Chapter Text
Echo sits on the windowsill and watches the ship hanging in the dark silence of space. Her sword lies across her thighs, whetstone forgotten in her hand.
The world feels unreal, like the second before waking from a pleasant dream. It’s that soft, weightless feeling in the heartbeats between noticing you’re dreaming and wakefulness. A part of her wants to continue dreaming; to fight and rebel against the Spirits and the sun and the world that wants to take everything dear from here.
Stars wink in merriment at that very thought.
She knows she’ll never rebel. She’ll do as her leader commands, because that is what she is, no matter how much her people try to convince her of the contrary.
At the end of the day I’m but a dog at my master’s feet and if he wishes for me to die, I’ll obey and die a happy death.
Echo shudders remembering the words her teachers beat into her very bones and fights the urge to curl her legs against her chest, knowing full well that if her commander were to ask of her to step out of the Ring and into the vast emptiness of space, she would do it without hesitation.
Her eyes fall on the bed, and her heart is so full of sentiment it twists painfully.
Except he would never do that because he isn’t a master or a commander or a king. He’s Bellamy. Kind, fair Bellamy, whose compassion is only rivaled by his strength. But that is worse because in his idealistic mind Primefaya has made the rest of the world kinder. Echo knows that is not the way of the world.
“Nothing is going to change.” The set of his mouth was so earnest when he said those words. He said them like he can singlehandedly make them real. Echo desperately wants to believe them. But to she’s the cynic to his idealism.
The spy runs her tongue over her teeth.
It would be nice. For a moment she tries to imagine the future he paints: a world in which she’s lucky and Octavia doesn’t execute her on sight. A world in which Octavia lifts her banishment, and she’s allowed to stay with her people. In which she isn’t stripped of everything she's ever loved - again.
Thinking about that inevitably reminds her of her sweet Paddy, and the illusion shatters.
Count your blessings, child, and give thanks.
The Queen’s men carved her idealism out of her. They taught her to cherish every kindness. That is what these last few years have been: a kindness from skaikru, a blessing from the Great Spirits.
Echo presses the whetstone to her sword.
The chances of Octavia being as merciful as her brother are slim at best. Best case scenario, she’ll be banished, again. Echo is not delusional enough to believe Bellamy would ever leave his people behind for her.
For six years she’s been dreaming. It’s time to wake up.
The bunker has a very distinct smell. The spy doesn’t need to see the stains on floors and walls to know that blood has been shed in here. Multiple times. In great quantities. It takes her very little probing to find out exactly how much was spilled and why. Echo knows she should go with this information to her leader, but the knowledge will serve very little at the moment, so she goes to Raven, in case they need it at some time and she is unable to convey it.
As was to be expected, Octavia isn’t pleased to see Echo, but the overall happiness of being reunited with her brother puts off the execution.
This is familiar territory. The interminable wait for the other shoe to drop, the imminent threat of punishment, is something Echo is - was, once upon a time- intimately used to. Queen Nia enjoyed seeing her subjects squirm. Retribution could loom for weeks: a shadow to keep you awake at night. Echo doubts Octavia has the same level of self-restraint but, for the moment, she’s allowed to sleep in Bellamy’s room and eat a few morsels in the mess hall.
The presence of the Eligious Kru has put a damper on the massive exodus from the bunker, Octavia is biding her time before setting off to Eden with her people. A few hundred people have migrated from the inside to the crumbling ruins of Polis, so the halls are less crowded than when Spacekru first unearthed the bunker's doors.
“I was there, I know!”
Echo stops dead in her tracks. Bellamy’s voice has an authority to it that has always made her knees go weak. It commands her attention no matter where she is or what she’s doing. The spy isn’t sure if it is because he’s her leader or because he’s Bellamy.
“Then you know why she was banished.” Octavia’s voice burns like poison.
“That was over six years ago.”
“Oh, well, then I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.” The sarcasm makes the hairs on the back of Echo’s neck stand on end. Her hand itches for a knife. Itches to slam the door open and stand between the two siblings. To protect her…
“That is not what I mean, and you know it.”
“No, I don’t know it.”
Bellamy takes a deep breath. Echo can nearly see him: forcing his fists to uncurl, his shoulders down, those beautiful almond eyes wide and sad and pleading.
“We’ve all done stuff we regret.” Pause. “Please, O, I love her.”
The silence that follows is terrible. It’s the sound of the beast about to pounce, the hunter containing his breath before releasing the arrow, the last heartbeat before death.
“Then I hope nobody puts a bullet in her brain.”
It sounds less like a threat and more like a promise.
Echo sits cross-legged on the small room’s floor, praying beads threaded through her fingers, eyes crossed. She’s grown used to praying with the constant hum of machinery in the background, the taste of slightly stale air in the back of her throat. The Ring wasn’t as silent as the bunker is, nor is the sound of air filtration systems the same – where is that slightly metallic twang to it? – But the differences are not enough to distract her from her prayers.
She remembers the first few weeks on the Ring: how the machines, the sounds, and smells reminded her of the Mountain. How she would sometimes enter a room and feel like she was back underground, about to shoved into a small cage and drained from her blood. How she relieved those awful memories over and over until she was sure she had died and her soul was trapped beneath the earth.
Who would’ve thought she would ever willingly spend time underground in another bunker? Who would’ve thought she would sit inside this garish mountain and miss another tech-filled hell-hole? But at least the Ring was her hell-hole…
The air shifts. The spy doesn’t need to open her eyes to know the door has been quietly opened, Bellamy stopping in the doorway.
Her partner doesn’t know how to deal with her faith. He never had any of his own, and her rituals take him aback even after such a long time.
Echo knows that, if she opens her eyes right now, she’ll see him hovering on the threshold, unsure if he has to leave her alone to finish up if his presence bothers her somehow - it never could.
Her heart beats twice, and she knows that, if she opens her eyes now, she’ll see him closing the door behind his back, careful not to disturb her, and tiptoeing his way to the other side of the room.
She finishes her prayer, opens her eyes.
In the five days since they arrived back on earth, Bellamy’s lost the relaxed curve of his shoulders. There is a line etched between his eyes that wasn’t there before. He’s clenching his teeth like he did on the Ring only when Murphy was at his worst.
“I didn’t want to intrude,” he says like he always does.
“You didn’t,” she answers like she always does. “I finished.”
Bellamy hums and plops down on the floor beside her.
“I will go with Miller to scout the Eligious Kru camp.”
Bellamy sighs. “You don’t have to go.”
Ever since discovering the threat about the Eligious Kru he’s been loath to part with any member of Spacekru. She understands the sentiment. After finding out what transpired in this bunker, Echo isn't thrilled to leave any member of Spacekru in here, either. But the truth is that her presence is more of a risk than her absence.
Octavia has had six years to learn all about grounder politics. She had Trikru whispering in her ear. She knows she cannot show any weakness and having a publicly exiled loufa in her house is probably a great show of weakness. It could easily turn into Spacekru landing in the fighting ring upstairs. Most of Spacekru can hold their own in a fight, but not all of them.
“Yes, I do.”
“O will come ‘round.” His voice is full of fire, eyes hard; the hand on her knee extremely gentle.
“Come now, Bell." she pushes a playful smile on her lips and hopes it looks more genuine than it feels. "Surely my commander trusts me enough to go on a simple recon mission.”
“Your mission is to protect your people,” he growls stubbornly.
“I am a spy. I will be way more useful gathering information for you, while Miller gets it for Won-Kru’s commander.” Echo smiles and pecks him on the corner of the mouth, on the small patch of soft skin between his lip and beard. If she were feeling genuinely playful, she would bite the dip in his chin instead. Bellamy chuckles darkly, the hand on her knee traveling up her thigh before raking his blunt nails over the sensitive scar tissue of an old wound. Even with her pants on, the feeling jolts her up.
“I know what this is about, and I am not having it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Echo tells his chin.
His other hand goes to her braid, pulling lightly at the nape of her neck, forcing her to look him in the eye. “You found out about my conversation with O.” It isn’t a question, and she doesn’t answer. Bellamy sighs, his grip slackening. “I told you: nothing will change.”
Echo smiles at his blatant denial.
“Then don’t change it.” His hair is getting too long again. She’ll have to cut it before leaving, or she’ll come back to a Marcus Kane lookalike. “Don’t coddle me. You know your sister won’t tell you everything. I am a spy. Use me.” Her eyes drop to his collarbone. “This is my calling. Let me be of use to our people.” She still feels a thrill speaking those words: our people.
Bellamy sighs. His thumb tapping on the old scar on her thigh. “I…” he shakes his head, dropping it to her shoulder. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to go. You belong to our people. Wherever I go, you can come, too.”
She feels safe with his arms come around her.
Count your blessings, child.
“I love you, too.”
Next morning Bellamy is the one to fasten her scabbard to her belt before leaving their room. They meet Octavia, her entourage, Millar and his partner at the bunker’s mouth. Spacekru is there, too. They bid their farewells with tight hugs and claps on the back. Raven stuffs a small radio into the backpack Bellamy’s carrying for the spy. “I found you a bow” Bellamy offers when his turn for goodbyes comes, his features carefully schooled. He hands her the backpack and fumbles a little with the straps, adjusting it for her. It's unnecessary and endearing. “And I packed you a few extra rations, just to be safe.” Echo’s heart twists, she breathes his scent in when he envelopes her in a warm hug, crushing her against his chest. “Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim” he whispers in her ear, his beard scratching the side of her face. Echo smiles and repeats the Skaikru blessing in their language: “May we meet again.”
Miller kisses his partner and then they’re setting towards Eligius Kru’s camp. It promises to be a long and tedious two-day trek, but an hour after leaving the Polis' ruins back her traveling companion breaks the silence: “You and Bellamy, huh?”
Miller smiles, his thumbs hooked on the straps of his own backpack. He carries one of skaikru's trusty rifles and a handgun strapped to his thigh.
“What do you mean?”
The world around them is a vast, bleak brown desert. The sun is mercilessly hot against their backs, underlining just how out of shape they are after six years locked up.
“You’re together?" Miller pants. "How did that happen?”
If Echo were vain, she might take the question as a veiled insult. But she isn’t vain, and there is no malice in Miller’s tone, just the mild curiosity that creeps into the voice of quiet people when they’re extremely interested.
“We were in a spaceship for six years.”
Miller chuckles. Their feet kick up dust clouds with every step. “It’s still strange hearing grounders talk about spaceships.”
Echo grunts noncommittally and shifts her backpack on her sweaty shoulders.
“So, it’s serious between you two?”
“Yes.”
“How long has it been going on?”
“It’ll be three years next month.”
“I’m glad” Miller’s voice is sincere if a little jealous. Considering what his life probably looked like underground, Echo can't say she blames him. “I’m glad you guys were happy up there.”
The spy clears her throat. "How long have you and your partner been together?”
His face grows softer, his eyes lighter. “A little after Primefaya. So… nearly six years.”
She feels a thrill humming in her veins.
For her, there had only been one partner before Bellamy, years ago, when she was still training under Haiplana Nia. The memories of her sweet stable boy – Paddy – are bittersweet and painful, her queen’s words twisting her heart: This is the moment you slay your childish sentiment and become a woman.
That illicit relationship lasted all of two months and ended brutally with his blood all over her hands and his horrified dead eyes staring at her, his mouth open in a silent plea for mercy. Count your blessings, child, and give thanks.
That she’d be allowed to keep her lover for three whole years feels unreal. That their relationship could last six, seven, ten years, seems unimaginable.
As the day progresses, Miller continues to prob and ask about every member of Spacekru. As a spy, Echo considers every question and chooses every word carefully before answering. But the longer they walk, the more obvious it becomes that Miller isn’t fishing for information for her commander. His questions are too mundane, too carelessly formulated. He’s just curious about the lives they’ve lived, about how his friends have been. It is a weird reminder of the fact that Spacekru has only existed for all of six years. Her people were his before, and he has a longer history with them than she’ll ever have.
Something in her gut twists uncomfortably. Useless sentiment, you've grown soft.
“What about Murphy? He and Emori seem… Tense.”
Tense doesn’t begin to describe how their relationship was in the Ring. Down here, though, they’ve seamlessly reverted to trusting mainly each other. Echo, Murphy and Bellamy’s little stint on the Eligious spaceship seemingly reminding Emori of the genuine possibility of losing Murphy for good.
“They’re working things out.”
“That’s good. They’re good for each other, I think?” Miller looks at her for confirmation. Echo can't really concentrate on him.
They're are surrounded only by scorched dunes; the wind, cutting their faces with sand knives, is their only companion. Her mouth is bone dry, her hands are bright red from the sun, and she feels bloated and sluggish. Miller’s dark skin shimmers with sweat, his breath heavy and laborious.
“We shared a cell, Murphy and I,” he offers without being prompted. “Back on the Ark.” Miller swallows twice. “Did he set things on fire in the Ring, too?”
Echo swallows a mouthful of dry air and chokes out dust. Maybe she should’ve listened to Bellamy and stayed in the bunker.
“Hey! Echo!” The spy blinks. Her companion has stopped a few feet away from here, arms braced on his knees, mouth open, panting like a dog. “Try to concentrate on something else.” Something other than the heat and the blisters forming on the nape of her neck and the air that is too thick and too heavy to fill her lungs properly.
She nods. “Murphy.” She says, trying to organize her thoughts. “Yes. He… He stole a big bucket and would set it on fire every now and then. It drove Monty and Harper nuts.” She had secretly loved it and often found her way to his room when he was in a funk. She taught him twenty different ways of lighting his bucket on fire. It was their secret.
“Yeah, when we were in the skybox he had a candle. I honestly don’t have a clue where he got it, but, he hid under his bunk and lit it whenever he was having a bad day.” Miller chuckles dryly and ends up coughing; he pulls his shirt over his mouth and nose. “It freaked me out because I was sure he would end up setting the whole room on fire. Fire on the Ark was forbidden, you know? Too dangerous with the limited air supply.” He side-eyes her. “Did you know they convicted him for setting a room on fire?"
“Yes, he told me.” Murphy was trying to freak her out when he told her. It was two years ago, during one of his worst days. Murphy watch had fallen to her – Echo can’t remember why anymore. The fox refused to eat Monty’s algae when she brought him a plate. He spat and cursed and screamed and slammed himself into her. And when that didn’t drive her away, he tried intimidation. He told her about his crimes – not that awful –, and his desires – not that threatening. When that failed to drive her away, too, his anger boiled over. It is a cold, harsh thing, Murphy’s anger: always ugly and always brutally sincere. “Azgeda should've been whipped out,” he said once. “Every. Last. One. of you. I'll destroy you.”
“Come on then. Have at it.” Sparring with Murphy was always rare. Of all the people on the Ring, he is the only one who never bothered to show up for sparring lessons, and it showed. He despises fighting with a passion, so, when he does, it is always a thing to behold. Murphy is, by no means a good fighter. He is wickedly quick, though, his aim always true even if his blows are not that hard. Emori often refers to him as a slange i gresset. It was once a compliment, Echo’s sure.
By sunset, they make camp huddled against the side of a dune. Exhausted, they eat their rations in silence, shivering in the sudden drop in temperature. “Want first or second watch?”
The spy looks up at the sky. “I’ll take the first.”
Miller nods his head, lies down in his plastic sleeping bag and seems to fall asleep immediately. She leans on her backpack and studies the changing colors of the clear blue sky. This isn’t the first sunset she has seen since she got to the ground, but, considering the circumstances of the other two – hunted by Religious, disoriented from being out in the open after so long, worried for her people – this is the first she can enjoy.
If ten years ago anyone were to tell her she would sit back and bask in the mere privilege of watching the sun go down, she would’ve scoffed. And probably inflict some pain on the offender, on principle.
Now. Now she feels like crying by the sight of the first twinkling star appearing in the pink canopy. Mesmerized she stares as the dunes turn from muddy to gold, as the sky dances with the light, shadows raising and falling like playful birds. And then it’s night: dark and freezing, the sky overhead a starry ocean, the moon casting everything in a pale silver light.
And the coldness… The coldness reminds her of her years hunting on the ice, of the beautiful snowed azgedan forests. It reminds her of her aunt’s hands, coarse, dry and callous, teaching her to pluck berries on their little farm’s fence. Of the feeling of flying bareback over the northeastern planes.
She opens her backpack and pulls out the long package Bellamy has put between her change of clothes and food rations. It is a bow and a bunch of unassembled arrows. She uses the whetstone to sharpen the tips and a pocketknife to cut the shafts, assembling them with a deftness born of years of practice.
Up there, hanging somewhere between the stars, one of the rooms up in the ring is full of arrows she’ll never use.
Next day’s trek is both easier and harder. They are blistered and sore where the sun ate merciless holes into their skin, but their bodies seem to have grown used to the scorching heat. Or maybe the temperature doesn’t raise as much. They reach Eden by late afternoon, climbing down into the valley and making their way as silently as possible between the trees. They’re in hostile territory now and need to tread carefully. Miller takes a step back and follows her lead, walking in her footsteps and trying to make as little noise as possible.
Eligious Kru has set up camp around their spaceship in a big clearing. They’ve set a perimeter with electrical fences, and a few guards prowl around like caged wolves. The leader is nowhere in sight when they find a nook to crouch in and watch.
Miller takes notes in a small notepad, sometimes sketching ugly stick figures on the margins when he’s bored. And watching Eligious Kru is truly a tedious endeavor. They find out very little since most of their activities take place inside their spaceship.
Every now and then a few expeditions leave the perimeter. Miller and Echo take turns following them. The excursions are as tedious as watching the camp.
Echo has counted twenty members in the Eligious Kru. They're lead by a quiet woman with a nasty scar around her throat and a no-nonsense stance. She seems to have two seconds: a handsome dark man by the name of Zeke and a greasy man his people call Graveyard. Graveyard is mean and violent, his voice carrying even when he isn't shouting. He's the one who leads most expeditions, whereas Zeke is the techy his commander usually turns to when there are problems.
They've spent three days watching when Graveyard and his team of heavily armed thugs leave the perimeter out of the west gate. Miller, perched on a tall branch looks down at Echo. "Your turn" he whispers bored.
The spy rolls her eyes, but creeps out of their hiding place and shadows the group as they thunder through Eden.
The forest feels slightly familiar, but it isn't until Eligious Kru finds the village, that Echo doesn't recognize why. Until now Primefaya seemed to have whipped the world clean of clans and landmarks leaving only a barren desert behind. And she knew that Eden had survived, but, until now it was just that: Eden, a place named by her people, a patch of trees with no discernible origin.
Now she stands rooted to the ground; her breath caught in her throat because she knows this village. She has been here before. This is a Louwoda Kru village: their colorful Mayfest banners swinging lazily in the breeze.
Years ago, a lifetime ago, she was here for their May Festival, watched the children run around with wooden masks chasing away evil spirits. Smelled their delicious pastries and cakes cooling on windowsills. Danced around the maypole, air thick with music and laughter and the annoying shrieking of babies.
Those memories so full of life and happiness make the silence and the smell of berries and rotting fish eerie and surreal.
Unbothered by the past, Graveyard and his men plow carelessly through the village. One of them knocks a desk with his heavy backpack, throwing a metallic bucket to the ground. A fish slaps wetly to the ground catching Echo’s attention.
Someone is here. Someone other than Eligious.
Her heart perks up with useless, unrealistic hope - Roan! - before she can squash it back into submission – Roan is dead. But so was everyone else outside of that bunker and yet here it is a rotting fish that most certainly hasn’t spent six years in that bucket.
Eligious Kru sweep of the little town, tearing their way through every small hut, scavenging very little and destroying a lot. It feels slightly blasphemous, and Echo itches to confront them when they slam their way into the church, desecrating its peaceful quiet.
If Primefaya caught Louwoda Kru during their festival, it’s possible that everyone was inside the church, partaking in their communal feast. That Eligious thunders into their final resting place, disturbing their spirits is… wrong.
Echo squashes that thought, too. The present is for the living, and she has a job to do. These sentiments are out of place for a spy.
How soft has she become in her exile?
Eligious Kru leaves, and she should follow. Her job is to soy on the new clan. She stays back. She steps into the village. It feels like a cemetery. She picks the bucket up. The bottom is damp, the ground dark brown with spilled water. She touches the tip of her boot to the fish. It’s rotting, probably a week old, two at most.
Somebody is here. Or was here.
She scrutinizes her surroundings, noticing the little signs Eligious Kru missed in their blatant disregard for their surroundings – beasts. Clean clothes hanging from a line, repurposed plates, dustless stools, lovingly put together flower arrangements, bits, and pieces of tech carelessly strewn over what is apparently a workbench. None of these things have been here six years. Someone – Roan! – has put them here. Someone – please, Roan, be alive! - has been living here, cooking on that fire pit, sleeping in these huts.
She sneaks around the back of one of the huts and into the church. The room is clean and organized in that cluttered way that reminds her of Raven’s workshop. Bits and pieces of tech mingle with whetstones and spear points; half cured pelts and baskets of clothes waiting to be mended. She inspects the walls, carefully repaired, whitewashed and painted in warm browns and bright reds. On the back, next to a crooked rendition of the Great Spirit is an old desk, combed under the weight of an engine Raven would salivate over. Between the machine and the wall, papers and pencils flood every nook and cranny, cascading to the ground and rolling around every surface. Pictures are taped to the wall behind the desk.
Echo’s breath catches.
Bellamy stares at her from a sheet of yellowish paper. There are other portraits: a young man she doesn’t know with big goggles awkwardly perched on top of a mop of black hair; she recognizes Abby Griffin and Monty. But her eyes keep going back to Bellamy. She touches the thoughtfully shaded cheek, the smudged curve where the artist struggled to make the complicated curve of his chin perfect.
“Who are you?”
Echo cruses the carelessness that allowed someone to sneak up on her – what an amateur mistake.
She turns around.
The world shatters.
Framed by the blinding sunlight streaming through the open door stands Wanheda, a rifle propped against her shoulder, golden hair haloing her frown.
The thing about faith is that it goes all the way. Echo doesn't think of herself as a fanatic, but she believes in the Spirits. She believes that the Commander chose her descendants. She believes there are Kind Spirits that help harvests, and destructive Spirits that bring the fire; they are incorporeal, they have messengers that do their bidding. Sometimes they take a solid form, mostly to play among humans. She believes that angering either is - to borrow an expressión from Murphy- an epically bad move .
The spy raises her hands and bends her knees until they touch the floorboards.
The spirit doesn’t move for a long moment. Then she lowers the weapon’s muzzle. “Oh, my god! Echo?”
Wanheda looks around the room for the rest of Spacekru, which gives Echo a moment to try and gather her thoughts. It’s not enough. When Wanheda turns back to her, she’s still reeling. “Where is everybody?”
“They’re at the bunker in Polis.”
The woman comes closer. She doesn’t look like a spirit. She looks alive and powerful. She brings the scent of freshly cut flowers, blood, and dirt. Her hand is solid when she pulls Echo to her feet and embraces her.
The part of the spy’s brain that doesn’t forget anything reminds her of how Wanheda pulled her protective helmet off to offer it to Emori after Echo joined their party. "I have night blood," she had said, and Bellamy had been desperate, but didn’t force Echo out of her protective suit.
“I’ll take you to them.”
The spirit beams, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears.
Nothing is going to change.
Echo watches Wanheda on their way back. She’s sitting on the back of the rover with Wanheda’s protégé, Miller, and the blonde spirit together at the front.
The presence of the spirit bringing an abrupt end to their recon mission and a hasty retreat back to Polis. At least they have wheels now and don't have to endure another trek through the desert.
The young man is getting her up to speed on the bunker’s political situation. Echo should be paying more attention, but she can barely concentrate with the rushing in her ears.
She slips a hand into her coat and clutches her praying beads.
Nothing is going to change.
Except Bellamy spent years mourning Wanheda, blaming himself for leaving her behind – still does sometimes. Echo is not delusional enough to believe he would’ve ever looked at her if Wanheda had reached the Ring with the rest of them.
Would the rest have welcomed her? Was she just a buffer to help cope with the loss of their leader? If the Commander of Death is back, what use is she to her people? Are they her people anymore?
Echo pushes the self-pitying thoughts down, pushes everything down.
Six years she spent living a dream in which she had a station. In which she was equal to the people living around her. In which she was tagon raunon instead of just a weapon to be wielded or forgotten. The dream is over. It’s time to pay her dues.
She looks at the back of Wanheda's head.
Ai laik Echo Nontagon kom Spacekru, she repeats in her head. I serve my master. My master’s wishes are my life.
The words don’t ring as real as they did back when she was Azgeda. Were they always this painful?
The rover stops with a jolt. They’ve reached Polis.
Ai laik Echo Nontagon kom Spacekru , she repeats in her head. I serve my master. My master’s wishes are my life.
Echo jumps out of the back before the rest have time to dismount. She slips between the tents tightly gathered around the ruins and down into the bunker. She’ll slide back into her station. She will.
Spacekru sits in a dark and dusty room, gathered around a small lamp, cards in hand. Even Murphy is playing, sitting just shy of outside of the group. Emori nestled between Raven and Monty, across from her partner. Harper lies on her side, head propped on Monty’s leg. On Raven’s other hand, Bellamy with his hard shoulders and soft curls and Echo wants to weep.
Ai laik Echo Nontagon kom Spacekru , she repeats in her head. I serve my master. My master’s wishes are my life.
“Bellamy,” the spy clears her throat.
Raven’s smile is blinding. Will she still be happy to see her tonight? “You’re back early.”
“We brought something back for you.” Her voice is but a whisper, and she chastises herself for her weakness. This won’t do.
Ai laik Echo Nontagon kom Spacekru , she repeats in her head. I serve my master. My master’s wishes are my life!
“Oh!” Harper sits up, hair mused where it tangled against Monty's thigh. “A gift.”
“Just outside.”
The group shift. Emori and Raven throw concerned looks in Bellamy's direction and Echo vows to do better. He nods nearly imperceptibly towards the door, a slight dismissal. Spacekru scampers, hugging her on their way out. It feels like a goodbye and she doesn't want it to hurt, but it does. “You ok?” asks Raven and Echo crushes her best friend against her chest. “You will love it.” If she’s talking about Wanheda or the rover, even she isn’t sure.
Bellamy stays behind. He takes her hand and frowns when he finds her praying beads in her palm.
“What happened out there?”
She kisses him because she is a masochist. Bellamy has a very distinctive taste. His lips are velvety soft against hers, a direct counterpoint of the rough scratch of his beard. She wants to bury herself in his skin.
Instead, she pulls away and tugs him towards the stairs. Up, up, up out of darkness. Bellamy’s skin was made to be sun-kissed. She watches him blink the spots out of his eyes, squinting at the sudden burst of light, and kisses him again, just a brief touch of the lips to keep his attention on her just a little longer. Echo is brutally aware of the crowd surrounding the rover and knows his focus will fall on it as well. But for the briefest of moments, he is still hers.
“I have a gift for you” she whispers against his mouth.
“Echo, what is this about?” His broad, calloused hands cup her face delicately like it’s something precious. His thumbs wipe the tears away. She hadn’t noticed they were there. She’ll do better.
“I love you.” She says, pulling away. “I'll always be your most loyal servant, your truest weapon.”
He sighs.
“Echo…”
Once upon a time, the spy wouldn’t have dared to shush her master. Wouldn’t have dared to put a finger against his lips. But, for these last beautiful heartbeats she is not a tool, she’s a woman, and she needs to do this herself. It is less painful this way. Better to relinquish herself out of her own free will, than have it forcefully taken.
“Say the word, and I’ll leave. I’ll obey your every command happily.”
“What is this about?” Bellamy’s skin is warm when he envelops the hand still against his lips. He doesn’t yank it away, but instead pulls it down, with the same care one would pluck a butterfly from a tree.
“This is my gift to you. Freely given in hopes of pleasing my lord” She steps to the side, gesturing with her free hand towards the rover and the throng of people. The crowd shifts and Wanheda’s gold-spun mane shines like the sun.
Echo feels the exact second he sees her and knows she has lost him forever.
It's ok, she tells herself. Bellamy was made to be sun-kissed.