Chapter 17

Clarke looks carefully at Bellamy in that moment and observes the emotion buried in his eyes. She felt as though her soul saw his in that split second of observation; her soul perhaps was tethered to his--else how would she understand his emotions so easily? He tells her he will get the dangerous voice out of her head. This string of words is new to her and she considers it carefully.

She understands quickly what it means, and has an idea of what must be done to get it out. Vaguely, she had listened to the conversation between Bellamy and Monty. A knife would be used. She must have a head wound somewhere, which would explain the headache that had never went away.

"Just get it out," she tells him after consideration, pursing her lips and gritting her teeth.

His soul flickers warmly in his eyes, pride trickling down his face and pulling the corners of his mouth slightly upward. He seems to her to be impressed with her quickness, her grim bravery.

"Turn around," he tells her and she obliges.

She hears his feet on the earth as he takes steps towards her, hears the fabric of his sleeves brushing against the fabric on his sides as he raises his hands. She feels her hair shift upward as he lifts it, feels her head pounding with pain.

The voice comes as it always does--expected and yet surprising. Three, it murmurs, like a whisper.

She voices the number--"Three"--and finds an intense fear pulsing down her spine and pressing her feet deeper into the dark earth under their feet.

There is a sharp intake of breath behind her. At first she thinks Bellamy might be reacting to the number--three minutes left only three until until until--but then he speaks.

"How did we miss this?"

He speaks quietly, severely.

"Did you find something?"

"There's a bump right under your hairline. It's been stitched together by someone." A pause. She hears metal being unsheathed. He is pulling out his knife, preparing himself. "Are you ready?"

"Do it now," she pleads.

A few seconds pass before the pain of skin being split open again occurs. She can nearly feel the stitches, made by unknown hand, severing. The mere splitting of skin does nothing to stop the voice in her head; the strange chip has not been taken from her neck yet.

Two.

"Two," she states with heavy breath.

Two minutes. . . .Bellamy hurry. She does not voice the words; she somehow has faith enough in him to believe he will do his best.

"Almost there," Bellamy tells her, his voice low in concentration.

Something rumbles in her mind. Metal screeches. She can feel a part of herself, a very strange something, beginning to leave her. It is all very confusing, and Clarke does not understand her own feelings, her own breath, why her hands are clenched tightly at her sides.

Do you wish to be the initiator of a war, sky girl?

The terrible, harrowing, tortuous, heart-rending, troublesome, harassing, tormenting, hair-raising, traumatic voice enters her mind ominously.

Who are you?

Somehow she knows how to reply to this strange voice, this terrible, heart-rending voice that infects her.

We cannot let go of our experiments; they are far too important for us to let slip from our grasp.

"Nearly done. . ."

Call this off, sky-girl. Tell him to place the chip back inside of you.

I will never obey you.

Carefully consider your choice, or we will have to resort to. . . .how do I say. . . .drastic measures.

She could feel the smile in his voice as the sound of metal again filled her head. She thought it would never be over.

One. Make your decision soon, or we will be forced to collect others.

"One," she tells the man behind her.

You took my memories.

You had no purpose for them. You were never truly happy, anyhow. Why else would you have left your camp? We took someone alone, and miserable, without anyone in the world to care for her, and we made her better. We used her memories to learn about the men and women who live in the stars. You are better without them. We are better with them. A reasonable exchange has been made.

A pause.

Your time is up. You will regret--

White light comes bursting in from the sky, running down the trees around them like water and seeming to be invisible to the others. Noises and colors fill the white. She is inside a metal box, strapped inside. The box is shaking. Someone. . . .an old friend, someone she had thought had betrayed her, is beside her. She is arguing with someone, an infuriating someone--the air could be toxic--someone familiar--if the air's toxic we're all dead anyway.

She is walking in the woods, searching for food--before you get any ideas, Finn's mine. She finds she doesn't really care until the scene shifts, and her lips are pressed against Finn's. She is happy, until she is betrayed--Raven.

The first death comes like a shock, and then the second too. Wells dies, killed by someone, a small someone--to slay my demons. Oh, the earth is cruel, she realizes as she basks in the white light, the light that spins around her and reminds her of who she was. She had been wrong, so terribly wrong about her friend, about Wells. It had never been him who had been responsible for her father--her father!--dying; no, it had been her mother.

She saves Finn from a knife, her hands are covered with his blood and she has to let someone get tortured. Someone familiar carries out the job for her, and she finds herself grateful. She must contact her mother, face the woman she thought she hated and ask for help. She will not show weakness, she mustn't show it--who we are and who we need to survive are two very different things.

She goes and looks for supplies with this person, but they are followed. He teaches her how to hold a gun, and shoot--my bullets are duds, try yours. His hand is gentle on her shoulder--looks good. The lights are orange and red around them. She must use her new skills when the boy--Dax--attacks her companion.

And then the words spill from her mouth, the ones that admit that perhaps her weakness is okay--I need you. She and him are bloody and tired and bruised, but they are alive, and they are content.

Warmth surges in her heart until the scene changes, and she is fighting with him in front of a fire--I'm going for a walk. He pulls her back, but she doesn't listen. She sleeps. And then she remembers agony--sky girl.

She returns to camp and she is grateful, but there is a voice in her head that terrifies her.

An orange blanket settles around her shoulders and she is comforted for some time. She remembers forgetting, remembers the pain, remembers Bellamy most of all because she hurt him most of all.

She reaches out for his warm hand and takes it. She forgets about it. She reaches for him again. And she forgets again.

She remembers the kiss.

She remembers forgetting it, remembers hurting Bellamy, and she hates the voice that was in her head more than ever. She remembers the numbers counting upwards, announcing the total number of people dead--ten, eleven, twelve. She remembers trying to leave behind her weakness, to leave behind Bellamy, in order that she might get the voice out of her head.

She goes to meet the woman, the shapeshifter. Bellamy comes along. There is a Bellamy and a not-Bellamy, and her heart hurts.

Minds can break too, sky-girl.

She remembers whispering on the earth--protect them.

She remembers forgetting. It. All.

Oh, how cruel indeed it is to love and have it taken from you, how cruel indeed it is to have your very soul ripped apart.

The bright white light trickles back up the trees and slowly, slowly carefully cautiously, she sees once more. She sees and she loves and she lives. She is whole, and un-shattered, and she is appreciative for the first time of her memories.

Her father's watch is too big around her wrist. There are so many graves, so so so many people dead. But she has survived.

She realizes she is facing away. . . .

. . . .from him.

She turns to him, to Bellamy.

Opens her mouth. Closes it. Tears form. Licks her lips.

"Bellamy."

Oh, how joyous it is to say his name, to remember him, to remember everything that happened with him by her side.

The knife slips from his hand and falls to the earth. His eyes are wide with hope and disbelief and she thinks he might be the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. He steps closer cautiously.

"You remember?"

"Everything."

"Clarke. . ." Bellamy murmurs, but she is already tripping into his arms.

She must say it, must voice her strength, must say it into his ear.

"I love you," she whispers into his shoulder, his neck, his hair. "I'm sorry I forgot."

A tender laugh. "Me too, princess." He pauses and pulls her closer. "I love you."

He whispers the words into her blonde hair, into her shoulder, into her neck.

Clarke is warm and whole and completely joyous.

She is alive, and she loves.

AN: Ahhhh! This was perhaps the most tedious thing I've ever made myself write, but I hope I managed it well.

This was not the end of th story, although I suppose this would make a good last chapter. I have more in store for you lovelies!

Feedback, as always, is much appreciated. ♥️