𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 | the 100¹

11 | Better Than Nothing

"I wish I cared less."

‧ ✩ ｡ ✭ ° ☆ ･ _______ ･ ☆ ° ✭ ｡ ✩ ‧

"Bellamy," Octavia begs as she cradles his limp form on the ground, struggling to lift him.

Amber's gaze sweeps the scene for Clarke, expecting to see her rushing forward to help, but of course, she's gone with Charlotte and Finn. Clarke isn't there. No one can help.

"He's not waking up," Octavia shouts, her eyes wild and pleading as she turns to the quiet onlookers. She looks abandoned and small beside Bellamy's much larger body.

Amber's heart clenches. Taking a deep breath, she cautiously approaches Octavia. As she kneels, she places one supportive hand on her shoulder while she gently taps Bellamy's cheek with the other. There's no response and Octavia sniffles.

"It's okay." Amber forces herself to look up and meet Octavia's eyes, hoping to make her believe the words. But Octavia's desperately worried gaze is too much to bear, and she glances away again. She doesn't know how to hide her own fear.

After confirming that Bellamy is still breathing and that there's no blood, she nods to herself. "Alright... We should move him to his tent."

"Hey, you!" Octavia snaps at the closest person from the crowd while she staggers to her feet and hooks her arms under Bellamy's. "Grab one of his legs."

The person she addresses does as they are told, then Jules, meeting Amber's eyes with ashamed disdain, steps forward and takes hold of Bellamy's other leg. Amber leads them to his tent where they carefully lay him down on his bed before they leave.

Octavia swiftly settles at the edge of the bed and cups her brother's face in her hands. The depth of her love for him is palpable and forces Amber back, feeling like an intruder to a moment she doesn't belong in, a witness to a love she doesn't know.

She lets out a shaky sigh. At least she can find small comfort in knowing that Bellamy's injury isn't critical, but it will leave him with a headache once he wakes up. She only wishes she could tell when that is. If only Clarke was here.

"We could get a wet towel to reduce swelling," Amber suggests. Octavia leaps to action and leaves the tent without a word.

Amber is left with the unconscious Bellamy, who, despite her hatred of, she feels a sense of worry and pity for. Hopefully what little she has done will be enough. She reaches into her pocket and grabs the bound deck of cards, slides her thumb against its familiar, worn-out edges. Bellamy is the last person she'd expect herself to help, and a growing dread tells her it was a mistake. There's nothing she can do for him, not really, all she's done is put herself at risk of more disappointment and guilt. More pain. And pain leads to hatred, to violence, and finally to more disappointment and guilt. She shouldn't have helped.

Octavia bursts back into the tent with a wet cloth and gently lays it onto Bellamy's forehead. Amber backs away.

"Here you go," Octavia whispers as she dabs his face.

"Yeah, that's-" Amber faintly stammers, "that's good. Just, uh, tell him to keep resting when he wakes up and... and he'll be fine."

She slips out. Blinded by memories flashing in her mind, she staggers to the outskirts of camp where she slumps down onto a log and buries her face in her hands to muffle her panic. A camp filled with criminals isn't the place to spiral. She counts her own breaths in weak whispers.