Experiment of Fate ~ A Bellamy Blake story

4 - Return

The forest was cloaked in a heavy silence, broken only by the soft, uneven crunch of footsteps on the leaf-strewn path. Bellamy and Octavia flanked Isla, their hands steadying her fragile frame as she stumbled forward. Every step was a battle, her legs trembling under her weight, but her face was set with unyielding determination. Years of imprisonment and torture at Mount Weather had stripped her of strength, yet her spirit fought to reclaim what was lost.

"She's doing good," Bellamy murmured to Octavia, his voice low but laced with hope. He needed her to hear it, even if Isla didn't.

Octavia's jaw tightened, her emotions a storm she hadn't yet tamed. She nodded briefly, her gaze darting between Isla and the shadowed trail ahead. "She's stronger than she looks," Octavia said, almost as if trying to convince herself.

Isla walked like a ghost, her body frail, her complexion pale and sunken, yet her eyes betrayed a flicker of life—a refusal to let the pain define her. Bellamy's heart twisted at the sight of her, a shadow of the person she might have been. But despite her suffering, she pressed on, leaning on them but refusing to collapse entirely. Each faltering step was a small act of defiance, a reclamation of self.

The forest thinned, and in the distance, a figure emerged. Lincoln stood at the edge of the treeline, his tall frame tense, his sharp gaze scanning them. When his eyes locked on Isla, his expression shifted, recognition flooding him. His breath hitched audibly before he broke into a sprint.

"Isla!" Lincoln's voice cracked, loud and raw with emotion.

The sound stirred Isla. Her head lifted slightly, though exhaustion clouded her senses. Her knees buckled, but Bellamy and Octavia caught her as Lincoln skidded to a halt in front of her, dropping to his knees.

"Isla," he whispered, his voice trembling as he looked up at her, tears pooling in his eyes. "It's me. Lincoln. Do you remember me?"

She blinked slowly, her gaze struggling to focus. For a moment, her expression was blank, but then, recognition flickered in her sunken eyes. Her lips quivered, and the faintest of smiles graced her face. She nodded weakly.

Lincoln choked on a sob, reaching up to cradle her face with shaking hands. Bellamy and Octavia stepped back, giving them space as Isla collapsed into her brother's arms. Her frail body shook as emotion overtook her, tears spilling down her cheeks. Lincoln held her carefully, afraid to hurt her, but unable to let go.

He whispered softly in Trigedasleng, his voice a soothing balm to her fractured spirit. Then, almost instinctively, he began to hum—a familiar lullaby from their childhood, the melody fragile yet grounding. Isla's trembling eased, her breathing slowed, and exhaustion claimed her as she fell asleep in his arms. Lincoln rose, lifting her effortlessly, as though she weighed nothing. His face was a mask of pain and quiet determination as he carried her toward camp.

Behind them, Clarke walked in silence, her eyes locked on Isla's fragile form. She couldn't look away from the sister she had thought lost forever. Guilt coiled tightly in her chest, suffocating her with every step. The reunion she'd dreamed of was here, but Isla's brokenness was a cruel reminder of Clarke's failure to protect her.

Octavia fell back to walk beside Clarke, sensing her inner turmoil. Though anger simmered within Octavia—resentment over TonDC, over Clarke's choices—she pushed it aside for now. Instead, she placed a steadying hand on Clarke's arm.

"She's alive, Clarke. She's here," Octavia said softly, her tone firm but not unkind. Beneath her words lay an unspoken plea: Don't let guilt drown you.

Clarke's composure cracked, a sob escaping before she could suppress it. The weight of everything—the betrayal at Mount Weather, the lives lost, the pain she'd inflicted—crashed over her. For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to feel it. Octavia, despite her own bitterness, pulled Clarke into a tight hug, letting her cry without judgment.