A series of bellarke oneshots

The lives we save

Not mine       

"Bandages, I need more bandages!" Clarke yells, and Jasper obliges. "I need moonshine, and someone start a fire!"

          Everyone rushes around Clarke, and her own words become inconsequential noise. Needles, syringes—quick, someone get her clean water. The list tumbles out of her vocal chords. Already, Clarke has done this too many times. She puts pressure on the wound, but her own hands are being stained at an alarming rate.

          The girl on the table bleeds out. Red liquid blooms across her clothing and drips onto the floor. Her face remains blank, passive. She isn't even conscious enough to be aware of her fate.

          Clarke works quickly, but it isn't enough. It never would have been enough.

          "She lost too much blood, Clarke," Raven says. "You did your best."

          But her best wasn't good enough, and a fresh grave appears outside the camp boundaries. Kids brush dirt off their hands and take their makeshift shovels back into camp. Clarke leans against a tree, watching the ordeal. She thinks about the girl, born in space and buried on the earth. Does she even know her name? No. It hadn't mattered until now. What had she done to land herself in prison? What life could she have lead, if the circumstances were different? No one is older than 18 here.

          "We're too young for this," she says to herself.

          "Your right about that, princess," says Bellamy, walking up to her. Bellamy, she thinks. Bellamy is older than 18.

          "Don't beat yourself up about it, it's not your fault."

          Clarke narrows her eyes. Who is he, to try to comfort her like this? "You're right," she says. "It's your fault."

          Bellamy looks at her sharply. "My fault?"

          "Yeah," Clarke says, turning to him. "You gave the order to put her on border patrol."

          "Listen, I'm trying to keep everyone alive—"

          "And look how well that's working," Clarke shoots back. They're in each other's faces now. Bellamy's expression is thunderous. Clarke stares up at him, chin lifted, defiant. "These kids aren't soldiers, Bellamy."

          He glares at her, eyes darting between both of hers.

          "Well they are now. We have no choice, with the Grounders after us. How would you like it, Princess? Lay down our arms and surrender peacefully? If it were up to you and your boyfriend, we'd all be slaughtered."

          Clarke's face burns. "Finn isn't my—"

          Bellamy grins. "That's right."

          Clarke grits her teeth. It was such a low, stupid blow. "You should be careful," she says as Bellamy turns around. "Next time, you could be the one that needs help."

          He looks back. "Is that a threat?"

          Clarke's insides squirm. The words taste wrong, but she spits them out. "I'm just saying. Maybe I don't care if you live or die."

          "Likewise, Princess."

          He storms off, leaving Clarke with a headache, staring at a grave she still can't help but feel guilty for.

          She's the best they have, she decides. She'll just have to be better.

          The rest of the week is quiet, calm. The grounders are leaving them alone for the moment. The kids hunt, gather, and prepare for the winter. Clarke uses this time to recover. She avoids Bellamy, mostly. When she has to talk to him she uses civil, but clipped phrases. She goes to the river and washes herself, lying her clothes to dry on the rocks. She takes naps at the insistence of Monty, who says she needs more rest. She organizes her medical supplies in the drop ship. Next time she'll be ready, she promises herself.