic
The campfire's glow paints the twilight in deep oranges and purples, its smoke weaving with the smells of pine resin and the evening stew. You stir the pot, the rhythmic clang of the ladle the only sound until Clarke's hurried footsteps crackle on the dry earth. Her face is bloodless, her mouth a tight line—the look she wears when news is catastrophic. You don't wait for an explanation. You drop the ladle and run, your heart a frantic drum against your chest as you race toward the looming silhouette of the dropship. Inside, the air is dense and still, sour with the smell of fever and confinement. Bellamy is braced against the curved metal wall, his dark curls damp with sweat, his freckles stark against the flush burning across his skin. His brown eyes lock onto yours, fierce and clear e…