Chapter Twelve

"I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love." - Mother Teresa

They leave at dawn, when the sun has barely kissed the grey sky hello. He's used to this—the greyness of everything. But now, in this moment, he hates the grey sky more than ever.

Because the fiery sun kisses the icy sky every morning. And what he wouldn't give for Clarke to do the same. At least, for Clarke to remember what had happened next to the fire that night.

They walk in silence.

"Bellamy?" Clarke begins at last, and for once her voice sounds timid.

"Yes?" He replies immediately.

"Who killed Wells?"

Bellamy chokes on air. Clarke doesn't remember Charlotte. She doesn't remember the reason why the two of them had stuck together in the first place.

So Bellamy can't bring himself to answer. He clenches his fists and walks onward, quickening his pace.

*

How will I know what you look like? She asks the man as they near the river.

Have you forgotten me already, sky girl?

Clarke can't bring herself to reply. So she walks onward, not talking with the man inside her head, or with the man at her side. Something has shifted in the air between her and Bellamy, and Clarke doesn't exactly like not knowing what it is.

And then her heart stops. Because what if...did she forget something? Did something happen that the man has made her forget?

Darling, of course, the man tells her, replying to her questions even though she never meant for him to hear.

She doesn't reply again. Because they have come to the river, and because once again, she can't bring herself to speak.

Clarke knows she has forgotten something. Why else would Bellamy be so different around her? Why else would he look at her that way?

"We're here, princess," Bellamy says, and then he is right next to her, adjusting his grip on his gun.

Suddenly Clarke is all too aware of their close proximity. "Where is he?" She whispers back, as though she has to. The man can hear them.

"I'm here," someone says from behind them.

And it is not a man. The voice comes from a woman, dressed in a tight red dress. A smirk dances across her face, reflecting in her eyes, which are surrounded by dark makeup, as ominous as the feeling of dread that fills in the pit of Clarke's stomach. The woman's hair is pulled high onto her head, and Clarke can't help but stare.

Bellamy grabs her arm, stepping in front of her, and Clarke swears it feels different this time. Because even in this moment of shock, she is acutely aware of his hands.

Bellamy cocks his gun, and Clarke follows suit, letting any sort of thoughts trickle into the dust around her feet.

Bellamy's hands are on the trigger, protecting and shielding and daring the woman to move.

"I can see it now easily, sky girl," the woman says, clasping her hands elegantly.

"What can you see?" Clarke forces herself to refrain from pulling the trigger. But if this woman, who may or may not be working with the man inside her head, makes one wrong move, Clarke won't be able to stop herself.

"I can see his pain." The woman looks almost sorry now, and for a second Clarke thinks her emotions are real. But then the woman chuckles, and Clarke knows that this woman is playing her.

The woman walks closer, and Clarke is too shocked to shoot. Now the woman, clad in a dress as red as blood, stops in front of Bellamy. Slowly, she brings a pale hand up to his gun, pushing the barrel down.

Bellamy is giving the woman his icy stare, but she is not fazed. She laughs quietly, as though she has found something incredibly humorous. "I'm sure that if Clarke was herself, you wouldn't be so distraught."

"I am myself," Clarke protests, trying to draw this dangerous woman away from Bellamy, whose hands are clenched in fury.

"Now, you and I both know that's a lie. But I appreciate the attempt." The woman pauses, brushing a stray hair behind her perfect ears. "How are twenty-one through thirty?"

Clarke's mind stops. Bellamy drops his gun. The woman cackles.

"You're him," Clarke gasps, the realization choking her. All of a sudden the warm light feels to hot. All of a sudden her palms are too clammy to hold her gun. It clatters into the dust.

"I can be anyone I want you to see."

Clarke can sense something coming, like a tiny prick in the back of her mind. Something is coming.

Clarke steps closer to Bellamy, but doesn't dare to reach out and grasp his hand like a child. Clarke shakes her head, and her heart thumps loudly in her chest. She can't bring herself to look up.

But then she can. And then she's looking at Bellamy. Except, it's not Bellamy. The woman changed her appearance.

"You're not real," Clarke spits, and this time she does grab Bellamy's hand. He grips hers tightly, and tries to step in front of her.

"Define real," not-Bellamy says. "Your thoughts are chemical. Mine are digital."

"Don't make me kill you," Clarke spits, half behind the real Bellamy.

"You can't kill me, little girl. I can't be broken." Not-Bellamy has mastered Bellamy's icy glare, and Clarke cowers from it now.

Bellamy grips her hand tighter, if that is possible.

Not-Bellamy sighs, as though he feels absolute remorse. "I don't even have a heart. The thing about hearts, sky girl, is that they can break."

"We don't have to listen to this."

And then not-Bellamy says the words that make Clarke quiver from behind the man whose hand she is gripping so tightly.

"Minds can break too, sky girl."

Metal screeches inside her head, screaming and yelling and shouting as the world tumbles around her.

"No!" Bellamy cries, and Clarke realizes that he knows.

And Clarke knows too, when she collapses to her knees, and her body folds in on itself. Clarke knows when she doesn't feel herself thumping to the ground.

Her heart is thumping faster and faster. The dust is too warm against her cheek. And Clarke feels like a shell of a person. She grasps at the real Bellamy, the one whose face is right above hers.

Her fingers find his cheeks, large and bruised. "Through thirty," she manages. "Protect them."

Minds can break too.

"Stay with me," Bellamy says. "Fight this, damn it."

Clarke blinks, and then the screeching stops.

And Clarke is a shell.

AN: Greetings, readers. I know I broke your Bellarke hearts, but I have a plan. Hehe.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, nonetheless.