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CHAPTER FOURTY SIX;

RIVERS AND ROADS
RIVERS . . . TIL' I REACH YOU.

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THE DAY THAT HAVEN GREY SMITH HAD DIED ABOARD THE ARK—A PIECE OF BELLAMY BLAKE HAD DIED WITH HER. It was a profound fragment within him, an untouched sanctum that only her soul had the power to illuminate. From their first, fateful encounter, Haven had woven absolution into his sins, drawing forth hope and dreams from the deepest, most barren crevices of his mind. In her eyes, he found sanctuary; through her existence, he envisioned a future—one unshackled by the sterile confines of Medical, or the suffocating narrowness of Factory.

        He believed in a life . . . together.

        Her presence was a hymn, a quiet prayer whispered in the dark, breathing life into the harsh expanse of their orbiting world.

        And then . . . she died.

        At least, Bellamy had thought so.
       
        He had spent an entire year grieving her, mourning her, helplessly clinging to any traces of the magic she had woven within him . . . desperate to honor her memory, to feel her.

His mind was relentlessly besieged by the vibrant echoes of her laughter. Visions of her smile flickered through his consciousness, ephemeral and tormenting in their fleeting joy. Every breath was fraught, an agonizing reminder of the shared air he once breathed with her—now starkly absent. His heart scorched with the phantom caress of her fingers, each touch a searing brand upon his flesh, igniting fires of longing and loss that no passage of time could ever possibly heal . . . ever.

        He was nothing.

        Bereft of her light, Bellamy's existence spiraled into shadow, a realm devoid of dreams, a wasteland where no future could flourish. What remained of him had pleaded for the dark release of death, to cast off the shackles of his mortal agony and to die alongside her. At least then, he could dance with her ghost, floating in the liminal space between salvation and damnation. Inevitably, she would ascend into the white light . . . while he was torn away, dragged screaming into the depths below.

        Yet, beyond the vast, insurmountable void that yawned within him, Bellamy still had a tether to life—his sister, even if only from afar.

        Soon enough, a grim opportunity had presented itself, one cloaked as a necessity: an assassination attempt that promised to end the Chancellor's life, yet whispered the opportunity to reunite with the one person he had left.

        He didn't think twice about shooting Jaha.

        In truth, had it been demanded of him, Bellamy would have laid waste to the entire fucking council—unflinchingly—a single, sweeping strike of vengeance. Broken, ruthless, ravaged by desperation, he saw this act not just as revenge, but as a desperate bid to reunite with the last vestige of his family. If annihilating the corrupt tyrants that had executed his mother offered a slender thread to his sister, to grasp at something tangible instead of white-knuckling his grief . . . he would do it.

So—he had anchored his resolve, shot Jaha squarely in the gut, and boarded the damn dropship. As they plunged through the atmosphere, the pressure seemed to throttle him, yet he refused to even flinch. Upon landing, he found himself face to face with the other half of his soul, his sister, and descended the open ramp with a lightness in his step—one that belied the insatiable emptiness still gnawing at his core.

The first thing Bellamy noticed as his boots stepped upon Earthen dirt had been the wildflower patch.

        . . . He knew Haven would've loved it.

        He knew she would've loved the sight of the everlasting beauty—blooms enduring defiantly, thriving despite the lethal kiss of radiation. The thought was so vivid, so piercing, that it had momentarily tricked his senses, conjuring her silhouette into life among the blue petals.

        In his mind's eye, Haven had appeared so impossibly. . . real, breathtaking, achingly beautiful to the marrow of her very bones. She effortlessly mingled with the swarm of exuberant teenagers experiencing Earth's freedom for the first time, her laughter intertwining with that of her Sky Box brothers. Yet, as quickly as the vision formed, it twisted—her smile souring into fury. Her face contorted into a ferocious scowl, her hands clenching into fists, a white-knuckled wrath ready to strike at a stranger who dared come too close.

        Bellamy had blinked.

She was still there.

        He had blinked again, again, and again.

        . . . Still there.

        And then . . .

        He saw her.

        No longer was the ghost of Haven Grey Smith a figment of his tormented imagination. No longer did she haunt the corridors of his soul, whispering clarion calls into his ears at night as he feverishly tossed and turned. No longer was she merely permeating the forefront of his memory—she was scorching across the Blake boy's vision with an unfathomable brilliance, searing his retinas, and seizing his breath.

        She was . . . real.

        Warm. Touchable. Alive.

Haven had been crowned in sunlight as she lunged towards the unfamiliar boy ahead of them—as if the Earth itself bowed to the weight of her presence, weaving a halo of the holiest solar gold around her head from their side of the stars. She was not just alive; she was incandescent with fury, seething, electric, blissfully oblivious and indifferent to his existence, as though she couldn't feel the intensity of his gaze tracking her every move. Around her, time seemed to stall, the world holding its breath, yet she moved with relentless force, as if the very earth beneath her feet was unworthy of notice, as if unaware that his knees trembled on the brink of collapse beneath him.

        As if she didn't know that while Bellamy had descended to Earth, the universe itself had plummeted alongside him . . . manifesting entirely as her, her, her.

        He didn't remember punching Murphy.

He couldn't recall any of what happened next—the following sequence of events were a blur, a tumultuous rush of motion and rage, untraceable in their fury until he saw Murphy crumpled on the ground beneath his fist, and then . . . he felt her.

Haven stared at him as if he were the ghost.

For a fleeting, cataclysmic millisecond, their eyes meshed—a fierce, magnetic clash that shattered the stillness around them, rending the very air and throwing the cosmos into disarray. The world spun off its axis, suspended in the silent aftermath of their connection. But just as quickly as their souls had touched, she severed the bond, wrenching her gaze away as she fixated on the next unfolding dilemma.

Once again . . . Bellamy found himself adrift in a haze of forgotten moments; the sequence of events that followed was a mere blip in time, elusive and intangible. He vaguely remembered the group rallying for Mount Weather, a purposeful congregation aimed at survival, yet the words spoken slipped through his grasp like smoke, and the faces of those gathered blurred into obscurity.

He could only remember her.

        And by the time they were finally alone, side by side, mere footfalls apart . . . Bellamy's resolve had solidified. He was ready to lay bare his soul, to ask Haven the haunting questions of survival, to voice the apologies that had been rupturing through his heart for failing her in her darkest hour. Above all else, he longed to bridge the gap between them with a touch—to draw her into his arms, to anchor himself to the tangible warmth of her body, to confirm she wasn't just a wraith conjured by his longing.

        But she didn't dare to meet his eyes.

        Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.

He had stared at Haven fervently, each glimpse like a laser searing into the side of her temple, his eyes begging, pleading, praying for her to notice him. He longed for just one glance from the girl he loved from afar, a mere flicker of recognition that he existed beside her. He had shifted restlessly on his heels, the rustle of leaves underfoot a sharp contrast to the thunderous pounding of his heart, praying that the small disturbance might draw her gaze and bridge the aching chasm of silence between them.

Look at me, Hav.

. . . Please.

Haven remained as unmoving as stone.

And then, in a moment seared with bitter clarity, Bellamy felt the irrevocable truth settle into his bones—the fragment of his soul that had died alongside her, the part entwined so deeply with her existence . . . was doomed to remain buried.

        Tremors had coursed through his fingertips, his chin quivered, his irises and his lungs began to burn. Before he fully grasped his own intentions, he was moving, distancing himself far, far away—each step a battle against the irresistible lure of her gravity, a desperate effort to escape the orbit that bound him to her. He propelled his body towards the dropship until, enclosed within its cold metal walls, he finally allowed himself to shatter.

        It only marked the beginning of the end.

He had been so selfish.

        He had loved her in all of the wrong ways.

        And just when Bellamy had begun to prove himself, to become somebody who might be deserving of every shift of Haven's eyes, every radiant smile she shared . . .

        She was gone.

        Again.

"We'll find her, Bell."

Bellamy cast a fleeting glance towards the familiar voice that cut through the fog of his thoughts—Octavia's. She moved a few feet ahead of him, navigating the winding forest with a katana in hand, her hair expertly braided in a style far surpassing anything he had ever managed for her in their childhood. It was as though she had metamorphosed overnight, stepping from the shadows of girlhood and rocketing into the stark light of womanhood. Yet, in his eyes, she lingered still as the newborn whose tiny fingers once clung to his thumb, suckling to quiet her cries.

        He had to constantly remind himself that she, too, was real—no longer just a memory or a wish, but flesh and blood, right before his eyes.

        Her stare was unwavering.

        "We'll find all of them."

        Bellamy knew that she was right.

        . . . He wouldn't allow the alternative.

        After the rescue group had set out two nights ago—fate had not favored them. Led by some unfathomable stroke of luck, Murphy hadn't gotten them all slaughtered. He steered them straight to the Grounder prison camp, only to find it hauntingly deserted. The place lay ravaged and empty, strewn with the remnants left by a few Grounders who appeared to have ransacked the dropship. According to Finn, one of the Grounders carried Clarke's watch around his neck. But aside from that, there was no trace of their missing friends—no footprints, no echoes of presence, not a single body to mourn in the desolate cages that skirted the camp's edge.

        They were nowhere.

        Desperate for answers, the group had executed a daring plan—utilizing Murphy as bait to capture the one-eyed, scarred-faced Grounder who possessed Clarke's watch. They hauled the man to a cramped, dimly lit bunker—a place Finn recognized from a past encounter, pressing him relentlessly for information surrounding their friends' whereabouts.

And still . . . despite the ferocity of their interrogation, the Grounder remained adamant: their friends were not held by his people.

Somehow, Bellamy found himself believing him.

Although he understood that his friends were a mere band of ruthless teenagers—Bellamy also knew that they were unfathomably smart, fearless when push came to shove. If they weren't holed up at the dropship, and if the prison camp lay hauntingly desolate, then they must have carved out a new path—perhaps venturing towards the oceanside in a bid for safe passage, while the Grounders still licked their wounds from the battle.

        Their choice to abandon their weapons at the dropship had to be a cunning feint, one designed to throw potential trackers off their scent. It was a calculated move—undoubtedly stupid—but typical of their indomitable will to survive. And although it was vehemently unlike them to leave any stragglers behind . . . the harsh realities they faced might have forced a change in tactics. Moving as a single, cohesive unit offered the best chance of safety and success. He understood this necessity deeply; he harbored no resentment toward them for assuming that he and the others were casualties of the fallout.

        Bellamy knew that he looked dead as much as he felt it; his appearance was as gaunt and ghostly as the hollow echo of his spirits.

They were simply wasting time interrogating the Grounder.

. . . But, of course, it hadn't been enough for Finn.

        In recent days, Finn's transformation had been nothing short of catastrophic—the hands of grief twisting the boy into a vessel of despair. Driven by an insatiable hunger for clues to Clarke's fate, he had descended into violence, his actions steeped in wretched desperation. Each repeated denial from the Grounder only sharpened his mania, turning interrogation into savagery. He had pistol-whipped their captive, bashed his skull into the concrete floor, nearly tearing the man's remaining eye from its socket in an uncharacteristic crescendo of fury.

Amidst . . . that, Bellamy had tried to intervene, driven by a haunting familiarity with the darkness that now gripped Finn—the same darkness that had once consumed him on the third level of the dropship, not too long ago. His attempt to pull Finn back from the precipice was not just a rescue for the Grounder, their sole source of information, but a desperate bid to save Finn from himself.

        But the gulf between them widened irreversibly when Finn, his eyes flashing with mania yet hollow with torment . . . trained the gun towards Bellamy.

        In that charged, explosive moment, Bellamy's fingers had itched to snatch the gun and shoot the bastard himself—ending Finn Collins's perpetual bullshit for good.

It seemed Finn had dangerously miscalculated his standing in Bellamy's world, underestimating the thin lifeline extended to him by Bellamy's own hand. Finn's survival dangled not on a whim of mercy, but on a sharp, deliberate choice from Bellamy, a decision carved from deep-seated responsibility rather than compassion. He didn't particularly give a shit whether Finn lived or not. The choice was no simple act of self-control; it was a monumental effort of will—powered by the belief that Haven deserved as many people in her life as humanly possible.

And if they were to have any hope of mending what was broken, any opportunity to reunite with their friends . . . Finn needed to get his shit together.

        But it was too late.

After a moment of relenting his beating, allowing the Grounder to draw them a map to the village that allegedly harbored their friends . . . Finn had shot the Grounder in the head.

And in the raw, twisted core of it all . . . Bellamy understood it—the darkness that could drive a grown man to such extremes, let alone an eighteen-year-old war veteran.

"What if it was Haven's locket around his neck, Bellamy?! What would YOU have done to him—?!"

Finn's words, sharp and accusatory, echoed in Bellamy's mind, reverberating like the aftershocks of some deep, seismic rupture. As he sifted through the remnants of the previous day, those words stood out the starkest, sinking their claws deep into his psyche and whispering an unsettling truth.

. . . He would've shot the Grounder, too.

        Bellamy's indignation roared within him, a firestorm fueled by the parallels between Finn's current descent and his own turbulent beginnings on Earth. It was as if Finn had become an unrelenting echo of Bellamy's earlier self—reckless, blinded by grief, and disfigured by a primal urge to protect at all costs. Every rash decision Finn made, every boundary he overstepped, was a dark mirror reflecting Bellamy's own past sins—an agonizing reminder of the desperate, often misguided lengths to which he had once gone.

It was unbearable.

The more Finn spiraled, the more Bellamy was forced to confront the darkest aspects of himself—those raw, unrefined edges that had once pushed him to the brink of humanity. It was a reflection he could neither escape nor deny, a specter of his past that now haunted him in the form of another, driving him to the edge of reason with its unnerving familiarity.

        Still . . . Bellamy Blake was smarter than Finn fucking Collins.

        He had assumed that the map was a trap anyway—the Grounder had only sketched it under the extreme duress of Finn's gun pressed to his temple. But if the village did turn out to be a trap, if their friends hadn't been taken by the Grounders, if they hadn't found refuge by the ocean's edge . . . then Bellamy knew they had to confront a more sinister possibility.

        The Mountain Men.

        The very people that Haven had once warned him about.

        He had achingly mulled over the thought on their trek toward the Grounder village. This elusive group, distinct and detached from the familiar wood-dwelling Grounders, remained shrouded in mystery, their true nature and intentions cloaked in the shadows of rumor and fear. Their potential involvement introduced an entirely new level of threat—a sophisticated and possibly more dangerous adversary lurking beyond the known perils of the forest.

        But, before Bellamy could voice his apprehensions to the others, the dense underbrush gave way to reveal a devastating atrocity—a new wreckage, strewn across their path.

        Factory Station.

        . . . His home.

        The earth was sown with the stark remnants of lives abruptly ended, their bodies arrayed in morbid postures of despair, twisted and contorted along the path that led toward the village. Each step crunched over fragments of Bellamy's past; the once familiar corridors and alcoves of Factory Station now lay as ash-grey ruins beneath their feet, echoing the ghostly whispers of days gone by while forever silencing the futures that would never come to pass.

At the journey's edge, where soil met the abrupt descent of a cliffside, the search group came to a mournful standstill. Below them, the heart of Factory had met its end against the jagged rocks, a violent cradle for the remnants of Bellamy's world. Here, suspended between the echoes of the past and the silent scream of the abyss, the group paused—a solemn vigil for the lives dashed against the cliff's harsh face, their loss etched into the very landscape that had claimed them.

        But Bellamy wasn't the only one from Factory.

        So was Orion.

        . . . And her mom.

Naomi Vincetta emerged as the unlikely sole survivor from the crash of Factory, a twist of fate that defied her daughter's darkest assumptions. Contrary to popular belief—she had not been aboard the Exodus Ship as it met its fiery demise; instead, fate had cruelly deposited her in the midst of Factory's downfall. Dangling precariously from a gnarled root against the cliff's wall, Naomi battled fiercely against the abyss, each moment a defiance of the void that roared hungrily beneath her, eager to swallow her whole.

Orion had instinctively erupted into a soul-shattering shriek, a visceral outcry wrenched from the very depths of her soul—piercing the air with such ferocity that Bellamy staggered under its intensity. Before he could even blink, Orion had already surged forward, her upper body recklessly extending over the cliff's edge in a frantic, blind attempt to reach her mother below. Had it not been for Bellamy's swift dive to grasp her torso, coupled with Murphy's steel-like hold on her ankles, Orion would have plummeted . . . joining her mother in the race against death, or becoming death itself.

        Finn had wanted to leave Naomi behind.

        And as badly as Bellamy had longed to keep searching for his friends, for Haven . . . he clung to a fragile thread of hope—that she was somehow managing on her own, waiting for him, while also fucking shit up. He harbored a fervent belief in her resilience, knowing all too well that if he did find her alive, she would fucking kill him for abandoning Orion's only family.

        His mind had already been made up from the moment he heard Orion's harrowing scream.

        So, they made a plan.

Utilizing seatbelts and strips of cloth scavenged from the crash site, the group had assembled a makeshift rope. Sterling quickly volunteered to brave the jagged descent and rescue Naomi. Bellamy had initially stepped forward, eager to take on the task himself, but his offer was sharply and decisively rejected. Given Sterling's lighter build and agility, he would exert far less stress on their improvised rope and could navigate the terrain more swiftly.

Additionally, the group had unanimously decided to spare Bellamy from further exertion, mindful of his stupid brain bleed—a condition that had increasingly seen him lagging behind rather than leading.

Despite feeling like a seething child forced into timeout, Bellamy watched as their plan initially unfolded without a hitch. Sterling had skillfully made his way down the cliffside, halting just mere feet away from Orion's shaken mother, but then . . .

The rope snapped.

Sterling's fall had been fatal.

Yet, Naomi lived.

. . . And Bellamy had been the one to save her.

        Refusing to let Sterling's death be in vain—Bellamy had launched himself down the cliffside, fighting against the cataclysmic tidal wave of agony that his concussion hurled at him. His life had quite literally hung by the frayed threads of the same makeshift rope that had just failed Sterling. Gritting his teeth against the relentless assault of disorientation, Bellamy had relied solely on his rapidly depleting reserves of strength . . . and on John fucking Murphy, who worked furiously above to haul the duo back to safety.

        It wouldn't be the first time Murphy had saved Bellamy's life that day.

        Once Bellamy and Naomi had been wrenched back over the precipice, far from the abyss's open mouth, Bellamy's consciousness began to fray at the edges. Everything had gotten fuzzy. He had crumpled to the gravel, his body a broken vessel, drained and devastated from the ordeal of bearing Orion's mother across the jagged teeth of danger. But as his world dimmed, it had been cruelly ignited again by the sharp sting of another memory—a sudden, vicious assault by the Grounders, because . . . of course.

And yet, amidst the chaos, salvation came from an unexpected source—the haunting wail of the acid fog horn, sounded by none other than Bellamy's little sister. Octavia's timely intervention had forced the Grounders to halt their onslaught, saving the lives of her brother and his companions just as all seemed lost.

Their next course of action was to split.

        Finn and Murphy—armed—would set a course for the village sketched in the west on their frayed map, while Bellamy and Octavia would carve their path eastward, guiding the battered remnants of their group to the mid-point of Camp Jaha before departing for the mountains. Monroe had gotten struck by an arrow in her thigh. Naomi's hands were shredded, bloodied from her desperate grip on the life-saving tree root. Everybody was bone-tired, dehydrated . . . the Blake boy had no choice but to lead his wounded back to camp.

Well . . . technically, Octavia led them back.

        Bellamy sucked at geometry.
    
        . . . Geography?

        Whatever. Whatever.

        But with Octavia by his side, whose secret sneak-aways had honed her skills into those of a seasoned tracker—Bellamy felt a surge of confidence in their decision to split the group. Her intimate knowledge of the terrain was their secret weapon. He was uncertain of the exact paths she would choose through the treacherous mountain ranges, yet he trusted her almost implicitly. If his dark suspicions about the Mountain Men were correct, they needed to delve into the heart of their territory and uncover the truth—now.

        Time was slipping.

        And the stakes were mounting.

       If Haven was out there . . .

        Bellamy would challenge the very earth itself, shifting the colossal mass of the mountains with nothing but his raw, undying rage. He'd smash the obstinate rocks into submission, grinding them into dust beneath his fists, demanding they yield . . . forcing them to reveal the path that led to her.

        It was a shot in the dark.

But splitting up was a necessary risk. To stand any chance of finding their friends amidst the unknown, the survivors needed to disperse, to scour the land, to probe every hidden crevice and shadowed path—then reconvene, pooling whatever clues or hope they could gather.

And if they failed?

. . . They wouldn't.

        They would find their friends—or they would forge a path through impossibility itself.

        "C'mon, Blake! Pick up the freakin' pace!"

        Which, led them to now.

Instead of retracing their steps to the familiar terrain of the dropship, Bellamy and his half of the group found themselves navigating the newly erected boundaries of Camp Jaha. The fences, sprung up seemingly from nowhere, bristled with electric wires that hissed with the same cruel bite as the Guard's shock batons. It felt like stepping through a portal into an alternate dimension, where the past collided violently with the present—a stark, jarring fusion.

        Their predicament remained fucked as ever; only now, it seemed the entirety of the goddamn Ark had descended to share in their twisted reality.

        "You're moving slower than my Nani," Orion continued. "And she's dead."

Trailing just a few feet ahead of Bellamy and Octavia, Orion moved in perfect sync with her mother, supporting Naomi as she draped a weary arm across her daughter's shoulders. As they progressed beyond the front gates, Bellamy fondly observed the duo from behind, struck by just how vividly Orion mirrored her mother. The wild mane of hair that cascaded down their backs, their statuesque height . . . the Vincetta women were nearly identical.

Naomi's scolding was instinctive. "Ori."

"What—? It's true!" Orion countered, slowing to a decisive halt as she maneuvered her mother's form, easing her onto a makeshift seat beside Jackson's Med-Tent. "Sorry, Mom. But she was like, totally decrepit when she croaked. Blake's a big boy—not a Grandpa."

        Naomi shot her a terse glare.

        Orion merely shrugged.

        "Forgive her," Naomi pleaded wearily. She extended a bandaged hand towards Bellamy's forearm, gripping it with a strength that belied her fading vitality—yet laden with utmost gratitude. "Thank you again for saving me, Bellamy. I'm..." Her breath hitched. "...I'm very sorry about your friend."

        Bellamy could still hear Sterling's scream.

        And if he stared at the ground beneath his feet for long enough, it began to warp into the morbid portrait of the cliffside all over again. Each glance recreated the horror of Sterling's form hurtling towards the jagged rocks below. It was a grim mirror of the night that Charlotte had leaped into the abyss—only now, the merciful shroud of darkness and the blur of rain that had once obscured the finality of death were absent.

        This time, Bellamy had seen everything.

        Sterling's neck had snapped.

        . . . He failed to save both of them.

        Bellamy coaxed a fragile smile onto his lips, a ghostly echo of warmth in the shadow of his grief. "Anytime, Ms. Vincetta," he managed, gesturing towards the blue tent beside them with a head tilt. "Monroe can take you to meet Jackson. He'll stitch up your hands."

        "Lord knows I need it," Naomi exhaled, a trace of wry humor flecking her tone as she eased her grip from Bellamy's forearm. She frowned as she observed the fresh crimson blooms that had begun to seep through her bandaged palms. "You'll be seeing him after me, right?"

        Bellamy blinked. "Uh—"

        Before Bellamy could shape his words, a sudden force collided with his torso, hurling his fragile equilibrium into further disarray. Arms locked fiercely around his shoulders, wisps of indiscernible hair veiled his vision, plunging him into momentary darkness as he grappled with his disorientation. His body went rigid, rooted to the spot, as his mind surged desperately to recognize the embrace, the scent, the contours, the breath. Desperation clung to him, a silent prayer pulsing in his heart, hoping against all odds that it was her—the girl he loved—whose presence had suddenly, miraculously enveloped him.

        . . . It wasn't.

        It was Clarke.

        She was alive.

        Bellamy swiftly returned the hug to his co-leader before disentangling himself, holding the blonde at arm's length as he peered frantically beyond her shoulders. Through the swirling haze of the encampment, his vision darted, searching, desperate to feel even the slightest tug of Haven's familiar gravity.

        "Where—"

        "Haven's alive," Clarke affirmed breathlessly. "She's alive."

        Upon hearing those words—Bellamy felt his knees buckle, the earth almost claiming him in its embrace as the weight of his relief threatened to unravel him. Clarke's words washed over him like a holy sacrament, anointing him with a salvation so profound it nearly brought tears to his eyes. He could feel a fragile shard of his heart, long dislodged by worry, slowly slide back into its rightful place, anchored solely by the lifeline of Haven's survival.

        Alive. Alive. Alive.

        But what about safe—?

        "We're glad you're alive, Blondie," Orion hummed, smoothtly retracting from the warm embrace that Clarke had extended to her and Octavia. Then, her tone sharpened—honing into a keen edge of urgency. "Now, where the hell is our girl?"

        Meanwhile, Bellamy's gaze remained fiercely locked on the scattered remnants of the camp, his eyes tirelessly sweeping through the occupants for the familiar sight of long, obsidian locs. "I-Is she okay? Is she hurt?" he asked shakily, his legs involuntarily propelling him forward. "Is she in your mom's Med-Tent—?"

        Clarke sighed. "Bellamy..."

        "How long have you guys been back for? How's her shoulder doing?"

        "Bellamy—"

        "How much blood did she lose? Did anybody else see it—?"

        "Bellamy...she's not here."

        The words fell like stones into the stillness, and just as his relief had once swelled . . . it now lay shattered, its fragments cruel and sharp. The sudden desolation of it all threatened to crush Bellamy to the ground once more. Except, this time, it wasn't relief that nearly broke him, but a familiar, engulfing hollowness and the inescapable ache of cold, biting terror. He spun on his heels, his eyes darting to Orion and Octavia, frantically grasping for something, anything—a sign, a word, a simple shake of the head that could deny the stark reality of Clarke's admission.

        Their stares were just as haunted as his own.

And by the time Bellamy's wild eyes finally shifted back to Clarke . . .

        He stared at her, broken.

        "What?" he whispered.

        Clarke drew in a shuddering breath. "Mount Weather—it exists," she began cautiously, stress laden in every scrape and bruise adorning her pale features. "All of us were drugged and brought there. The others are alive...but so are the Mountain Men." Each word was laced with trepidation as she cautiously began to unveil the truth. "And they're doing human trials on the Grounders. Experimenting. Killing. I-I think they're harvesting their blood to perform blood transfusions and survive radiation."

        Bellamy stood frozen.

        His shock wasn't rooted in the grim validation of his suspicions about the Mountain Men—a reality that emerged far darker and more sinister than anything he had ever envisioned. Nor was it tied to the bitter relief that his friends were alive, albeit as captives, subjected to drugging and coercion. It wasn't even the dire circumstances of the Grounders that anchored his horror.

        It was a single, haunting word that transcended all others, reverberating through his mind with the cold clarity of a death knell tolling in the dead of night.

. . . Experimenting.

Orion clenched her jaw. "Okay...but what does any of that have to do with Haven? Where is she?"
       
"I had a really bad idea to get us into Medical," Clarke admitted shakily, averting her eyes as she felt the weight of the trio's collective stare. "We were trying to figure out how the blood transfusions worked. The doctor there, she was aware of Haven's medical history...all of the times she's died. I-I asked her...." She paused, swallowing hard, the gravity of the admission seeming to choke the air from her lungs. "I asked her to fake a flare-up."

Bellamy's vision was warped by blood.

"...You did what?"

Orion's words were frostbitten. "Clarke..."

Clarke did not dare to meet their eyes. "Everything was going according to plan, and then she had this...episode," she murmured, her hands twisting into anxious knots, the knuckles blanching. "I think it started as a panic attack, but then it turned into a seizure, and—"

"A seizure—?!" Orion's voice cracked through the tense atmosphere, eyes wide and flashing with alarm as she found the words that Bellamy couldn't—his own voice strangled beneath a vicious torrent of curses. "W-What? How? How the fuck—"

"Bellamy had one too," Octavia chimed in.

"Allegedly," Bellamy hissed. "Is Ha—"

"Allegedly my ass," Octavia retorted, pinning her older brother with a blistering glare. After a charged pause, her fierce eyes swung back to Clarke, whose face now appeared ghostly—as if the very blood had been leached from her veins. "Two minutes and thirteen seconds long. Orion timed it. I-It was real...and we all saw it."

Bellamy was utterly fucking baffled by Octavia's decision to dredge up his fleeting lapse in consciousness at a time like this. To him, the incident—a fuzzy blip that had flitted across his consciousness after the grueling ascent with Naomi—was nothing more than a brief moment of weakness. His subsequent collapse onto the harsh, unforgiving gravel had been swiftly labeled a seizure—an interpretation that he found grossly exaggerated.

        The group claimed his eyes had rolled back, that his body had convulsed and shuddered against the gritty earth. But Bellamy had no memory of it; he hadn't witnessed the event through his own eyes—so how could he accept their account as truth? It felt like an overreach, a drastic melodrama spun out of concern, or perhaps overprotection due to his brain bleed. In his view, they were overreacting, coddling him, even infantilizing him, all of which distracted him from his primary mission: to continue the search for Haven . . . the one truly in need of their focus and care.

       Not him.

        "This isn't relevant," Bellamy seethed, casting Octavia a scathing glare of his own—irritation manifesting in every flash of his eyes as he shifted to press Clarke further. "Can you please just tell me if Haven's okay or not? Why...why isn't she with you?"

        Clarke remorsefully shook her head. "Everything happened so fast. The plan came into motion so quickly. We were desperate. I, I...."

         . . . She was dodging.

        She was fucking dodging.

        Bellamy's fists began to shake. "Clarke, so help me god—"

        "We were drugged afterwards, I think. Separated." Clarke averted her eyes once more, their pale blue depths finding refuge in the lifeless swath of dead grass underfoot, avoiding Bellamy's death stare at all costs. "When I woke up, I snooped around until I found her with the Grounders they're harvesting blood from. She was in a cage—"

        Octavia gasped. "A cage—?"

        "Oh my god," Orion's reaction was visceral, her body folding as she doubled over, hands pressing shakily against her kneecaps. Her breathing became ragged, each inhale an effort to quell the rising panic that thrashed within her chest. "Oh my god. I-I'm going to throw up."

        Bellamy remained murderously still.

"Don't..." he warned. "Don't tell me that you left her."

Clarke's eyes began to water. "I—"

"Don't you dare tell me that you left her in a goddamn CAGE!"

Bellamy's outcry erupted as an atrocious, vehement denial that surged through Camp Jaha with the unstoppable force of a battering ram. His words weren't loud enough to startle anyone—not yet—but they were drenched in a raw, piercing intensity that was impossible to ignore, capturing the attention of several onlookers. If they were staring at him, Bellamy certainly couldn't feel it; he couldn't feel anything other than his own blood igniting. A torrent of insidious terror rocketed within him, intertwined with a seething, violet-veined rage that clawed feverishly for escape—aching to shatter the veneer of control that held him tethered.

He stared at Clarke expectantly, his gaze desperate, almost pleading for her to rebuke the accusation he had flung into the wretched space between them.

Yet . . . all Bellamy received in return was Clarke's tortured stare—a look so saturated with guilt it seemed to poison the morbid silence among them.

. . . No.

No. No. No. No.

"Clarke..." Orion began lowly. "...Clarke!"

Finally, Clarke shattered the paralyzing grip of the moment, drawing in a tremulous breath as if surfacing from deep waters.

"Haven wanted to stay—"

"I don't care what she wanted!" Bellamy shot back. "How...how could you?! How could you just fucking leave her there—?!

"She gave me the distraction to sneak out alive," Clarke cut in weakly. "That way, I could find you guys and come back for her—for all of our friends in there," she paused, futilely attempting to wipe at the saltwater pooling at her lashline. "I tried to take her with me, Bellamy. I promise you. But she didn't want to leave the others behind."

. . . Of course she didn't.

Bellamy gritted his teeth. "I don't—"

"What distraction?"

The sound of Raven's interruption cut through the heated exchange, effectively halting the barrage of profanities poised to erupt from Bellamy's lips.

Through the scarlet veil tainting his vision, the Blake boy faintly managed to discern the mechanic's silhouette shifting into place between him and Orion. Her presence was a stark, defiant contrast to the paralyzing agony that had bound her just days prior. Miraculously, it seemed the unmedicated surgery to extract the bullet from her spine had triumphed; Raven stood as resilient as ever. Her posture was unbroken, jaw set like steel and arms crossed in a vigil of deep concern—clearly having caught every word of their volatile conversation.

Clarke visibly shrank. "She started a fight with the doctor in charge of it all—Tsing. But...I-I didn't stay long enough to—"

"Let me get this straight, Clarke," Bellamy's voice was a low, menacing rumble as he took a deliberate step closer, his presence charged like the air before a natural disaster—as if daring her to counter the fury of his hellfire. "You asked Haven to relive a trauma to ultimately benefit you. You forced her to have a fucking panic attack and..." His chest cracked at the mere mention of the word. "...seize. You got her into a cage. You let her save your ass, used her...only to leave her behind."

        "I'm sorry," Clarke managed, her voice fraying at the edges, threadbare from the strain as she fought to muster the remnants of her usual conviction. "It was a tough call. I-I didn't want to—but splitting up was her idea, and the best way to protect our friends. She was on board with all of it."

"No shit she was!" Orion exploded, snapping upright from her hunched position as if jolted by a surge of electric fury, eyes blazing with exasperation. "That's exactly the freakin' problem! You know her! You knew she would say yes either way!"

        "That's not Clarke's fault," Raven whispered.

        Bellamy's damning eyes instinctively snapped towards the girl beside him, his posture clenched tight, pinning her with the enormity of his death glare instead. "It isn't—?"

        Raven released an elongated breath. "Look—I'm pissed too. This is...fucked," she began, folding her arms tighter across her chest—a shield to bind the fragments of her composure. "But I know Haven better than all of you. This is exactly what she does. If it wasn't Clarke's idea, it would've been her own—and she definitely wouldn't want any of you wasting time arguing over this."

        But Bellamy was beyond the reach of her words.

        To him, Clarke and Raven's explanations were nothing but cruel, echoing justifications, a chorus of hollow defenses for why the girl he loved was repeatedly fucking betrayed time and again—left as an afterthought by those she would sacrifice everything for . . . endlessly, eternally.

        "You know that I'm right," Raven reasoned. "Tearing into Clarke isn't going to help us get to the bottom of helping Haven."

        Bellamy's jaw ticked. "Oh—it will."

        "It makes the most sense to have an inside man—someone who's aware of what's going on, instead of leaving the others clueless." Clarke spit out the words quickly, steeling herself against the tempest of Bellamy's looming fury, his objections gathering force like a firestorm about to implode. "She wanted this, Bellamy. She wanted to stay for our friends."

"And you couldn't have stayed for her—?!" Bellamy's retort was a raw, wretched scowl, dark eyes alight with a scorching disdain. "You couldn't have stuck around long enough to see if she would seize—again?! You couldn't have made sure the doctor didn't hurt her before you just...left her?! She would've NEVER left you!" His voice crescendoed with each syllable, thick with misery and rising thunderously, his torment painting the heavens pitch black. "She would've carried your body on her back, Clarke! But you left her with those monsters to DIE!"

"Do you think it was easy?" Clarke erupted, finally finding her voice—the fists at her side tightening in sheer exasperation rather than remorse. "Because it wasn't! I-I feel awful, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! But I trust her!"

"Everybody seems to trust her when her life is on the line and not theirs!" Bellamy snarled viciously. "All of you are so disgustingly careless with her—"

"That is not—"

"—and act like she's fucking immortal! She's not! She's not superhuman! She's not Vampira, or whatever cruel myth everybody has made her out to be! She's just—!"

"Bellamy, I didn't—"

"She's just a GIRL!"

        Silence had never been so loud.

        Only the ferocious howl of Bellamy's blood could be heard, a primal scream unfurling within the shadowed depths of his skull. Every heartbeat was a wardrum, violent and ugly, shaking the fragile cage of his mind, blurring the line between reality and the dark abyss of pain. His breaths came heavy and hard. The ground beneath him seemed to pitch and sway. He was so senselessly disfigured by his rage that he couldn't discern if it was his brain bleed . . . or the crushing gravity of his own fear that tilted the world beneath his feet.

        But he was far from done.

        "You haven't watched her die, Clarke!" Bellamy cried out, a raw, unfiltered blast of anguish that didn't care for restraint or the ears it might assail—indifferent to anything except the monster of his grief. "You weren't there in my tent when we had to ELECTROCUTE her to save her life! You weren't there when she died on the Ark. FIVE! TIMES! All because of..." He paused, a shuddering breath rattling his frame as he wrestled with the shadows of things best left unsaid. "She bleeds and she dies just like the rest of us! And the sooner you selfish, self-serving, colossal fucking idiots realize that—the better chance she has at actually staying alive! But that's only if she's not already dead—all because YOU. LEFT. HER."

        Nothing could be said after that.

        Nobody dared to speak.

        To challenge Bellamy Blake in his darkest hour was a death wish in itself.

Meanwhile, the girls orbiting around him stood eerily still, unsure of whether to risk breathing too loudly, or to offer Bellamy some semblance of . . . support. Clarke was utterly immobilized, her ability to move, think, or breathe seemingly snatched away by the raw force of Bellamy's indictment. Orion buried her head in her hands as she trembled, her fingers threading through her curls in a desperate bid to avoid lashing out. Beside her, Raven bared her teeth, glaring menacingly at any onlooker who dared to gaze too long in their direction.

Among them . . . only Octavia dared to bridge the gap, extending a tender, albeit futile, touch to her big brother's shoulder—a gesture of comfort she knew he was too lost to feel.

        His next words were a ragged whisper.

        "...Did they hurt her?"

Clarke vehemently shook her head. "No. No. I-I don't think so. Haven was..." She paused, swallowing thickly, grappling with the weight of her next words. "...I don't know if it's a good idea to share this anymore."

        "Go ahead, Clarke." Orion hissed. "Talk."

        "She was prepped for harvesting...barely clothed," Clarke confessed quietly. "But I don't think they touched her. I didn't see any blood or entry wounds. She was alert."

        Bellamy almost flinched.

        Prepped for harvesting.

        . . . Barely clothed.

        The image of the girl he loved, stripped and vulnerable, caged like an animal within the cold, merciless heart of a mountain, was anathema to Bellamy. It seared his mind's eye—a brutal, unbidden assault. The thought of her, exposed and prepped for another round of cruel experiments, he couldn't . . . he couldn't stomach it. Nausea clawed savagely at his insides, igniting a visceral revulsion that roiled his stomach, scorching his throat with acidic bile.

His wrath no longer targeted merely his co-leader, nor was it merely about his own terror. It had crystallized into a sharp, deadly resolve—hardening with each pulsing throb of his racing heart.

        Bellamy was going to kill somebody.

        . . . Actually, everybody.

He was going to infiltrate that treacherous Mountain and kill every fucking person in sight.

"Raven's right. We're wasting time." His voice was rough, each word like gravel dragged across asphalt, barely more than a strained whisper as he fought for control over his breathing. "Clarke...you need to lead us back there. Now."

Then, he stormed towards the gate.

Clarke bound after him without thought. "Bellamy, just wait!" she pleaded, her boots pounding against the ground in a light jog to keep pace with his death march. "I want to help her too, okay? But we need to plan this strategically. It's going to take an entire operation—"

"Then I'll go by my damn self!"

        "Bellamy—!"

        "Octavia, Orion—LET'S GO!" Bellamy's head snapped over his shoulder, wild eyes catching the sight of both younger girls already in motion, brandishing their twin swords as Raven raced to catch up. "Don't worry, Clarke. We already know our way around. We spent the last two days searching everywhere for you, courtesy of your monster of a mother—"

        "I-I didn't—"

        "So, really, I guess it's fucking fitting that you're fine with Haven being prepped to be experimented on, left to die—"

        "I didn't know that my mom hurt her!"

Bellamy froze.

Rigidly, he pivoted on his heels, grounding to a decisive halt as he absorbed the full force of Clarke's tearful stare. His co-leader stood defiantly before him, saltwater cascading freely down her cheeks, yet her chin was lifted . . . her voice unwavering despite the anguish that wracked her frame.

"I don't know the details. But if I had known..." Clarke's voice trailed off as she sucked in another tremulous inhale. "I would've never asked her to fake the flare-up. I'll be sorry for it for the rest of my life—but I already apologized to her for that. As for leaving her behind...I know that I screwed up. I-I could've figured something else out." A shadow crossed her features as she firmly stood her ground. "But it's you that refuses to let this go, Bellamy—not her."

Slowly, the incendinary fire of Bellamy's rage dimmed to a smoldering ember, its intense heat turning inward, scalding his conscience. The volatile wrath once directed at Clarke now seared through his own veins . . . scorching with self-recrimination.

He knew Clarke had tried her best.

He knew it.

. . . But it wasn't enough for him. Not yet.

His tongue felt like ash. "I—"

"And if you'd let me get a single word in—you'd know that she was only in the cage because of her mom."

Bellamy blinked.

"What—?"

        Four pairs of wide eyes converged upon the Griffin girl as they absorbed the gravity of her admission, uttering the word in perfect synchronization. It was an open secret among them that Haven's mother was long dead—particularly known to Raven and Bellamy, as most of their group bore the scars of being involuntarily orphaned by the cruel laws of the Ark. As for those who didn't share the close bonds of friendship with Haven . . . the legend of Dahlia Smith's lunacy still whispered like a ghost through the steel veins of the Ark, casting dark shadows even into the hushed conversations of the Guard's Unit.

        Bellamy suddenly wondered if the bruises marring Clarke's temple were a direct result of concussion or not, because clearly—she had to be hallucinating ghosts.

       . . . Right?

        "Dahlia was the one who drugged us and got us separated in the first place," Clarke admitted gravely. "She's alive—and she works for the Mountain Men."

        What. The. Fuck.

        . . . What the fuck?

       Cold, paralyzing shock coursed through Bellamy, a frigid serpent winding through the marrow of his bones, entwining itself into the very strands of his DNA. Perhaps Clarke wasn't concussed after all. Maybe it was his own brain bleed deceiving him with cruel illusions. Because surely, this reality was far too twisted to accept. Not only was Haven trapped within the grim confines of Mount Weather, a victim marked for the Mountain Men's sinister extractions.

        But now, in a cruel twist of fate, her presumed-dead mother was alive—more shockingly, she was the architect of her own daughter's nightmare.
       
        True to her earlier warning, Orion lunged toward the nearest bush and retched—overwhelmed by the barrage of harrowing revelations. Raven was immediately at her side, her hands deftly gathering the wild tangle of Orion's hair away from her face. Octavia, meanwhile, kept a respectful distance, her face twisted in a grimace as she reached out to rub Orion's back.

        Bellamy's stomach wasn't far behind.

        This was . . . sickening.

"Radio Five! Movement detected near the caverns! Requesting backup—immediately!"

Just as Bellamy parted his lips to speak, the air was violently shattered by the desperate crackle of radio chatter. It erupted from the guards stationed at the gate, a stark, piercing intrusion. The five friends froze, their bodies tensed like coiled springs, necks craned toward the urgent, disembodied voice that sliced through the airwaves.

"...Sergeant Miller, you seeing this, Sir?"

Patrolling nearby the gate, Scanlon—the guard notorious for having shock-lashed Bellamy six times after his escape from the dropship—reached for his walkie. "Seeing what? Over."

"Affirmative. Black war paint has been spotted near the north field as well." A third voice—unmistakably David's—warbled through the static. "Don't piss your pants, Burke. No threats detected. It doesn't seem to be intentionally drawn as a barrier. It's too messy. Just looks like...blood."

Bellamy's heart plummeted.

. . . Haven.

        Haven. Haven. Haven.

Before his lungs could claim another breath, Bellamy was already a blur of motion, his legs propelling him into a full-fledged sprint. He surged through the sea of unsuspecting citizens, his focus laser-sharp as he headed toward a secret destination only he knew. Reaching a familiar tree stump, he upended it with a desperate ferocity, revealing the hidden rescue pack that Jackson had covertly stashed there—a precaution for emergencies related to Haven.

The pack spilled open to reveal an array of various medical supplies . . . and a defibrillator.

Then, he effortlessly slung the pack over his trembling shoulders—dust and grass shredding beneath his every footfall as Bellamy bolted for the gate.

"LET'S GO!"

"Right behind you, Blake!"

Bellamy hurtled toward the exit like a hellhound unleashed, his entire essence consumed by the necessity of sheer speed. He dared not glance backward, his lungs burning, thoughts scattering—all distilled into the singular, desperate act of acceleration. In the periphery of his strained vision, his sister's form darted forward, while Orion, Clarke, and Raven trailed from behind . . . as quickly as they could muster. Raven's limp had been noticeable even from afar, and although Bellamy feared the impairment would only slow them down—Orion didn't seem to mind.

        She carried the Reyes girl on her back.

        "HEY!" Scanlan thundered, charging in the direction of the fleeing group with his features twisted into an authoritative scowl. "By order of the Exodus Charter—"

        Unflinchingly, Bellamy launched his fist forward, connecting with a devastating blow to Scanlon's fucklet of a face.

        The sheer force of the impact, magnified by his momentum, sent the guard staggering backward with unrelenting force. Scanlon collided with the electric fence in seconds, a vicious sizzle of electricity enveloping him as he convulsed, swiftly immobilized by the merciless current that coursed through his veins.

        Bellamy stole the bastard's gun next.

        "HA!" Orion erupted into a fit of cackles as she soared past the sight. "By order of the Exodus Charter—GET FUCKED, BITCH!"

Soon enough, Bellamy found himself leading the group of girls through the now unguarded gate, ripping into the open expanse of greenery like a bullet fired into the wind. His concussion faded to a mere shadow beneath the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Urged by blind desperation, he plunged towards the caverns, furiously carving his way through the dense underbrush. The world around him melded into a blur of verdant hues, yet his vision remained unclouded, warfully fixed on one singular obsession—the desperate, all-consuming drive to reunite with the girl he loved.

If the radio chatter they'd intercepted was anything to go by, it merely confirmed the guards' stupidity—an advantage for their group and a lifeline for Haven. Grounders, unlike the guards' foolish assumptions, didn't use war paint for strategic maneuvers in battle, nor did they delineate their territories with anything as stupid as paint; their borders were starkly defined by the grim skeletons of those who had dared to invade . . . and failed.

And if Clarke had successfully managed to slip away from the harvesting room—the same place where she had left Haven—then maybe, just maybe . . . Haven might have orchestrated her own escape as well.

It had to be her blood out there.

. . . It had to.

They just needed to reach her before the guards.

"THERE!"

The sound of Octavia's urgent shout cleaved through the howling in Bellamy's ears, abruptly steering his thunderous steps away from their initial path and onto a sinister trail of blood.

Dark liquid meandered through the dead leaves carpeting the forest floor, the black ichor stark against the muted orange and brown hues, marking an unmistakable path of the onyx lifeforce. At first, the trail was chaotic—a scattered mosaic of obsidian that threw the group into disarray, spiraling like phantoms chasing their own shadows, but then . . .

. . . No.

No. No. No. No.

A singular loc of hair caught his attention.

Except, this was not the familiar loc that swayed freely in the breeze, its silhouette etched permanently into his memory, an integral part of the beautiful head of hair that Bellamy knew as well as his own heartbeats. Instead, this loc lay ominously still, emerging grimly from beneath a large mound of leaves in the distance . . . peering out from the summit of the heap as though marking a grave.

        As if somebody had been buried beneath it.

        Bellamy ran as if his body had no bounds.

        Because it didn't.

All at once, Bellamy found himself supercharged with the same supernatural velocity that had once made him a specter of speed aboard the Ark. His limbs numbed, his heart roared, forging his mortal shell into a bolt of lightning incarnate. Every cell and every instinct in his body was ethereal, electric, ignited by the singular desire to reach her—the seething teenage girl he had first fallen for, the one who more often lay crumpled on the ground than standing upright . . . lifelessly awaiting his arrival, depending on him to whisk her into Medical.

        Not again.

        "CHECK HER PULSE!"

        By the time Orion's frantic shout permeated his consciousness—the Blake boy was already miles ahead in action. As he thundered forward, his sleeves were yanked back, baring his arms for the imminent, grim task of CPR. His heart pounded like a war drum under siege, throbbing with ruthless ferocity, yet braced for the shattering impact of potential loss. Unflinchingly, he charged towards the ominous mound of leaves, each step a defiant march against death, prepared to breathe life back into the very heart that had once awakened his own.

        Not again. Not again. Not again. Not —

"CHECK HER FUCKING PULSE!"

        Bellamy hurtled to the ground, his lungs gasping for air as he skidded to a jarring stop beside the sinister mound. Blood soaked the forest floor beneath his knees, a hauntsome blanket drenched in ink black, every leaf a testament to the horror that unfolded. The familiar loc of stray hair—unmistakably Haven's—emerged like a morbid taunt, a grim omen poised to kill him on the spot.

        "BELLAMY—NOW!"

        Please, don't be dead.

        . . . Please.

        His heart seized, throttled by terror as he extended shaking hands toward the evidence, shifting to uncover the grim truth buried beneath.

And then . . .

Orion gasped. "What the fuck—?"

Beneath the blood-soaked canopy, there was nothing except the cold, barren embrace of the dirt and the solitary loc of hair.

        Relief flickered briefly in Bellamy's heart at the absence of Haven's body, yet his hands continued their manic dance through the mound—relentless, desperate, frantic. He was a man digging not for the tangible but for phantoms, for echoes of a presence that only seemed to mock him with its absence. His mind frayed at the edges, threading through the chaos in search of any sliver of comprehension, any clue that might unravel the spectral puzzle that sprawled before him.

        "It's a trick," Octavia panted, her breath coming in sharp, urgent bursts as she spun on her heels next to Bellamy's crouched form. Her eyes frantically scoured the dense treetops above, every muscle primed for movement. "It has to be a trick, or some Grounder war tactic. They're trying to lure us."

Once Bellamy was absolutely certain that Haven's body wouldn't miraculously emerge from beneath the foliage—he focused his instincts elsewhere, scanning the surroundings with utmost precision. He meticulously traced the foreboding path of blood, seeking its continuation—if it continued at all.

Slowly, dipped his fingers into the dark, viscous liquid pooled on a leaf, rubbing it thoughtfully between his forefinger and thumb.

The blood was still warm.

Grounders were a plethora of fucked up things, wielding battle tactics with such savage stealth that it often left Bellamy staggering in shock. They were not just fast and silent killers; they turned their carnage into a public spectacle, parading the bodies of the fallen as grisly trophies—a ghastly warning to any who dared defy them. If they had intended to use Haven's body as a weapon against them, they would have hung her among the trees, her corpse suspended as a sinister lure.

They would've watched, hidden, as Bellamy stumbled through his despair to reach her, to lunge for her . . . only to fall prey to their cruel trap.

        They wouldn't have buried her in leaves.

        And then . . . it clicked.

        "...She's trying to lure them," Bellamy whispered, the pieces slamming together with a clarity that was almost violent as he launched himself to his feet. "SPREAD OUT! With this much blood, she couldn't have gotten far! We're not leaving these fucking woods without her!"

Nobody paused to acknowledge Bellamy's command—the group dispersed fluidly after retrieving walkies from the pack, practically catapulting into motion, unwilling to waste another second spent immobile. Orion and Raven, a twin flock, slipped through the dimming afternoon light and raced towards the north field. Clarke and Octavia launched themselves toward the whispering riverbend. Bellamy delved into the caverns that loomed ominously nearby, his heart suspended in the ether, eyes relentlessly peeled.

       Each soul was tethered to a single, inexorable purpose—to pierce the veil of silence and shadow, desperate for any sign . . . any whisper of Haven's presence.

She had to be close.

She had to.

Rifle slung over his shoulders, its heft a grim counterbalance to the emergency pack, Bellamy plunged into the cavern's suffocating darkness, his eyes scouring every crevice and corner for signs of life. The rocks glistened ominously, slick with a substance that caught the dim light, mirroring the blood trail across the floor. Dropping to a crouch, he pressed his fingertips to the dual stains, his heart lurching as he realized they were starkly different hues. Black blood was smeared along the walls at shoulder height—precisely Haven's height—while a deep crimson snaked across the gritty floor.

She must've gotten into a fight.

She must've been hurt.

Yet, the tale told by the blood—one trail high, one trail low—spoke of a truth that momentarily eased the panic in his chest: Haven had not only fought . . . she had wiped her adversary across the goddamn floor.

        Atta' girl.

Still, Bellamy denied himself any semblance of relief—not until he could verify her survival with his own eyes. He barreled through the caverns, vision tunneling, breaths shallow and ragged, every sense strained to its limit in search of the subtlest hint of her essence. His focus was so intensely riveted on tracing the blood trail that he hardly even noticed the cave walls receding or the light warping at the exit. It was only when his boots struck a solid, unmistakably human obstacle that he realized what lay at his feet.

It was a Grounder.

. . . Dead.

Amidst the carnage, Bellamy's gaze snagged on the cold glint of a bullet casing nestled against the dark, viscous blood. The fallen warrior had met a ruthless end, a bullet piercing squarely between his eyes. His skull was a shattered relic, a brutal mosaic of bone fragments and brain matter splattered across the cave floor. Scarlet blood pooled thickly, seeping into the earth, evidently marking the end of the trail.

But if he was shot, that implied one of the guards had done the deed, not Haven. The event would have undoubtedly stirred the radio waves with chatter, and no guard would simply abandon a body unless . . . unless Haven had somehow managed to find a firearm, firing the fatal shot herself.

Maybe she was the one who had orchestrated this morbid scene, deliberately drawing the Grounders through the caverns with a bloody breadcrumb trail, ensnaring them in a lethal ruse designed to lure, trap, and kill them, but . . .

He felt her before he saw her.

Driven by the particles of his blood that ignited only within Haven's presence—Bellamy's head snapped upwards, his heart sputtering desperately with the blind hope of catching her face . . .

. . . only to find himself staring down the cold, dark barrel of a pistol, its mouth framed by wild and unmistakably familiar brown eyes.

The sharp, resonant click of a trigger was being pulled before Bellamy could even draw breath.

He refused to flinch.

       Every survival instinct Bellamy had honed over the last month receded into white noise, soundless and numbing. No semblance of danger registered within him, even with the grim certainty of a pistol aimed unerringly at his chest. Time stretched and elongated. Fear of death lost its grip. His every cell hovered in suspension, almost transcendent, caught in the rapture of her survival. If this was how Bellamy Blake was fated to meet his grand end, dying at the hands of the girl whose heartbeat had become his lifeline . . . then so be it.

But the shot never came.

        The chamber was empty.

. . . And Haven was alive.

        Clutching the pistol like a crucifix, Haven Grey Smith stood mere footfalls away from him, her entire being pulsating with the flush of life. Half-naked, she was draped in what remained of a shredded white fabric, barely covering her hips and chest, hastily fashioned into a makeshift bandage around her profusely bleeding shoulder. Alien blood adorned her hardened features, tracing cruel rivulets of deep scarlet and onyx that emerged from the raw flesh of her shoulders, cascading elegantly down to her shivering, blood-kissed legs.

        She was a vision of destruction made flesh.

        And she was achingly, devastatingly beautiful.

Something elusive flashed across Haven's wild eyes as she stared Bellamy down, her scrutiny alone lethal enough to strike him dead on the spot. Yet, as her fingers tightened unwaveringly around the grip of her gun, seconds stretched into an agonizing eternity . . . it became dreadfully clear that she didn't recognize him.

        Bellamy breathed her name like a prayer.

        "Haven..." he whispered. "...it's me."

        As Bellamy dared to bridge the gap with a cautious step forward, the gun in her scarlet-smeared hands began to tremble, her finger wretchedly clutching the trigger even as the steel pressed firmly against his chest. She blinked furiously, her pupils dilated with a haunted disbelief, as if she were seeing a ghost—his ghost. It echoed the same spellbound stillness that had ensnared him a month ago when he had first laid eyes on her—a moment eternally suspended, now reflected right back at him.

        "It's me."

        Another step. Another. Another.

        "I-It's just me, Hav."

        The gun fell to the leaves below.

        "...Bell?"

        The sacred sound of his name on Haven's lips nearly sank Bellamy to his knees. Despite this, he sternly denied himself the collapse he so achingly desired. His legs shook as he bridged the final tormenting distance between them. Cautiously, he extended his hands towards her, wary of scaring her, or hurting her . . . yet helplessly, selfishly captivated by her presence, utterly and forever defenseless to the lure of her magnetism.

        And then . . .

        She was soaring into his arms.

        Every atom that had spun wildly out of sync during their separation suddenly fused, electrified and igniting into life as her arms entwined around his neck and his clasped fiercely around her back. The sheer force of her embrace was so profound, so all-encompassing, that Bellamy was swept inexorably downward, a cascade of leaves cushioning their fall. He hardly registered the earth's hard kiss against his spine; his consciousness was saturated with her presence, his entire being consumed wholly by the feel of her—only her, drenching his senses, permeating his every thought.

        He held her as if she were spun from dreams.

"Y-You're real." Haven's words emerged as a breathless pant against the crook of his neck, her cheek pressed flush against his as Bellamy shifted them to a seated position. She blinked rapidly, utterly defenseless against the saltwater eclipsing her eyes as she withdrew, drinking in every line and shadow of his face from the cradle of his lap. "You're real. I-I thought you were dead—"

        "I'm right here," Bellamy whispered shakily. "It's okay. I-It's okay, Hav. You're okay. We're okay."

        Every dormant whisper of affection Bellamy had harbored since the day he had realized she was alive now erupted with seismic force, threatening to unseat them both. He clutched her with a wild desperation, fingers weaving through her locs with a fervor that neared delirium, thumbs tenderly tracing the wet paths on her cheeks before lulling her back into his embrace. As her chin nestled against the curve of his shoulder, his spine forged into a pillar of steel, every muscle and fiber strained to its limit, wrestling with the monumental reality that she was here, she was alive . . . and he was holding her.

        He wouldn't let her go.

        He couldn't. He couldn't.

        The last time he'd seen her . . . she was laying half-dead beneath him.

        Haven almost choked as she fought to regulate her erratic breathing. "I..."

       "Shh," Bellamy cut in softly, easing back just enough to survey her, his watery eyes frantically assessing the severity of her injuries. "You're good, angel. You're okay." The intensity in his voice grew stronger with each reassurance, quivering with the fear of unseen wounds that his embrace might have aggravated. "You're okay. You're okay."

        "I..." Haven sputtered. "I-I love..."

        "I know." Bellamy retracted his arms from her trembling form only to discard his emergency pack and rifle, swiftly shrugging off his jacket and draping her in its protective warmth. "I know. Just save your energy, okay? Did I hurt you? H-How did you even.." His voice fractured, cracking beneath the agony of recognizing just how little clothing she was wearing. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry—"

Haven shook her head. "Bell..."

"I'm so sorry I let this happen to you." Hot, molten tears scorched Bellamy's eyes as he vehemently shook his head, each nod a violent rejection of his own failings. He nearly choked on the jagged edges of self-reproach that serrated his words, each syllable heavy and sodden with guilt, tumbling out in a desperate cascade. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you. I-I'm so sorry that I let her hurt you, I'm so—"

"Bellamy."

Soon enough, Bellamy's flood of remorse was stilled by the gentle press of Haven's fingers against his cheeks, her hands cradling his face as tenderly as the night sky cradles the moon. Her thumbs were impossibly soft, tracing soothing paths across his skin, as if spun from the very silk of the cosmos. Slowly, ever so slowly, he felt his resolve to remain composed before her began to ebb away, fragment by delicate fragment, dissolving into the shadows.

       In its place, her holy presence enveloped him, a serene light that bathed him in a celestial glow, compelling his body to be still, to just . . . be.

        "I love you," she whispered.

And then . . . he was shattering.

No longer able to sustain the weight of his own form, Bellamy slumped into Haven's embrace, his head collapsing upon her good shoulder as the tightly wound tension in his body began to unravel. Her fingers migrated from the tender terrain of his cheeks, finding sanctuary in the tangled curls at his nape, weaving through them with soothing familiarity. Tears flowed freely, his mingling with hers, tracing wet trails through his hair and rolling onto her neck as he finally . . . finally allowed the storm within him to burst.

This was what his body craved a month ago.

This cathartic cry of . . . relief.

       It was impossible for Bellamy to discern just how long they had sat like that, their limbs entwined in an eternal portrait of reunion, one that had been long overdue. Time had dissolved into the ether—minutes, hours, even days might have slipped by, and he wouldn't have noticed. His eyes were clamped shut, as if the mere act of opening them would shatter the fragile sanctuary they had carved out of the void.

Slowly, he lifted his head from the cradle of Haven's shoulder, his lips trembling as they sought the warmth of her skin, brushing against the nape of her neck. "I love you," he whispered back, mouth wandering to her jaw, her cheekbone, her temple—each kiss a fervent vow, as if he could imbue the declaration into her very being. "I love you. I love you. I love you." His breath caught. "I-I found you."

        Haven mustered a faint, fragile smile.

        "Technically...I trapped you."

         At that, Bellamy's grin ignited, an illumination of adoration and pride so profound it felt as though his very lips were aflame, seared by the heat of Haven's skin and enamored by her perpetual brilliance. It was the same incandescent pride that had surged through him on the night of the battle, the same fervent desire to adore her in boundless traces of his affection after her daring feat with the Repears. He couldn't have kissed her then, not when they were poised to run for their lives, but now . . .

        His mouth found hers in seconds.

        The world faded into ruins.

Nothing could disrupt the shimmering cocoon of warmth that encased them as his lips meshed against hers, his hand gliding from her back to rest tenderly at the curve of her neck. His fingers wove through the roots of her locs, drawing her incrementally closer with each gentle tug, yet his touch remained unbelievably soft. Each brush of his lips carried the weight of a thousand apologies—a silent confession of regrets for every moment he had overlooked her magic, every chance he had failed to cherish her presence.

       How could he ever possibly resist her?

How could he even try?

Abruptly, Haven tore herself away, her gasp cutting through their fleeting infinity with a sharpness that rattled Bellamy's bones. As she withdrew, his forehead collided with hers, the sudden impact reigniting the lingering throes of his concussion. Despite the surge of agony that tainted his vision, his eyes stayed wide, locked intently on her face, searching for any flicker of discomfort.

"What?" he asked frantically. "What? Did I hurt you—?"

"No. No. It's just...are the others okay?" Haven's eyes bulged as she finally tore her sights away from the boy she loved, instinctively scouring the foilage for any detection of her friends. Each name she uttered was punctuated with a growing worry, as if speaking them aloud might conjure their presence—or confirm their absence. "O-Orion? Octavia? What about Raven, and Finn? Did Clarke—"

"Hey. Hey, they're okay—all of them," Bellamy assured softly, allowing his hand to drift delicately from the nape of her neck and down to her lap, offering her thigh a tender, grounding squeeze. Utilizing his free hand, he deftly retrieved the walkie from the emergency pack. "You wanna do the honors—?"

Bellamy's words were silenced mid-breath as Haven, in a burst of startling energy, snatched the walkie-talkie from his grasp. A rich laugh tore from his throat as he marveled at her lively enthusiasm, beaming as her thumb jammed against the talk button—launching her voice into the airwaves with a smile as commanding as the sun itself.

"...Guess who's back from the dead."

        A beat passed.

"SHUT THE FUCK—!"

The unmistakable clamor of Orion's voice blasted through the static, erupting as a loud, blaring shout that made the walkie-talkie vibrate with the sheer intensity of her volume. In mere seconds, the forest itself seemed to respond; the ground beneath them shuddered, leaves trembled on their branches as if caught in a sudden gust, and then . . .

        "SHE LIVES! MY GIRL LIVES!"

       Smiling ear to ear—Orion burst through the underbrush, sprinting towards the duo with such fervor that she nearly tripped over a lone tree root. Undeterred, she launched herself at Haven's awaiting form, crushing her into an embrace so riotous that it forced Haven's spine against Bellamy's chest. The unexpected collision inadvertently shoved him backward, though his response was instinctive and swift: his arms shot out, encircling them both in a firm, stabilizing embrace, preventing a tumble that would have sent all three sprawling into the leaves.

        "Holy crap," Orion panted, utterly breathless, yet unfathomably relieved. The girls clung to each other as if they were the last survivors of a cataclysm. "Holy crap, Hav. The hell have you been up to out here? You...you look like shit!"

        Haven smiled. "Ditto," she shot back, though a sharp wince tore through her words as Orion's hand accidentally grazed the epicenter of her wounds. "Shoulder, shoulder..."

        Before Bellamy had the chance to intervene, Orion had already recoiled, her face contorted with remorse. "Fuck! Fuck! Sorry!" she blurted out, jerking her hands away from Haven and promptly sitting on them, seeking to imprison their impulsive energy. "I-I just missed you...and I'm so glad that you're alive, and I-I can't believe you left me with Blake's cranky ass, and I..." Her voice broke, choked with the weight of her emotions, her rapid-fire confession hanging thickly in the air. " I...love you, like, a lot, and I was so scared—"

        "No way. Don't let her trick you with...that," Bellamy cut in, prompting both girls to swivel their heads in his direction and blink in bewilderment. He rivaled their stares with a smug, devilish grin. "She cried when she saw me. Personally, I think she missed me more than you—"

        Once again, Bellamy found himself involuntarily reprimanded by Orion's presence—more specifically, her hand. Before he could reach the tail-end of his jest, Orion had already lunged forward, her arm sweeping over Haven's shoulder. She planted her hand squarely against his face, squishing his nose, nearly gouging out his eyes . . . and effectively shutting him the hell up.

"Stop..." he hissed out. "... doing that!"

Haven laughed. Loudly.

"See what I mean?" Orion jabbed, hardly sparing the Blake boy another glance, visibly unimpressed as he swatted her wrist away from his face with an agitated grunt. "I was freakin' miserable! I swear to god—this man has like, two functional braincells! One for you and the other for his gun!"

Before Bellamy could craft his customary rebuttal, the foilage suddenly rustled with the breathless arrival of his sister and Raven. Octavia, with Raven securely piggybacked, charged into the clearing with such exuberance that the air itself seemed to crackle. Their relief at the sight of Haven's presence was enough to crumble even the mightiest of fortresses. Unflinchingly, they collapsed into the thick carpet of leaves beside the trio, their bodies thudding softly against the earth.

        And soon enough . . . all five of them lay beneath the canopy's vast expanse, a sprawl of exhaustion and euphoria woven under the eyes of the ancient trees. Haven rested, her head cradled by the rhythmic sanctuary of Bellamy's heartbeat, eyes cast skyward as if to drink in the fresh air. Meanwhile, Orion's head found solace in Haven's lap, her limbs a careless sprawl over Raven and Octavia, a serpentine lattice of flesh and bone, breathing in unison—exhausted, yet bound by an invincible thread of relief.

        Clarke appeared last.

        Slowly . . . she emerged from the shadowed fringes of the woods, approaching her friends as if she were treading on sacred ground—fearful of rejection, unworthy of inclusion.

Upon noticing her timid demeanor, Haven's hand shot out, abruptly seizing Clarke's wrist and yanking her into the leaves alongside them. The blonde released an involuntary yelp as she smacked into Orion's foot, prompting Orion to reflexively kick Raven and Octavia—which then led to Octavia's elbow striking Bellamy with a sharp, unforeseen blow to the groin.

"FUCK—!"

        Yet, amidst this entwined chaos—a tangle of limbs twisted more complexly than ever, peppered with bursts of violent cursing—their laughter had never been louder.

And as Bellamy finally managed to blink away the agony veiling his vision, he became intimately aware of the sunlight bathing the girl he loved, crowning her just as it had on their first day on Earth. But now, the contours of her face were softened, devoid of the fierce scowls and clenched fists that had marked their earlier encounters. Gone was the guarded stance ready to strike; in its place, a lightness—a smile—one that he had once only dared to witness from a distance.

Now, Haven was . . . laughing.

She was curled against his chest, her body nestled against him as if sculpted to fit just so, her laughter a silver melody forged in the fires of unspeakable trials. As her mirth washed over him, Bellamy suddenly found himself wishing to capture its essence forever—to bottle the sound, to immortalize the fine crinkles beside her eyes. To trace the contours of her smile and cherish the revelation that he was somehow the reason why. To shine in the divine grace of her godlight until he met his maker. To die in her arms.

        To be.

To just . . . be.

• •

NINE CHAPTERS LATER... WE ARE SO BACK!

GUYSSSSSSSS omg i cant believe we made it. they've been apart for approximately 75k words if we include the word count until they reunite in this chapter....WHAT THE FUCK. why do i have tears in my eyes?? im so emotional writing this note post editing?? i'm so happy they're reunited but im also so happy to be done editing this. longest chapter yet. 😭 i've had the most awful week ever & i am hanging by ✨single thread✨ + the writers block for this chapter was INSANE. ive become so used to writing them apart that writing them together again was just wrecking me. i missed them so much!!! but we're back baby!

i know the intro was kinda reaaallly long but you have NO idea how badly i wanted to write out the antics of bellamy's group through his pov as their own chapters...like are you kidding?!?! murphy and orion?? finn and bellamy beef?? finding orions's mommy??? I WAS 🤏 this close to writing it but it would only keep bell & hav separated longer...and i dont think i wouldve handled that lol. so i tried to recap it in the most bellamy way possible. i think i can die in his pov.

PLUS.......HIS POV OF THEIR FIRST TIME ON THE GROUND🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭 i've had this planned for SO LONG for this chapter specifically!!! it was so brutal writing tho i was like punching my pillow screaming crying hurting my own feelings. going back and reading havens pov and comparing it side by side to his ...i was DONE. but i also really wanted to include his intro because of how it ties into the ending of this chapter too :,))) if you go back to Target Practice you'll see her checking out the wildflower patch again 🥹

i think one day imma make a bunch of miscellaneous one shot chapters of stuff like that ^ ^ that i wouldnt typically add for plot sake

BUT ANYWAAAAAAAY

next chapter 😏 lets just say we making up for lost time! lots of fluff and lots of other things! do with that information what you will! its basically just a a comfort/breather chapter after how angsty and MISERABLE everything has been. i wanted us to have some happiness before the rest of the s2 shitshow gets started😔 its also REALLY fucking long. dare i say like..significantly longer than this one...😭😭😭

I HOPE THIS WAS EVERYTHING YOU WISHED FOR!!! I LOVE YOU!!!! FOREVER EVER!!!!

<3

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