All These Dying Things

Part 6

Part 6

Clarke feared she was losing her head.

Becoming lost in a dream state of her own making, not only did she fight and fear the unravelling of any conscious thought around Bellamy, but the pounding of her heart against her frail chest, whenever he as so much glanced in her direction. A battle raged silently inside her, one side fighting for her to regain her composure, follow the path her head would lead her, while the other side demanded the attention of her heart, allowing her imagination to dance and twirl, hand in hand with her infatuation.

She'd promise her attention to the more realistic answer, swear an oath to herself that she'd chase away the matters of her heart, and rule, as princesses do, without a thought to herself.

But then Bellamy would send her a crooked smile, and the battle raged on.

After they'd declared their somewhat-feelings for one another, Clarke had been left without a hope of what to do, his sweet words still ringing in her head, even as she saw him maim and murder in the arena. And so, for three, excruciating days, they had not spoken. Not shared a single glance, nor had he dared to let his gaze linger. Previously, she'd gone years upon years without a single word addressed to him, and it had not distressed her as it did so now – so fervently, so passionately.

She felt almost reckless.

And so it was on the fourth day, as she sampled the fruits that the market had to offer, that he came to her.

She had been so distracted, so focused of the worrying and wearisome thoughts of her father, what she knew to be of his plans to marry her off to a Senator, of how his smile had somehow grown sharper whenever he saw the Collins boy (a boy a boy a boy destined to rule a throne of fire and blood) in her company, his fingers pressing against the skin of her arm (she'd wanted to snap each of his fingers off, though, in the sake of diplomacy, had restrained herself until she felt the trickle of blood in her palm where her nails had bitten against the flesh), so distracted, that'd she'd nearly jumped out of the cover of her skin as a tanned hand had wrapped around her wrist.

She'd of course been dressed as any commoner was, blending in with the sea of haggling merchants and displeased buyers. (To fool her parents had become so easy now – with her impending marriage they argued and fought until it seemed the walls of the castle had cowered, shaking against the screaming.) So at first she'd panicked, afraid the guard had recognized her pale skin and blonde hair against the dark blue robes, but she'd only had to glance up swiftly, to see those dark eyes staring down at her.

Bellamy pulled her through the crowds with an effortless ease that made her wonder just how long he'd swimming among them, until at last they'd arrived on his doorstep, where he finally began to shows signs of hesitating. She'd only rolled her eyes and walked through the door, throwing it open with a flick of her wrist.

He'd followed shortly after, shaking his head and grumbling under his breath, as he quietly closed the door.

"I feel this is becoming a recurring theme. You, me, dark rooms. Maybe try to keep your distance this time." She drawled, the smirk on her lips saying more than words ever could. He'd looked at her in irritation, though she saw the amusement in his eyes.

She sighed, pulling the fabric away from her head, and shaking her head to relieve the tension. It had been wrapped much too tight. Though, she supposed Raven had to pay her back somehow. (Her market visits were becoming something a commodity, and one way or another, Raven was always bribed into assisting her.)

She didn't see as his eyes followed the motion, standing stock still as he finally allowed himself to stare at her as he had not, could not in the arena, feeling deprived of her. She raised a single eyebrow as he stared, head cocked and hands splayed dangerously against her hips.