Chapter Text
“And following its path, we took no care
To rest, but climbed: he first, then I-- so far,
Through a round aperture I saw appear
Some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears,
Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars.” – Dante Alighieri, Inferno
*
Clarke Griffin knew she had a problem. After three years on the ground, half of one in which she spent wandering it, alone, she had grown accustomed to the many things the ground offered… and took away. Her problem, though, wasn’t with the ground’s tumultuous nature. Well, at least not her main problem. It was with her co-leader.
Don’t get her wrong. They got along just fine. More than fine, really. It had more to do with that knowledge, in fact. She just couldn’t understand when her indifference had blossomed into interest. Probably around the same time the ground had quieted down, its mysterious dangers no longer surprising them, their alliances growing, their camp becoming sturdy. It was starting to feel like home.
Her co-leader - abrasive, impulsive, loyal – was, inopportunely, becoming a distraction, which was saying a lot, really. With this new earth constantly demanding attention from its inhabitants, Clarke was astounded to find out that Bellamy demanded more from her. And it wasn’t intentional, of course not. The man had absolutely no idea that she was beginning to completely depend on him, and only him. Sure, he was aware of their close relationship…. Friendship. Clarke still felt strange referring to what they had as friendship because it always felt like so much more. But, when she got down to the thick of it, she knew, deep down, that was what they had. Friendship… and then some.
The thing was, realizing you were all of a sudden smitten over your best friend shouldn’t have been an issue. A little nerve-wracking, sure. But in another world, nothing would’ve stopped Clarke from going for it. Hell, she was upfront and candid because there was no other alternative given their circumstances. She needed to be in order to get shit done.
But now, staring at Bellamy chop down wood from across camp like a fool on this humid day, sans shirt … well, Clarke Griffin had a fucking problem.
She had a problem because there was no way, in a million years, she’d be willing to risk their dynamic all in favor of being able to freely nuzzle his tanned neck. She had a problem because she was in embarrassingly deep at this point and she was fairly certain everyone, except the man in question, was aware. She had a problem because this infuriating man would strut around camp solely wearing his stupid cargo pants, and she had a problem because she was so fucking sexually frustrated at this point that she salivated like Pavlov’s dog whenever he would do so.
It was pathetic, really. So she pegged it down to loneliness, or boredom, and the fact that he was easily the number one person on her list whom she trusted wholeheartedly. Which was just another reminder why she could not, under any circumstances, pursue whatever the hell her brain was insinuating she pursue.
So when Bellamy comes up to her, a little breathless and very sweaty and shiny from his previous exertions, Clarke freezes up for a moment.
“Hello? Earth to Clarke!” he says waving both hands in front of her.
“Hm?” Oh, smooth, Griffin. Smooth.
“Are we still on for tonight?” he asks, hands going to rest back on his hips. His very bare hips.
And that almost gives Clarke an aneurism. She knows they have a freaky ESP thing between them, but really? “W-what? Tonight?” she manages to get out.
Bellamy is staring at her like she’s grown a second head, a slight look of concern behind the bewilderment. “To get your ginseng plants…” he drifts off, eyeing her down.
“Oh,” she breathes. “Right, yeah. Yes. Of course we’re still on. Thanks, Bellamy.” If she were alone, she’d kick herself.
“You okay? Have you been getting enough sleep?” he questions with the protective lilt in his voice that makes Clarke’s hands tingle.
“Yes, Bellamy,” she says, slightly exasperated, turning in the direction of her conical tent. I’m getting more than enough sleep, she thinks bitterly. That’s the problem.
“Easy,” he grumbles, following closely behind her.
“Was there something else?” she asks turning abruptly, lips drawn in a tight line, back tense. Bellamy pauses, looking slightly hurt for a nanosecond before he eyes her up and down, causing her to squirm.
“Just heading to my tent, Princess,” he responds nodding behind her, an amused smirk and slightly confused look gracing his features.
Right, she thinks. Because his tent is right freaking next to yours, Clarke.
When she returned to Camp Jaha after spending five months away trying desperately to forget, or accept, all that happened in Mount Weather, Clarke had come home to tipis littering camp, made from sophisticated animal skins. They were cozy and warm, and much better than sleeping in the metal space station that only served to haunt her at night.
The place had been transformed when she returned, a water well and crops sustaining the group comfortably, the beautiful cabin medbay serving as her solace upon returning. Apparently Bellamy had built it for her, but when she had tried thanking him for it he just responded with a shrug and a vague, “We’ve all been working hard here, Clarke.” She didn’t push because she had had no right to. She had been genuinely terrified upon returning that he would hate her.
After the strained ordeal with Octavia, Clarke thought she’d return and be partner-less. But like with everything else, Bellamy had accepted her, a husky, “I said you’re forgiven,” his only response to the subject. Octavia had, in turn, been more difficult to apologize to. At times, their relationship still had undercurrents of an overwrought quality, but she had told Clarke she understood why she did it, and Clarke accepted the reprieve gratefully.
“See you before sundown,” Bellamy calls behind his shoulder, before entering his tipi, the tanned hue of the animal skins complementary to the skin tone of his back. She had completely zoned out, probably staring at him like a fish out of water, missing what he had said before his sendoff. She didn’t miss the way he had been shaking his head in bewilderment, though.
*
Her little problem becomes a real fucking issue when they visit Hiems, where the Ice Clan resides.
“What the fuck,” Raven says loud enough for Lincoln to shoot her a disapproving look. She refused to stay back for their final meeting of the alliance, insisting, “There’s no way in hell I’m missing that party!”
Clarke is frozen in place, staring blankly back at Cheimonas, the Ice Queen, and her second, Echo.
Bellamy clears his throat beside her. “I’m sorry, come again?”
It looks like Echo is trying not to smile, but it’s hard to tell from where Clarke is standing, while Cheimonas is exhaling slowly through her nose. Her and Bellamy’s expressions must be priceless right now. “This will seal the alliance,” she clips.
“I’m sure it will seal more than just that,” Raven mutters under her breath from behind Clarke. She sees Octavia shoot her an amused look, Lincoln stiffening at the girl’s side, from her peripheral. They are so not helping.
“There must be some other way…” Bellamy trails off, baffled. When Clarke looks up at him, his face is, for once, open, a look of surprise and slight anxiety in his eyes. There is also a faint red hue to his cheeks, but Clarke’s sure she is the colour of a tomato right now, so…
The thing is, they’ve been negotiating peace with the Ice Clan for about a year now, Bellamy going back and forth between the two groups serving as the negotiator, much to Clarke’s annoyance. She sees the way Echo looks at him. She’s not stupid. It has no right to bother her, though. She knew what she was walking away from when she left him at Camp Jaha’s gate. She knew what she was risking… she thinks.
Clarke knows how much they need this after Lexa’s betrayal. They need backup if shit were to hit the fan, and here on the ground that will surely happen. But what they’re asking them to do… well; it’s preposterous, and a little barbaric.
The ritual would proceed as follows: Clarke would arrive at their Glaciem Templum (which Clarke is pretty sure means Temple of Ice, but, hey, Latin wasn’t really taught on the Ark so she could be wrong.) to witness the fight. The one between Bellamy and any other man of her choice, and they would, well, fight. Over her. Whoever won had the wonderful honor and pleasure of… sealing the alliance. With her. And lots of food would be given beforehand, apparently. Absolutely barbaric.
“Look, we understand that this is a part of your culture, and we don’t want to disrespect that, but,” Bellamy pauses, licking his lips nervously, “maybe you guys could make an exception for us?” She knew he had meant for it to come out with more conviction, not posed as a question.
“This ritual is sacred and obligatory in the instance of an alliance. We will not abandon years of tradition because your culture is uncomfortable with the way we run ours,” Cheimonas says curtly.
He clenches his jaw, and Echo levels him with one of her stares. Clarke grits her teeth. “Well, there is no way in hell we are going to do that,” Bellamy nearly yells. The soldier behind Cheimonas tenses, the latter of the two only raising an eyebrow disapprovingly.
“Bellamy,” Echo speaks up, “think about it, please. Try and see it from our perspective.”
Bellamy is about to respond, probably with something along the lines of, “fat fucking chance” by the look on his face, and Clarke would be offended but she knows he’s just trying to protect her when all's said and done.
She lays a calming hand on his arm, finally finding her voice in all this. “We are not ready to just throw away this alliance,” she says levelly, not meeting Bellamy’s probing gaze, “so may we please have some time to think about it?”
Cheimonas seems to ponder this, clearly displeased with their hesitance, but also seemingly reluctant to turn down an alliance. “You have until sundown to decide,” she says, and then she’s marching off, Echo and her soldier, who is covered in bones and tattoos, by her side.
She finally meets Bellamy’s expectant gaze, trying not to curl into herself. “You can’t be serious,” he says, eyes ablaze. “Clarke, we’re not doing this. No alliance is worth that…” Now Clarke’s offended, because seriously? It’s just sex, when you get down to it. He clearly has no issue with the deed, if his earlier days on earth are anything to go by. She’s the one who should be worrying, as there’s a slight possibility it won’t be Bellamy. And why is she speaking about this as if she has already made up her mind? She questions herself, frustrated.
It must show on her face because Bellamy scrubs a hand over his, frustrated.
“Look, I know you both probably don’t give a shit about my input right now, but let’s say Bellamy beat this Ice Clan warrior beast man, and let’s say you two… did the deed,” Bellamy winces, uncomfortable, and Clarke glares at the side of his head,” would it really be so bad? Think about it! You guys are practically partners already an-”
“Enough!” Clarke interrupts Raven’s hypothetical, which is just making her more nauseous. Clarke looks around at her friends, her family really. Raven is looking slightly sheepish for once in her life, but Clarke does not for one second miss the amusement in her eyes - she’s probably loving this. Octavia looks surprisingly unbothered by the whole concept, but she is smirking at her brother’s frazzled state. Lincoln looks stoic as ever, the ritual clearly something familiar to him and his world. His old world, anyway. She likes to think he's one of them now, even if he never truly settled in, the stark contrast in culture serving as a barrier that only Octavia could bridge.
“You two should probably speak alone about this, huh?” Raven finally relents. When Clarke nods solemnly in response, they scatter. Not before Lincoln shoots Clarke and Bellamy a stern look, though. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Clarke… what the hell,” Bellamy says, one hand resting on his hip, the other clenched tightly at his side.
“Don’t give me that accusatory voice crap! What other option do we have, Bellamy?” She demands, taking a step towards him.
He just shakes his head, crossing his arms and looking in the direction of the woods.
“Are you seriously ready to forget this alliance?” Clarke asks, voice wavering slightly. She doesn’t feel as brave as what she’s implying, but when has she ever on the ground?
“Are you seriously ready to have sex with some random Ice Clan fucker?” Bellamy growls, meeting her gaze again, head on.
Clarke glares at him. “Why don’t you let me worry about that,” she sneers. “I was also hoping you wouldn’t lose.”
At that, Bellamy swallows thickly. He looks extremely uncomfortable and, again, Clarke is wondering if she should be offended.
“And if I do lose?” he finally asks her, and it feels like a loaded question – feels like it reaches further than their current situation.
“Then… I don’t know. We’ll figure it out when the time comes,” she says, trying to sound nonchalant, when she’s actually horrified at the prospect of having sex with a stranger. At least she’ll get to choose that stranger, she thinks with a shudder.
Bellamy stares her down for a full minute, trying to so obviously read her, but she has schooled her features into her ‘this is business’ face. He doesn’t look satisfied, but he nods once, muttering a quiet, “Whatever you want, Clarke.”
Ha. If only, she thinks bitterly, shamefully.
*
“We accept,” Clarke says as she looks into the eyes of Cheimonas, steel in her voice, back ramrod straight, Bellamy by her side. She will not be intimidated.
Surprise flickers behind the beautiful woman’s green eyes before she can control it, a look of respect soon taking over. “We are glad. Antigone will show you and the rest of your people to your quarters for the night. The ritual will take place tomorrow at sundown,” says the Ice Queen, as if she’s not propositioning Clarke for sex, but a huge, great honor instead.
Clarke’s stomach plummets, the anxiety beginning to seep in. Tomorrow? Her next response gets caught in her throat. Bellamy lays a firm hand on her lower back.
“Thank you,” he says, taking over, but it sounds more like “fuck you” to Clarke.
He leads her out of the claustrophobic tent, cabin - she doesn’t even know what to call the damn thing. Before they reach the threshold to exit the Queen’s sacred space, Clarke turns to Bellamy, seeing both remorse and concern on his face, and chokes out, “You better fucking win that fight.”