• •

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN;

AEOLUS AND ASTERIA.

• •

        STORM CLOUDS LOOMING OVERHEAD CAST THE SKY INTO A PERPETUAL TWILIGHT, even though the search party had returned well before nightfall. As they stumbled through the camp's borders, the once-blue horizon now wore a disquieting shade of grey, tainted by the approaching tempest. Forceful winds intertwined with the soft patter of raindrops, enveloping the surroundings in nature's imminent fury.

        In a stroke of luck, the rest of the group emerged unscathed from the cave, avoiding any further encounters with Grounders. Yet, the journey back felt twice as torturous as the journey there. Devoid of food, water, and energy, they were forced to practically crawl their way home. Three of them had been murdered, and an additional three bore noticeable injuries–one of which appeared to be fatal.

Since their fateful return, things had only gotten worse–a predictable descent into chaos, as usual.

        "You've gotta stay still, Haven."

         Haven sat tucked into a private corner of the dropship, forearm outstretched atop Raven's makeshift-work station. Maybe private wasn't the appropriate word; it was moreso the sole pocket of space untouched by rain-drenched teenagers. Raven diligently worked on reviving the dried-out radio on Haven's right, while Clarke focused on meticulously stitching her wound on her left.

"I said–stay still." Clarke warned.

The Smith girl couldn't help but emit a muffled groan, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as Clarke expertly wove the needle through her skin once more. Being beneath a needle was a familiarity she wished that she could forget, and despite the repetition, the notion of growing accustomed to it eluded her. With every passing of thread, her forearm twitched relentlessly, the gash overly sensitive.

Amidst the searing pain, there lingered a bittersweet relief in knowing that, apart from Bellamy, her injury had remained hidden. His torn shirt had successfully proved to clot the slash of inky blood. Since he wrapped it around her forearm about ten times over, it created a protective barrier, preventing any visible blood from seeping through and shielding the black liquid from prying eyes.

Well–except for Clarke's.

The blonde nearly had an aneurysm at the sight of it.

        Bellamy had been discreet about hauling Haven into the dropship, quietly plopping the weary girl onto the stool beside Raven. The Reyes girl yelped at the sight of her friend, prompting Clarke to spin around, momentarily abandoning her care for Finn at the table adjacent to them. Fortunately, the feverish preparations for the storm masked Haven's entrance; nobody batted an eye.

        "Whatever you do–don't freak out," Bellamy urged, a subtle intensity underscoring his words as Clarke pivoted to tend to Haven's injury.

       Clarke's brows pinched. "Why would I?"

        After a careful glance over his shoulder, Bellamy willed himself to inhale. Sharing this secret with a Council member's daughter felt like a perilous mistake, possibly the stupidest decision of his life. Yet, he knew Haven's wound demanded attention; there was no possible way the gash would heal on its own. With a firm exhale, he lifted a corner of the cloth from Haven's wrist, just enough to reveal the onyx liquid to Clarke and Raven.

        She looked like she was bleeding shadows.

        "That's why." Raven breathed, instinctively drawing closer to offer more coverage from potential onlookers. After a beat, her brows furrowed, and she whirled towards Bellamy with a suspicious glare. "Hold up–how the hell do you know about this?"

        Bellamy wasn't sure how to answer that.

        "She can tell you once she's coherent," he decided, delicately aware that there was a lot Haven had yet to share with her best friend, including the diagnosis that brought her to the brink of death five times; disclosing it wasn't his place. Shifting his gaze to Clarke, his voice dropped even lower. "Stitch her up, keep it quiet, and whatever you do–don't let anybody else see," he narrowed his eyes, "You got that?"

        Clarke nodded, pupils blown.

        "Good."

Haven's genetic condition had never been a secret between her and her mother; it was the origin of how her blood ran black to begin with. Despite Haven's exhaustive exploration of countless medical textbooks, each of them failed to provide an explanation for her unique blood type. Dahlia simply attributed it to an echo of their bloodline from pre-war times, a result of their genetic predisposition to radiation.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Abigail Griffin thought otherwise.

It wasn't nothing, and it certainly was more than enough reason for the Council to float Haven long before she turned eighteen. The Ark's government would seize any opportunity to reserve more oxygen for themselves, especially when it involved a girl with a medically unprecedented blood type.

The Smith girl's stenosis had already posed enough of an inconvenience to those in the Sky Box and the Council. She couldn't fathom why Abby would want to save her life, especially for a another genetic condition that should have gotten her killed. Yet, as the head of Medical, it was Abby's duty to treat people–even if it meant safeguarding a fifteen-year-old girl's secret between herself, her assistant, and the newly enlisted guardsman responsible for transporting her to and from her prison cell.

Abby. Jackson. Bellamy.

Every emergency surgery played out within the confines of closed quarters, meticulous and discreet. Each thorough checkup was a personalized affair, privately handled by either Abby or Jackson, and the watchful presence of Bellamy stationed by the door.

They kept her safe.

On Earth, Haven's anxiety around her blood type being exposed eased in the slightest. The Council's overbearing presence was gone, and the absence of foreign doctors offered some measure of comfort. Yet, the fear Abby drilled into her skull remained. If the delinquents unearthed her secret and reported it to the Council upon their arrival, could they still have her killed? Despite the dire circumstances on the ground, would it even make a difference?

She didn't know.

And she certainly wasn't about to risk it.

"Haven, for the last time–stop moving."

As Clarke ushered her third warning, Haven grappled with the urge to snap at her. Sighing, she lifted her freshly-bandaged temple from the tabletop below and tried to straighten her posture. She was feeling outrageously antsy again–reminiscent of her time beneath the tarp in the woods. The dropship became increasingly crowded with teenagers as the storm progressed, birthing a rancidly humid and sticky environment.

"I'm trying," she admitted.

"Try harder."

"Watch it." Raven hissed.

Haven cast a tired glance towards her best friend, registering the death glare Raven aimed at Clarke. Amidst the palpable tension, Raven continued to manipulate the radio's components with practiced precision, her hands moving deftly without the need to break eye contact.

Yikes.

Clarke withered beneath the weight of Raven's stare, meeting her dark eyes for all of a second before finishing the last of Haven's stitches. Although she was bone-tired, Haven could easily sense the unrest mounting between the blonde and the brunette. Things were undeniably weird, their communication reduced to clipped exchanges only when absolutely necessary. And as Haven's eyes traveled to Finn, lying pale as a ghost at the table across from her, she had a strong inkling as to why.

Finn might've been on his deathbed–but he was still a fucking manwhore.

        "Alright, we're ready," Raven announced, scrutinizing the proper connection of every wire from the radio to the control panel on the wall in front of the girls. Content with the setup, she swiftly donned the headset jacked from her pod, her fingers frantically adjusting the tuner on the radio. "I just need to patch through to their channel, then we can–"

        A pained moan resonated from the Collins boy behind them, prompting everybody on the first level of the dropship to immediately quiet. Clarke was the first to dash toward him, leaving Haven with a half-bandaged forearm, hurriedly assessing Finn's state. He lay shirtless, deathly pale, drenched in a thick sheen of sweat, with the knife still embedded in his side.

        At least he was conscious. Kind of.

More determined than ever, Raven pivoted back to the radio, her jaw clenched with a sense of foreboding as she manically sought out the Ark's private network. As the static within her headset cleared, her mouth was in motion before her mind could fully catch up.

"This is Raven Reyes, calling Ark station."

        Haven held her breath.

        "Come in, Ark station," Raven continued, one hand pressed to the right side of her headset while the left adjusted the dial once more. "This is Raven Reyes, calling Ark station. Please come in," she implored, her voice strained as she faced the relentless radio silence. Her chin started to wobble. "Please, please–can anybody here me?"

"Are you sure you have the right frequency?" Monroe chimed in, watching apprehensively a few yards away with a handful of other delinquents.

        Raven, as expected, was having absolutely none of it. She snapped towards Monroe with expression of unbridled hellfire. "Yeah–I'm sure."

        "Raven," Clarke swiftly returned from Finn's bedside, brushing shoulders with others in the scattered crowd within the dropship. Raven turned, and in that moment, a silent understanding passed between them, captured in a five-second exchange of glances—the longest they had shared in hours. Clarke met her frantic stare with a supportive nod. "You can do this. Okay?"

Raven knew it; she had no other choice.

"Come on, birdy," Haven gently nudged, taking a moment to adjust her slumped posture on the stool. It was a struggle to move; her hands felt unusually clammy as she shifted her weight. Still–the need to scoot closer was visceral. "Show em' how it's done."

With that, Raven straightened. "Calling Ark station," she repeated, vehemently swallowing back the sob clawing its way up her throat and forcing her voice to steady. "Ark station–please come in. I'm on the ground with the hundred. We need you." The words spilled from her lips in a desperate plea, every muscle in her body taut with distress. "Calling Ark station. The hundred are alive. Can anyone hear me?"

        "This is a restricted station. Who is this?"

Haven's heart stammered.

"Please identify yourself."
       
Raven's elation sparked the widest of grins on her face. "This is Raven Reyes. I-I'm from Mecha Station. I'm transmitting from the ground–the hundred are alive," she explained, stumbling over her words in sheer relief, "Please, you need to get Doctor Abby Griffin. Doctor Abby Griffin. Now!"

"Hang on Raven, we're trying to boost your signal."

         In the weighty silence that followed, the teenagers strewn across the first floor surged forward, creating an impromptu gathering around the trio of girls stationed near the radio. Some erupted into joyous hoots and hollers, while others hurriedly wiped away the private tears spilling down their flush cheeks. For the first time in two, grueling weeks–their prayers had finally been answered.

"Only you could make a radio out of a toy car and wet parts," Haven bumped Raven's shoulder with her better arm, savoring the flicker of relief warming her chest before anticipating its inevitable departure. "Show off."

"Raven? Are you there?"

Amidst the crackling radio static, a different voice emerged–one instantly recognizable to Haven. It was Abby. On instinct, Haven's gaze fixated on Clarke; the blonde visibly startled, cerulean eyes widening as the air vanished from her lungs.

        "Mom?" Clarke croaked, rushing toward the radio and jamming her thumb over the talk button. Fresh tears clung to her eyelashes, but she withheld them with all of her might. "Mom, it's me."

        Abby choked back a sob. "...Clarke?"

        "Mom, I need your help," Clarke fretted, dismissing the upswing of torment stirred by the emotion in her mother's tone. "One of our people was stabbed by a Grounder."

A third voice rumbled through the shoddy speakers of the radio. "Clarke. This is the Chancellor," Thelonius Jaha announced, as if he needed any introduction; the entire goddamn room could recognize his brusque tone anywhere. "Are you saying there are survivors on the ground?"

        "Yes–the Earth is survivable. We're not alone." Clarke visibly straightened, as if her muscle memory compelled her to respect his presence, despite her disdain. A brief silence followed, likely due to the otherworldly shock on the Council's end, prompting Clarke to speak again. "Mom–he's dying," she expressed, her lip quivering as she cast a glance over her shoulder to Finn. "The knife is still in his chest."

One heartbeat passed. Two.

"Clarke, is my son with you?"

Haven's heart sunk as an excruciating silence descended upon the teenagers. All at once, memories of the Chancellor's son resurfaced–the haunting image of his lifeless corpse, throat slit, blood spewing. The recollection of burying him in the graveyard that he started, the memory of his severed fingers. All Haven had ever known about Wells Jaha was through the lens of his brutal murder, leaving little time to unearth the complexities of the person he was–the untapped potential of all he could have become.

        But, Clarke knew him.

        Clarke knew him better than anybody.

Tears bled down the Griffin girl's cheeks in a mournful stream of saltwater. All words failed her, her mouth wobbling open and shut as she fought tirelessly to grasp the strength that had evaded her. Grief was immobilizing, its paralysis so gargantuan that by the time Clarke remembered how to breathe–Haven had already reached for the radio.

"Chancellor Jaha? This is Haven Smith," Haven began, brushing off the wide-eyed stare from Clarke. Collecting herself with a deliberate inhale, she continued, "I'm one of the hundred. I'm so sorry to tell you this. Wells–" Her breath caught in her throat, and with somber gravity, she concluded, "Wells is dead."

Silence roared.

Devastatingly.

Then, she reached for the radio once more.

"Again, I am terribly sorry for your loss. Please be aware that if you choose not to send us help, more of us will join him," Haven started, a surge of bitterness coursing within her. Her nails dug into her palm, the tension threatening to rupture the stitches that held her together. "You'll land on the ground with no assistance, no help, no authority–exactly the way that you sent us. Even if we wanted to help you, we couldn't." she asserted, "Not if we're already dead. Not after you got the rest of us killed."

Jaha remained quiet.

Good fucking riddance.

"Why would you do that?" Clarke's breath trembled, disbelief wild in her eyes as Haven lifted her finger from the talk button. Like she was unable to fathom the concept of accepting help. "Why, Haven? You shouldn't have. I-I could have–"

"Just because you could've, doesn't mean you have to," Haven interrupted, halting Clarke's stammering as quickly as it started. "Jaha needed to be knocked down a peg. Plus, you stitched me up like a pro. Consider it my thanks."

Clarke shook her head. "I didn't... you don't have to thank me."

Haven smiled weakly. "I know."

"Glad to hear you're alive, Haven." Abby's voice, though slightly muffled by the radio's static, carried a warmth that defied the airwaves. Haven's heart swelled in response. "Clarke, are you ready? I'm going to talk you through it, step by step. Just...give five.. to Medical...Med..."

        To everybody's horror–the radio cut out.

        All at once, the dropship was shaken by a violent clap of thunder, threatening to knock Haven off of her stool. The metallic structure groaned, the wind howled in protest, and a sudden burst of rain surged through the curtains assembled at the ramp's entrance.

        "What?!" Clarke's shout cut through the tumult, her hurried steps around Finn's bedside leading her back toward the girls by the radio. The rain mingled with fresh blood—Finn's blood—staining her shirt. "Raven, what's wrong?"

"It's not the radio!" Raven cried, repeatedly jamming her finger against the glowing red button on the device. No signal. Exasperated, she became perilously close to ripping off her headset and chucking it across the room. "It's the storm!"

"Fuck," Haven muttered, her gaze flitting towards the dropship's entrance. Her eyes were fixed on the onslaught of rain, each drop illuminated by vicious strikes of lightning. She'd read about storms like this before; the spectacle was undeniably beautiful, yet equally lethal. "I think we're in a hurricane."

"Greetings, motherfuckers!"

Orion's silhouette swiftly emerged from behind the tarp at the entrance, water cascading off her saturated form, Octavia trailing close behind. Both of the girls were drenched; every strand of hair clung to their foreheads and every article of clothing molded to them like a second skin.

        "Ugh," Clarke groaned, accepting one of the canisters Octavia offered and catching a whiff of the foul liquid within. "Monty's moonshine?"

        "Pretty sure no germ could survive that," Haven remarked, mustering the willpower to finally leave her stool and striding purposefully toward the girls. Her vision momentarily doubled upon standing, but she dismissed it with a blink. "Smart thinking."

        Orion's face lit with a triumphant glow. "Thanks, Hav. Thought of it all by myself," she boasted, earning an immediate slap from Octavia on her bicep. "Okay–ow. Maybe I had a little help, but peu importe (whatever)," she teased, her smile faltering as she observed her friend more closely. "You good?"

        Haven pinched her brows. "Uh–yeah?"

        "You look a little...pale." Octavia assessed, raking her eyes across the Smith girl's features with a notable degree of unease.

        "Just talked to Jaha on the radio," Haven confessed, as if that alone could account for the throbbing ache within her bones. Besides that, her clammy hands, and the reoccurring double vision–she insisted that she felt totally and completely fine. "He's got that effect on people."

        Octavia arched a brow, Orion narrowed her eyes; both of the girls appeared utterly unconvinced.

        "Storm's getting worse," Clarke shot an antsy glare back toward the ramp as another thunderclap rattled the floor beneath them. Things were about to get bad. Utilizing the moonshine, she hurriedly disinfected her hands, pouring of the pungent liquid onto the flimsy surgical tools she had assembled. "Monroe–close the doors."

        Orion frowned. "Wait, we're not drinking it?" she questioned, stomping her foot when Clarke rolled her eyes. "Jasper said I get the next batch!"

        "We still have people out there." Monroe rebutted.

        "Monty and Jasper aren't back yet," Octavia pointed out, the information enough to tighten the knot of dread around Haven's heart. Water trickled down the Blake girl's forehead as she shook her head. "Neither is Bellamy."

        "Where the fuck did they go?" Haven fumed, not having seen the boys since her initial return to the dropship. Or maybe it was before, near the camp's borders. The timeline eluded her in a blurry sequence of events–like trying to grasp onto shadows.

        "Don't ask." Octavia huffed.

Clarke drew a measured breath. "It's okay–"

        "It's okay?" Haven repeated, her tone laced with incredulity.

        The blonde relayed the heaviest of sighs. "They'll find somewhere to ride it out," she declared, though the stony facade she wore failed to smother the doubt tinging her eyes. "They have to."

        Before Haven could process the absurdity of that, Raven's voice tore through the roaring in her eardrums. "Move, move, MOVE!" she barked, ruthlessly shoving past the cluster of new delinquents until she reached Clarke. Hand outstretched, Raven presented her with a thin piece of metal. "One suture needle."

        "Great," Clarke said, eyes briefly flitting to Haven's bandaged forearm before dousing the needle in an outrageous amount of moonshine. "I still need something to close the wound. I already used the last of the thread."

        "There's some wire on the second level," Octavia added, fastening the lids on the canisters of moonshine. "I used it for the tents."

"Let's see it," Clarke agreed, ultimately deciding that wire would have to suffice in place of medical thread. The circumstances were far from ideal; Haven's wound ended up stitched with thread from an unused t-shirt, but they had to make it work with the limited resources they possessed.

        They had no other choice.

        "Stay away from the blue wires that run through the ceiling," Raven cautioned, her gaze fixed anxiously on Octavia hastening toward the ladder. "I rigged it to the solar cells in the roof," she added, elevating her voice abruptly when Octavia failed to respond. "That means they're hot! You got that?"

Octavia spun around. "Yeah–I got that."

        A flash of lightning illuminated every corner of the dropship, forcing Haven to squint against its intensity. How hard had the Grounder clocked her? With a wince, she delicately traced a finger over the improvised bandage on her temple, as if that simple touch could somehow ease the pulsating pain.

"Hey! They're back!"

        Bellamy emerged from the tempest like an ancient storm god, flanked by his devoted followers. Thunder reverberated beneath each commanding footstep. His garments clung, saturated in rain, trailing even more water into the dropship as they hastily sought refuge inside.

A body hit the floor at their feet.

It was the Grounder from the cave.

        Recognition struck Haven like a bolt. Instinctively, she recoiled, scrambling backward so frantically that she smacked into Orion's torso. Wide, fear-stricken eyes mirrored the rapid thudding of her heart. Although the Grounder was unconscious–the terror he had stirred was undeniable.

"Bellamy!" Octavia called, climbing back down the ladder and swiftly advancing toward her brother. A momentary pause accompanied a glance at the gagged man on the floor, her expression morphing into one of blistering rage. "The hell are you doing?"

Bellamy hardly acknowledged his sister's presence. Every feature of his face was hardened, distant–as if he had already forced himself to make amends with the path that lay ahead. "It's time to get some answers."

        "Oh–you mean revenge?" Octavia retorted.

        "I mean intel," Bellamy deadpanned, gesturing to the boys who had aided in the Grounder's capture with a sharp nod. "Get him upstairs."

        As Miller and Drew hauled the Grounder toward the ladder, Bellamy almost made a smooth exit behind them. The plan seemed simple–ascend to the third floor, secure the Grounder, and dismiss the reproachful glares from Octavia and Clarke. Octavia was his sister; Clarke was, well...Clarke–he had grown more than accustomed to their reactions. However, as a pair of familiar eyes burned twin holes into his back, he faltered.

Gravity is an inescapable force.

"Bellamy–you're not thinking straight," Haven started, her tone razor sharp. The Blake boy had yet to face her, his hand still hovering over the ladder's railing. "We know there's more Grounders out there. We know what they're capable of," she stressed, firmly yanking Bellamy by his shoulder and pressuring him to meet her stare. "I'm talking to you! What the hell makes you think that they won't retaliate?"

        Bellamy studied Haven for a moment; his first real observation of her since he carried had her weary form into the dropship. His eyes delicately traced the bandage on her temple, the crease between her brows, and the subtle downturn of her lips before settling on the wrap around her forearm.

No blood.

The liquid's absence brought a breath of relief, yet as he delved beyond the surface of her fury, a deeper concern seized him. She looked...pale, abnormally pale–an unsettling departure from her usual brilliance.

        Had she really lost that much blood?

"Hello! Earth to idiot!" Haven's frustration bubbled up as she clenched her jaw, vigorously waving her hand in front of his face. "Are you even listening to me?"

        Clarke stepped forward, her aura of defeat a stark contrast to Haven's fiery persistence. "Bellamy, she's right."

"Clarke, we're ready. Can you hear me?"

It was then that Bellamy became viscerally aware of the radio's presence. Every bone in his body quivered beneath the cyclone of dread ravaging through him; it taunted him, corrupted him, until he succumbed to a harrowing certainty. The radio had been fixed, sealing his fate definitively–he was a dead man walking.

       "Look," Clarke drew in a fatigued breath, tracing Bellamy's gaze toward the radio. "This is not who we are."

"Clarke?" Abby continued.

        Bellamy squared his shoulders, leaning into the darker part of himself that was senselessly disfigured by rage, by impulse, by devotion. The boundaries between them blurred; day by day, all of it started to feel the same.

"It is now."

• •

         FINN COLLINS WAS NOTHING SHORT OF A BLABBERMOUTH.

For the entirety of their childhood on Mecha, he remained the ever-ready snitch when the girls were up to no good. The sequence of events unfolded predictably: Raven landed herself in a sticky situation, dragging Haven down with her, all while Finn chased after them relentlessly, brandishing threats to tattle to his mother. It scared the girls shitless, especially considering neither of their mothers were particularly present. Yet, when push came to shove, he never followed through.

Not when it counted.

Naturally, he tattled for minor transgressions, like when Haven refused to share her stuffed ladybug. There was also the time Raven bit him hard enough to leave a bruise–but really, who could blame her for that? He was a menace as a child. However, when the day arrived that Haven had tripped and scraped her knee, black blood eerily trickling down her shin–he kept his mouth shut.

In that moment, the trio pledged an unbreakable oath to protect each other, sealing the pact by spitting into their palms and shaking hands. The gravity of the moment, however, quickly dissolved into a burst of giggles, typical of the hysterics shared among the nine-year-olds. After tenderly bandaging Haven's knee, they lifted her to her feet, walking back to their living quarters arm in arm.

Finn Collins was nothing short of a blabbermouth. Yet, he guarded her secret without thought, without question. And now, as he lay before her, life seeping from the wound on his frail body–Haven couldn't fathom the idea of leaving his side.

"The blade is at an upward angle," Clarke conveyed, articulating the specifics of Finn's injury to Abby on the other side of the radio. "Between his sixth and seventh rib."

Abby's voice crackled through the static, its clarity diminished by the poor connection. "Okay, how deep?"

        "I can't tell how deep it goes!"

        Haven winced at the sharpness in Clarke's tone, though she couldn't necessarily blame her. Tension was tenfold. Somehow–the dropship had grown increasingly hotter, if that were even possible. It was sweltering; beads of sweat clung to every sinew of Haven's body, dampening the hair at the nape of her neck. Anxiety thrashed within her like a wild animal begging to be set free. If she had even a fraction more energy, she would have been on her feet, pacing alongside Clarke and Raven. However, an overwhelming fatigue anchored her to her spot beside Finn.

        "That's alright, just don't remove the knife yet."

        "Here," Clarke instructed, her awareness heightened as she observed Raven clenching and unclenching her fists. She thrust the canister of moonshine into Raven's shaky palms. "Sterilize your hands. Both of you."

        Raven seized the canister with a desperate sense of gratitude, hastily unscrewing the lid and gulping down a substantial dose of liquid courage before applying it to her fingers. The weight of responsibility was heavy–too heavy; Finn's life was in the hands of teenagers. Wordlessly, she passed the canister to Haven, not daring to tear her eyes away from the the dying boy before them.

        "Clarke, do you see any fluid?"

"HEY–WATCH IT!"

Just as Clarke attempted to inspect the wound more closely, two boys lingering among the crowd burst into a heated argument. In the midst of their dispute, one inadvertently shoved the other, initiating a domino effect that sent the delinquent crashing into both Clarke and Haven.

"Fuck off!" Haven spat, her head spinning in a disorienting whirlwind from the impact. With a dizzying stagger, she summoned every ounce of strength to shove him back towards the wall. "Go pick a fight with the hurricane and see who wins, asshole!"

Meanwhile–Clarke's composure snapped like a live wire. "OUT–ALL OF YOU!" she bellowed, a thunderous command aimed at the mass of delinquents. With a withering glance, she pivoted her attention back to the other girls. "Clear the room!"

Raven seemingly hurtled back to reality, a surge of urgency propelling her into action. Without wasting a moment, she aggressively guided the flustered teenagers toward the ladder, Haven at her side.

"Everyone, upstairs–NOW!"

"Let's go! Get out!"

As the majority of the delinquents scrambled to the second level, Clarke's shoulders relaxed, allowing a brief exhale. However, the respite was fleeting, and her stress surged anew as she gently pressed her palm against Finn's chest. "He feels a little warm."

        Haven chewed on her lower lip. Weren't they all a little warm? The confined space of the dropship felt practically blistering with the multitude of people crammed within. Yet, as she glanced at Clarke and Raven, both seemed noticeably devoid of sweat–unlike herself.

"That's alright, fever sometimes accompanies a trauma," Abby reassured. "Clarke, I need you to tell me if there is any fluid leaking from the wound."

        "Uh–" Clarke peeked closer. "No."

"Pleural membrane's intact."

Haven groaned. "English, Abby."

"It means that's good," Abby relayed, and amidst the radio static, Haven swore she could hear a familiar laugh–Jackson. It felt surreal to hear their voices again, there was so much that she longed to ask them. "That's actually really good. He got lucky."

        "Hear that?" Raven whispered, her voice barely audible as she hovered over Finn's pallid body. "You're lucky."

        Out of respect, Haven finally tore her eyes away from the pair. Her vision bounced between the ceiling and the floor before settling on Clarke; almost immediately–she wished that she hadn't. It was painfully evident that Raven wasn't the only who looked at Finn as if he put the stars in the sky, as if he were the universe encapsulated—Clarke did too. The longing in the blonde's eyes churned Haven's stomach once, twice. Color rushed to her cheeks; the cruel reality of Finn's choices struck her with a nauseating force.

"I'm gonna check on the others," Haven began, shakily approaching the metal ladder. She internally winced as as her stomach flipped for a third time. "Shout if you need me–alright?"

Raven whirled on her heels. "What?!" she questioned, her brows furrowed in disbelief. Glassy remnants clung to her eyes like tiny pearls, evidence of the emotions stirred by...everything. "No. Let them figure it out on their own," she insisted, inhaling sharply before her voice crumbled to a whisper. "Haven."

The manic gleam in her eyes conveyed more than words ever could: I can't do this alone.

        "The blood is making me queasy. I-I've seen too much of it today," Haven explained, a half-truth weighing on her tongue like lead. Mbege's blood still stained her clothes, the once-crimson now a somber brown. She gestured towards the Collins boy with a weak smile. "Can't hurl all over his new haircut. He'll never forgive me."

       After a moment of intense observation, Raven released a sigh, her shoulders easing into reluctant acceptance. "Fine," she relented, "Go drink some water. And if you hear me scream–you better get drag your ass back here."

        Haven nodded. "You got it, birdy."

        With that, the Smith girl clambered her way up the ladder, vehemently shoving aside the nausea ravaging her empty stomach. The cool sensation of the metal rungs provided a fleeting reprieve, a sharp contrast to the warmth within her fingertips. Unfortunately, it did little to alleviate the discomfort in just about every other area of her body.

Upstairs was even worse.

The second floor served as an unequivocal gateway to hell–Haven was certain of it. Bodies converged in almost every inch of space. There was no room to think, to breathe. Movement was impossible amidst the claustrophobic squeeze of fear-stricken teenagers. Everything felt hot, sticky–tainted by an overwhelming sense of misery that annihilated every shred of hope.

        They were trapped in a metal tomb.

        Buried alive.

        As Haven finished ascending from the first floor, Octavia completed her descent from the third. The two girls met at the ladder's midpoint, with Haven looking upward and Octavia gazing down.

        "Holy shit. If you were anybody else–I would've kicked your teeth in," Octavia sighed, supporting Haven as she regained her footing on the second floor. "How are you? Finn?"

        Haven immediately softened in the presence of the Blake girl. "I'm good. Finn's...not. Knife's not in a bad spot, though. I think they're prepping to pull it soon," she answered, her attention drawn to the dried tears on Octavia's cheeks. With a knowing glance toward the third-floor, Haven clenched her fists. "Do you want me to ask?"

        "No need. It's Bellamy. It's always Bellamy." Octavia mumbled, her voice carrying a wearied tone. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she forced herself to take a slow, deliberate breath. Stress had claimed her entirely. "I think they're gonna kill him."

        Haven stiffened. "The Grounder?"

        "Yeah," Octavia cast a glance to the ceiling, as if harnessing strength from the stars above. "They're up there trying to get info out of him like morons. I don't think he even speaks english–and I'm trying to tell them that, but none of them will listen to me! They think all think I'm just a psycho. The Grounder, he didnt..." her trailed off. Almost cautiously, as if anticipating doubt, she added, "He didn't hurt me. I think he was trying to help me."

"And I think you have stockholm sydrome." Orion quipped, deftly weaving through the crowd of delinquents before reaching the hatch by the girls. "Sorry. I mean, we literally found you in a cave, Octavia. Chained to the freakin' wall!"

Octavia rolled her eyes. "See? This is exactly what I'm talking about. Nobody believes me, and I was the one there!"

A violent tremor shook the dropship.

Haven's instincts betrayed her as she flailed, throwing her arms backward in a futile dance against gravity. The impact was inevitable: down to the floor she went, smacking her head against a nearby lantern with a resonant thud. Orion tumbled down beside her, along with majority of the other delinquents, scattered like toy soliders. Screams erupted, tears flowed; all of it was muted by the relentless ringing in her skull.

        As she landed, Haven's face met the ground precisely where the Grounder had struck her before. Surely, she had to have gained some brain damage by now–because what the fuck? A stroke of luck spared her shoulder from bearing the full brunt this time. Weakly, she tried to move, to lift her head in search of her friends, but she couldn't.

        Somewhere in the distance–Raven shrieked.

        Immediately, Haven found her strength. "Raven?!" Her voice strained, she crawled toward the hatch, forcing herself to remember the movements of her own damn mouth. Fear clutched her by the throat. With no immediate answer, she pushed herself further, shouting even louder. "RAVEN!"

        "We're okay!" Raven shouted back, scrambling to peer up the hatch as Haven looked down. In a shared exhale of relief, Raven broke into a weary smile. "Clarke got the knife out!" she exclaimed, her shoulders finally releasing the tension that had gripped her since her landing on Earth. "She did it!"

Even with the majority of teenagers still sprawled across the floor, their cheers erupted into a deafening uproar. It was loud, so loud. Each clamor felt like a sonic boom ripping through Haven's eardrums. Despite the auditory onslaught, she couldn't suppress the smile gracing her lips, even if she tried.

        Spacewalker lives on.

        "Haven?" Orion breathed. "You alright?"

        Casting a glance beside her, Haven noticed Orion standing above, hand outstretched. "I'm alive," she muttered, gripping her hand and groaning as the Vincetta girl hauled her back onto her feet. "You?"

"I'm alive, but I'm dead."

"Octavia–?"

"She went to go find Jasper." Orion huffed, wiping a hand across her brow to remove strands of hair plastered across her forehead. She gestured to the dropship's interior wall. "The hell does that tree have against us? We just got our shit rocked."

"Great," Haven sighed, squinting until the distorted colors in her vision subsided. Orion was right–a tree had crashed into the dropship, its sinuous branches penetrating the metal hull like finally honed weapons.

Just like the spears that killed Diggs.
       
Summoning a deep breath, Haven turned away, the unsettling scene too much to withstand. She could practically feel the panic stirring within her gut. Shakily, she guided herself back to the ladder, choosing the path upwards and instead of letting the chaos below consume her.

The hatch to the third floor was locked.

"Open up!" Haven demanded, fists hammering on the unyielding metal. Somewhere below, Orion's shouts were a distant murmur, muffled and indistinct amidst the pounding of her heart. Frustrated, Haven tried again. "Open the damn hatch, Miller–I know it's you! I swear to–"

"You heard her." Bellamy. "Let her up."

An irritated groan rumbled from above, followed by the reluctant shuffle of footsteps. The hatch above Haven's head creaked open, revealing none other than Nathan fucking Miller staring back at her.

"You shouldn't–"

"Move." Haven hissed.

Miller considered for a moment. Back in the Sky Box, the pair navigated their differences seamlessly–he respected her myth, she respected his kleptomania. Under normal circumstances, he would've let her through without a second thought. However, with Bellamy's authority pressing down on him like an iron weight–he hesitated.

        "There's no time for this." Haven deadpanned, shoving Miller aside with a firm hand to the chest. Stars exploded across her vision from the exertion. To her relief, Miller offered no resistance, allowing her to ascend the rest of the way unimpeded.

As soon as she lifted her head, she froze.

        At the center of the room, the Grounder stood with his tattooed arms unwillingly splayed, wrists bound by seatbelts tethered to the walls. His formidable physique, a mass of rippling muscles, cast skepticism on the efficacy of the restraints. Blood and sweat intermingled, staining the fabric of his shirt and tracing rivulets down the marred skin above his forehead. Despite the physical bindings, every inch of him exuded an aura of resilience–an indomitable spirit that refused to yield.

        To his left, stood Bellamy Blake.

        "What are you doing?" Haven's breath escaped in a feeble whisper, unable to comprehend the atrocity unfolding before her. Her brain simply couldn't move fast enough. Swaying on her feet, she clutched the railing for support. "I..."

         Bellamy pivoted at the sound of her voice, stress carving lines across every soft feature. Acting on instinct, he closed the distance between them, a weathered journal cradled in his right palm. Wordlessly, he thrust it into her hands.

        Haven stuttered. "Bell–"

        "Look at it."

        The leather felt like iron in her palms.

        With trembling fingers, Haven compelled herself to flip through the pages. The journal revealed a plethora of remarkable drawings, each capturing different locations in the forest. Intertwined with these visuals were maps and inscriptions in a language far beyond her comprehension. It was undeniably fascinating, yet disturbing all the same.

        "What am I looking for?" Haven asked, a torturous shiver rippling through her body. The air, once stifling, now felt unbearably frigid in the rotten atmosphere. Despite the biting chill, she denied herself the heat of Bellamy's stare.

        Bellamy clenched his jaw. "Keep going."

        Beside herself, Haven complied, each turn of the weathered pages a reluctant step away from the nightmarish scene on the wall. The air felt heavy with the unsaid, the tension almost suffocating as she continued to navigate through the journal's contents. Abruptly, her searching fingers landed on a portrait of Octavia.

        Her gaze shot upwards, only to find Bellamy knowingly staring back at her.

        It wasn't hard to do the math. Octavia had been kidnapped, rescued, and now her face appeared in the journal of her captor. The pieces aligned seamlessly, framing the Grounder as the villain. Yet, a deeper part of Haven clung to Octavia's vouch for him, a reminder that he was supposedly trying to help her.

        Then, she thought back to the cave. The revelation struck her with devastating certainty—Finn had found the foghorn in the Grounder's satchel. The detail, previously overlooked, now held significant weight. If there truly had been no fog that day, the Grounder must have blown the horn to ward off the search party's attackers.

        He might have been trying to help them, too.

        Bellamy, it seemed, had reached a different revelation than Haven. Impatiently, he turned to the next page for her, his fingers lightly brushing against hers. Their gaze halted as they observed a detailed depiction of the dropship, accompanied by a page filled with tally marks.

        "That's our camp," Bellamy explained, his fists clenching and unclenching as he gauged the impact on Haven. He was close enough to hear the gears whirring beneath her skull. "Guessing that all those marks add up to a hundred and two. Ten are crossed out."

        Haven's complexion drained even further, if that were possible. A maelstrom of dread churned within her, desperately seeking an outlet. "That's how many people we've lost."

        Bellamy nodded, somberly. "He's been watching us ever since we got here," he muttered, an unholy darkness encompassing the brown of his eyes. He pointed a wobbly finger toward the Grounder. "That's why. Like it or not–I'm doing what I have to."

        What he has to.

All at once, Haven stiffened, as if she had one foot planted in reality and the other stuck in the past. Bellamy had said those words to her before, when he pried the radio from her hands and tossed it into the river. Understanding his reasons then felt stupidly inconsequential in the face of the present turmoil. Now, none of it mattered at all. Not when so much remained unknown about the Grounder's culpability. Not when he was bound against the wall as a prisoner–all by Bellamy's doing.

        The Smith girl dared a glance toward the Grounders dark stare. Their eyes locked; his to hers, hers to his. Something indiscernible flashed across his features as he observed her for the first time–but she averted her gaze too quickly to catch it.

        Then, her sights landed on Bellamy. She stared at him with the force of the universe itself, stars smoldering in her eyes and galaxies pulsing through her veins. With unwavering resolve, she uttered one, single word. "No."

        "No?" Bellamy echoed.

        "This...this has gone too far," Haven began, summoning the remnants of her strength like clutching at fleeting ghosts. "I am done hearing the same excuse over and over again for the terrible choices that you make. Nobody asked you to bring him here. Nobody asked you to try to kill him in the first place," she fumed, a sensation of liquid fire burning through her throat, each word infused with excruciating agony. "Nobody asked you to do any of this."

        Bellamy fixed her with an incredulous glare. "If I don't–then who will? We need answers, Haven." he paused, jabbing an accusatory finger towards the Grounder. "He started this!"

        "You don't know that!" Haven shot back, the edges of her vision darkening. Undeterred, she pressed on, her voice rising. "If we had just left the cave sooner, like your little sister begged you to do–we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place! Finn wouldn't be dying!"

        Distorted by a veil of rage, the features on the Blake boy's face became unrecognizable, warped by ominous shadows once more. "Finn is dying because he stabbed him!"

        "Yeah–because you tried to kill him first!"

        Bellamy shook his head, fury swelling within him just as rapidly as it was in her. Together, their tumult brewed a storm rivaling the hurricane outside. It was a wretched sight, two natural disasters clashing: one wielding the silvery might of the cosmos, the other bearing the wrath of the darkest tempests.

He took a breath. "I was just trying to keep us safe–"

        "You WEREN'T!" Haven shouted, her peripheral continuing to blacken further and further. Bellamy stood as the sole focus, yet even he blurred in her double vision. "You were just being selfish! It doesn't matter how hard you tried, Bellamy. It's not enough!" she seethed, blinking rapidly as she gestured toward the wounded Grounder. "Look at what you did to him!"

"Look at what he did to us! To Finn, Jasper, Mbege, Diggs, Roma, to you!" Bellamy countered, his shoulders tensing as a deeper frustration took ahold of him. "You don't have to like it; I don't either–but it's what needs to be done. Our lives depend on this."

Haven's disdain manifested in a sharp scoff. "Depend on what? Torturing him? How does that make you any better than them?" Teetering on the verge of tears, the world blurred violently, her head spinning at an alarming rate. "I-I can't stand you! I don't–I don't know you anymore!" Speaking became an insufferable burden, and her voice plummeted to a broken whisper. "I miss–"

"I never asked to be subjected to your moral high ground," Bellamy strained, the wrath in his voice eclipsed by something darker, something gloomier. "Sorry to disappoint."

Now, Haven's lungs were seizing. Each was breath was a laborious struggle against the oppressive air, as if all of it had been greedily claimed by him. She was crashing, burning, dying out–nothing remained within her but a maelstrom of rage and feverish agony. Before she could regain control, the words erupted from her lips like venom, like poison.

"I never asked for my friend to turn into a monster."

Bellamy faltered.

        All at once, he staggered, reeling from the impact of her words as if they had physically struck him. Something fundamental within him shattered irreparably. The crown atop his head slipped for just a second, baring the raw nerves beneath the surface, before he adeptly righted it with practiced ease.

        "I am what we need to be."

        Haven couldn't bear to look at him. Guilt, a merciless assailant, tore through every fiber of her being, coiling around her organs and ruthlessly ripping them to shreds. Her thoughts were engulfed by the deafening ring in her ears. Vision reduced to sporadic spots of black, her body drenched in a clammy cold sweat.
Apocalyptically, she turned toward the hatch–determined to distance herself far, far away.

        One step.

       One step was all it had taken before her legs gave out beneath her.

        Against her will, Haven crumpled to the floor, landing in a sprawl on her side. Voices exploded all around her, but they were muffled, distant. The world suddenly felt fuzzy, and everything within her burned in torment. Panic gripped her as she desperately willed her limbs to respond, to lift her from the ground, but they refused to obey. Why couldn't she move? Why couldn't she move? Attempting to rise, all she managed was a feeble twitch that swiftly escalated into a violent tremor–trapping her in the clutches of an involuntary and terrifying convulsion.

It felt like dying.

Haven knew what death felt like. And as she dissolved into the lurid throes of a seizure–she didn't think that she could cheat it.

• •

HIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!

another 7.9k words. happy early freakin friday!

SOOOOOO if anybody has any residual confusion about haven being a nightblood... don't worry. it's intentional! i cannot wait to explore it more! just u wait besties!!!

i was a little hesitant on haven calling bellamy a monster during their argument. those are fighting words! but i think it showed that she's at her boiling point after everything thats unfolded so far. not to mention being poisoned and traumatized and exhausted! girly has been through it but she STILL stands on business!

it will also make the day trip chapter 100x better as well sooo thank me later! 🤓🫣

THANK YOU FOR THE LOVE AND COMMENTS!!!

love you more than anything! MWAH!