Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
° • . ♚ . • °
You and Bellamy separate at the fork in the trail with nothing more than a glance between you. The terrain widens ahead, trees thinning just enough to make splitting up the smarter option. He studies the ridge line for a moment, tracking sightlines the way he always does, and then turns his focus to you.
"Twenty minutes," he says, already creating a timeline in his head.
You nod. You've done this enough times that the rhythm comes without discussion: sweep, loop back, and regroup.
He steps closer before heading off, brushing a bit of bark from your sleeve and leaning down to kiss your forehead. It's absentminded, more habit than anything else, and then he's moving through the trees, rifle slung over his shoulder and his posture alert.
You take your section at an even pace, scanning the ground and canopy in equal measure. The slope drops off underfoot, roots curling over a rock, pine needles muffling your steps. Wind threads through the branches in uneven currents. Nothing feels overtly wrong, and yet the longer your walk, the more something feels off.
You adjust your path to cut back toward the meeting point sooner than planned. The silence in the trees is pressing in on your skull, the uneasiness of it more worrying than soothing.
Then you see the light.
It flickers between trunks at the base of the ridge now, a low, orange, unsteady light. Fire where there should be none.
You drop instinctively, easing sideways into a thicker grove. The air carries smoke faintly, thin enough to miss if you weren't already alert.
The voices reach your next, speaking in a language you only understand a few words from.
Grounders.
You move closer, slow enough that each step is barely heard above the nightly noises of the forest. The clearing opens through the trees, and your eyes adjust. The body of a Skaikru guard registers first, his arms twisted beneath him, his face hidden in the dirt.
Your eyes lift.
Bellamy is on his knees.
His hands are bound behind his back, his shoulders pulled taut from the restraint. His gun is lying on the ground out of reach. He didn't even get a shot off. Blood traces down fro his temple toward his ear, catching faintly in the torchlight.
Three Grounders stand in a loose formation around him, speaking in low Trigedasleng. You don't catch every word, but the cadence makes their meaning clear. They're weighing their options. One of them steps closer to him. Bellamy lifts his chin in response, jaw clenched. The blade presses at his throat slightly at the movement. He doesn't react.
