All These Dying Things

Part 2

She does not return to the stadium, with the days that follow.

When the servants enter in the morning, pull aside thick red drapes that reveal the humming of early morning, a low groan spills from her lips, and she brings up a hand to shield herself from what is usually a pleasant light, now scathing against her skin.

She moans again, more vocal this time, and three servants dash to her side.

“Princess? Whatever is it that ails you?” The scarcely contained shrillness in the servant’s voice makes Clarke wince, and bury herself further within the silk of her ruby covers, the sheer softness of them against her skin, she finds comfort in them, and wishes she could cocoon herself in their chambers.

What a pleasant thing that would be.

 The gentle tug on her covers reminds she is still is reality. She surfaces only a little, the light in the room blinding her as she drowsily blinks away the sleep in her eyes.

“I am not feeling in the best of health. Please call for my mo- the empress.” Her voice is groggy, strained, as though something scratches against her throat.

The servant that hovers above her head nods, and bows as she leaves, which Clarke waves away, uncomfortable with the show of complete servitude.

Clarke’s head collapses into her pillows, her golden hair spraying out behind her like a rising sun, and her eyes glinting like green garnet. She shutters them away, sighing softly. She would not admit to anyone, much less herself, but a tiny part of her, had actually been looking forward to going to the coliseum today. Not for the kills, not for the entertainment, but for the chance of catching a glance of that gladiator again- Bellamy.

Their talk had haunted her thoughts until she’d slept, and yet in rest she found she could still not be free of him, his eyes clouding her dreams, the way he’d fixed her in place with his unyielding gaze. His glaring, hating gaze.

He obviously had no thoughts of her, so why could she not seem to rid herself of these endless, clearly meaningless, thoughts of him?

A sharp coldness knocked her out of her thoughts, she audibly gasped, and looked up to be met with her mother’s soft gaze. Oh.

The coolness radiating from her palm is soothing to Clarke’s boiling skin, and she leans into her mother’s hand. Abby gently smiles, though concern etches its way into her features, as she feels Clarke’s warm skin.

“Oh, Clarke, are you feeling unwell my child?” She asks tenderly, moving her hand to touch her daughter’s cheek.

“Oh mother, my skin burns as hot as the sun rises in the sky, and my head, it aches so, as though someone has drilled a hole inside of it.” Clarke exclaims breathlessly, forgetting herself for a moment, and her mother’s accepted title. Abby does not scold her, but offers a sympathetic smile as her daughter lists off her woes.

“Clarke, perhaps it would be better for you to stay-“Abby’s voice is kind against Clarke’s ears, but is cut off rudely as her father- the Emperor falls into her chambers, pushing roughly against the door.

“Are you unwell?” He asks brusquely, standing stiffly, hovering close to her door, uncomfortable in the foreign space.

Clarke looks back to her mother, who smiles encouragingly, but removes her palm from her cheek, and straightens, walking to go and stand by her father’s side.

Jake’s eyebrows raise, bobbing his head impatiently. “Well? Are you in ill health?”  Clarke pushes her head down, embarrassed at the impatience she has caused him.