Experiment of Fate ~ A Bellamy Blake story

6 - Wanheda

Isla lingered in the shadows, arms folded tightly against her chest as she watched the sparring match unfold. Bellamy and Lincoln, bare-chested and raw with sweat, moved with an almost animalistic grace—a blur of motion and muscle as they circled each other like fierce predators. Each calculated swing and evasive dodge pulled Isla's attention, a welcome distraction from the persistent ache deep in her chest—a pain born from the grim memories of her captivity at Mount Weather and the searing betrayal of abandonment. Clarke—her twin, her other half—had walked away, leaving Isla to sift through the shattered remnants of her past.

Lincoln's movements were as fluid as they were precise. He dodged Bellamy's fierce punch with a dancer's ease, then struck swiftly at Bellamy's side, sending him reeling in pain. Isla's hands clenched at her sides, the sound of Bellamy's grunt mingling with the quiet hum of her own racing heartbeat. Bellamy had always thrown himself into every battle with a relentless ferocity—a fire that both defined him and often left him vulnerable. Yet Lincoln's calm, measured style was a stark contrast, a silent testament to his mastery. With one final, decisive blow, Lincoln flipped Bellamy onto his back. Bellamy cursed as he pounded the unforgiving ground, but Lincoln, ever the peacemaker, extended his hand to help him up.

"Too aggressive," Lincoln chided the gathered crowd, his voice carrying both admonishment and care. "You need control over your emotions to win." Bellamy scoffed, still winded, yet he accepted Lincoln's hand with a grudging respect.

In that moment, Isla exhaled a long-held breath—a mix of relief and sorrow. The sparring had always dredged up memories of better times, when she and Lincoln had practiced together with laughter and light hearts, before the mountain, before the war. Those sessions had been her sanctuary, a way to channel her raw energy and hidden pain. Now, every move on the mat was a reminder of what she'd lost.

As Lincoln turned his attention to training the others, Isla stepped forward despite the dull ache that throbbed beneath her skin. Movement was her salvation; staying still meant surrendering to the ghosts of Mount Weather. "Lincoln," she called softly. When he turned, his eyes, warm and laced with worry, met hers. "You sure you're ready?" he asked, a gentle concern threading through his tone as he surveyed her still-healing body.

"I need this," she replied, her voice firmer than she felt inside.

Lincoln nodded and took his stance in front of her. Isla moved with a desperate speed, her slight frame darting around him as she aimed low, using every bit of agility to outmaneuver his taller, more deliberate form. Lincoln had taught her these moves so well, yet today her determination nearly caught him off guard. In a burst of effort, she lunged—a kick and a tangled attempt to bring him down—only to be betrayed by a sharp pain in her ribs. Lincoln's flip sent her gently onto her back. "You're still healing," he murmured, pulling her upright with tender care. His concern was palpable, yet it stung; Isla wasn't ready to admit that she wasn't whole.

Before she could muster a retort, Bellamy appeared, breathless and resolute. "Kane wants you with us for the mission to Sector 7," he announced, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. Lincoln frowned, worry etching his features. "That's Ice Nation territory. The truce doesn't mean they respect it. I should come."

Bellamy's smile was laced with sorrow as he shook his head. "You know you can't. The kill order on you hasn't been lifted—you'd be more trouble than help." The tension in Lincoln's eyes said it all, yet he remained silent, returning to the mat with shoulders heavy with unspoken regret. Bellamy then turned to Isla, beckoning her forward with a firm gesture.

As they walked, Isla offered a quiet, almost wistful compliment. "You did well today, just need to watch the openings you leave." Bellamy's rugged gaze softened for a fleeting moment. "Thanks, shortcake," he teased, the familiar nickname stirring a complex knot of warmth and confusion in her chest. It was a name born of affection—a nod to her strawberry-blonde hair—but it made her stomach twist in a way she didn't fully understand. "Stop calling me that," she muttered, playfully punching his arm. Bellamy's laugh was warm and teasing, a brief reprieve from the heavy day.