He had been wrong, and he’d known it even before pronouncing the words. “You won’t shoot me, Clarke”, he’d said, and perhaps that would have been true, in another place, in another time, without the book in Bellamy’s hands being a threat to Madi. That would have been true, that had been true. There had been a time Clarke had lowered her weapon. A time losing Bellamy would have hurt way more than any other possible scenario. But much had changed since that time in the bunker.
Of course, he had hoped. Because he knew Clarke cared about Madi most, but she had to care about him too, because she had promised. She had called him “family, too”, she’d promised not to forget about it anymore, not as she had done when she’d left him in the fighting pits.
Maybe he should’ve expected her to shoot, despite the promise, remembering how she hadn’t hesitated when it had come to Madi’s safety. Bellamy had put Madi in danger once, and now, in Clarke’s eyes, he was doing it again. Bellamy was, in a betrayed best friend’s eyes, the enemy. And a beautiful snake is poisonous just the same.
He could understand, and forgive, Clarke for what she had done. That bullet had been well earned, after all. Hadn’t he betrayed them all for the light? Hadn’t he betrayed his friends – no, family – for a promise of warmth, hadn’t he given up hugs and laughter for a safe tomorrow? Hadn’t he deserved every bit of mistrust and hatred? Seeing Emori smile at him had only been nice before remembering he’d eventually owe her explanations. He’d eventually experience her disappointment as well.
As he fell back and heard the gunshots, heard the wild sound of the anomaly bringing Clarke away, he’d wished for someone to hold him so tight death wouldn’t dare get near. He’d wished for someone to bring him back, in some impossible way, because they’d known their fair trade of incredible and somehow it had always become real. Surviving a bullet straight to the heart was crazy, he knew, but he kept hoping his head telling his heart to beat could be enough to survive just a bit more. Just the bit of time he needed to get to the green door of dimensions and follow Clarke wherever, and say “Sorry” again, and hear the “Me too” again, and ask for forgiveness as he had done, covered in different blood and shielded by night, so many years before. He knew he’d messed up. So, when the shivers came and no one else did, when the screams vanished behind the veil of unconsciousness, he stopped holding back. And he let go.
On the other side, he found no light, but he also found no god of any kind ready to judge him for his mistakes. Somehow, that was comforting. Living in some kind of Hell was just as scary of a thought as surviving in the fighting limbo of Earth. What was still scary of the unplace he was now? He seemed to be alone, and after Etherea, he’d had his fair share of loneliness.
«Bellamy?»
Brains can’t make voices up. It’s a limit of theirs. He had found it funny, when he’d first read about it, but as he turned around, he asked himself about what Clarke’d say. She’d told him believing in becoming light after the Last War was impossible, a crazy thought. But he was dead, and hearing voices. Wasn’t that quite crazy as well? Quite impossible?
«Bellamy, is that you?»
So much time had passed. And somehow, as he recognized the shadow turning into a woman – or simply revealing herself – in front of his eyes, he remembered about a Bellamy different from the one he was now, Pike’s follower and not the Shepherd’s sheep, angry and feeling as if Clarke had betrayed him. Those two different versions of himself weren’t that different after all.
Again, so much time had passed. As the Earth had gone through more than an apocalypse, and they had traveled in cryo for more than a hundred years and Lexa still looked the same, despite not needing any more confirmation of it, Bellamy knew for sure he was gone, dead, away, not going back to his family. Not laughing at Murphy. Not smiling at Emori. Not playing around with Raven. Not saying sorry to Echo. Not listening to Octavia’s story. Not getting to know Hope and Jordan and Madi more. Not telling Clarke he understood her.
«Lexa.»
The Commander of the too many clans to be one was just a few steps away. She had always been royal, fierce, but now she looked more like a girl than she had ever been in their meetings. «Herself.»
He could see her hesitate, as if she could ever have doubts on what was to do, and next thing he knew, he was holding her as tight as Lexa was holding him. He could feel no warmth, but he could feel as if he had someone near, and that was enough. More than enough.
Lexa didn’t step back, and Bellamy didn’t let her go. It felt as if they both needed that contact, as if Lexa had been in that dimension alone for too long not to desire a word, a touch, and embrace. Bellamy knew for sure he needed that.
He waited until the Commander moved away, looking him in the eyes, serious, a shade too pitiful than he would have liked her to be.
«I’m sorry she shot you.» she said, and the words came at Bellamy like a second bullet.
«She did what she had to.» the moment he spoke, despite already knowing it, Bellamy felt the weight of the burden Clarke was now to carry. They had been close. They had been friends. Maybe in a different place and time they could have been more. But despite the names given to the shades of closeness, Clarke had decided to shoot, and that decision, that millisecond? She’d have to live with that, with the consequences of what’s she deemed right. She’d have to live with his blood, getting blended on her hands with all the red death she’d spread as herself and as Wanheda and as a mother. «It’s why we loved her.»
Lexa tilted her head, and he realized he’d spoken before thinking about the consequences. Something he should’ve learned not to do, during all the years by Clarke’s side, simply during all the years as protector of his people.
He’d loved Gina and Echo, but he had, too, loved Clarke. Of course he had. How not to fall in love with the Princess and her temper, first, then with the girl not scared to fight for the people who didn’t want her, who’d easily blame her for the mistakes and ignore the victories? How now to be in love with the memory of the woman who’d sacrificed herself for her friends? And, back home, how not to fall again and deeper than ever for the one who’d survived, who’d fought, who’d been the world to a lonely girl and made her a warrior, how not to fall for the mother who’d burn the world down for her daughter? How not to stay in love, from afar, with such a creature, such a wonder, such a burning star?
He was about to explain, but he kept his mouth shut. Lexa had loved Clarke, too. She’d seen her, the enemy, the proud girl in charge, ready to die for his lover and to kill him for her people. She’d wanted her back, the wild being running away from her choices, she’d made her an ambassador to the men and women wanting her back and criticizing her actions. She’d protected her, as she could, as long as she could. Lexa had loved Clarke, and because of that she could understand him.
So when she smiled, he did, too.
«It’s why we loved her, indeed.»