Chapter Text
It begins, she thinks, staring at a boy with the universe mapped across his cheekbones, with a metal deathtrap careening towards Earth in a ring of fire, with two dead boys and a gaggle of unprepared children.
It begins, he thinks, watching an angel in a white dress float towards him with ice in her eyes and fire in her veins, with a spear to the chest and a torrent of blonde hair, with the promise of peace.
They disagree on most things, he finds. They disagree about the best approach to the men inhabiting the mountain, they disagree about her people’s willingness to accept his people’s traditions. Where she is optimistic, he is cynical; where he has seen the earth, she has lived amongst the stars.
(To him, she is a star in itself, burning so bright it threatens to blind him.)
They stand across each other, a bouquet of wildflowers clenched in her small hands. She is willing herself not to shake. I am not afraid. He is appraising her, but his eyes never leave her face. They are dark and murky and she wishes she could read the sentiment that is lying dormant behind the armored mask he has erected against her, wishes she could understand him. The man at the altar is speaking, but she can’t decipher the words. (He can understand perfectly, but he makes no move to translate for her.)
He slips a knotted piece of twine around her finger, and she does the same to him.
They disagree on most things. He prefers the moon, and she the sun. He can’t sleep, most nights, and she wakes at dawn. He likes tea and she drinks coffee by the barrel.
They disagree on most things, but they agree on this: it begins, officially, under a star-studded sky in the middle of October, when she and him become two halves of the same whole.
It happens a bit like this:
There is a war looming on the horizon, like the far-distant sunset ghosting across the tree line. Abby is furious when Clarke enters the room, her back ramrod straight and her nails digging into the wood of the council’s table. The door bangs shut loudly behind her, and although it is silent in the room, no one flinches. The Commander is seated across from where Abby is standing, a placid expression upon her face, and there are two people behind her - a man, with freckles marring his tanned face and black rimming his eyes, his jaw clenched; and a woman, dark-skinned with eyes that scream of war and destruction. There is another girl, younger than the Commander, even, with long dark hair and fiercely blue eyes, and not one of them look at her as she sidles up beside her mother.
She knows it is bad before Abby opens her mouth.
“There’s no way I can change your mind?” she bites out to the Grounder clan in front of her, and her voice tastes like acid.
“We have established our terms,” the Commander says, and it sounds as though this has been repeated multiple times. Clarke glances between them, attempting to discern what is happening, what could possibly be the terms this young girl (a child, Abby had lamented, they are being led by a child) has set for the peace treaty. Abby sighs mournfully and pinches the bridge of her nose, fixing Clarke with a look that is far too apologetic for her liking.
“Clarke,” she begins slowly, “the Commander has said that in order for the treaty to be accepted, we need a marriage to take place. To solidify the pact.” Clarke nods slowly.
(She knows it is bad, she knows she knows she knows.)
“They ask that you be one half of this marriage ceremony.”
Clarke swallows, a heavy, leaden thing, and she can feel the anxiety crawling up her flesh, but she refuses to let it show. She is iron and steel. She can do this. Sucking in a calming breath which steadies her voice, she asks, “Why me?”
Abby gives her a look that is entirely pity, that is heartbreak and devastation and anguish encapsulated. “Because you’re our leader,” she says quietly, as though admitting a great secret. The words sound more like something she is supposed to say, rather than something she believes. “In their eyes, you’re our leader. And to have our leader be aligned with one of their most revered... it would be a great honor.”
(So are we, Kane had told Abby, all those days ago. So are we.)
“And who am I to marry?”
Abby appears shocked by the tenacity of her own daughter, by the stoic tone to her voice. She looks to the Commander, and the girl - a child - nods. The man behind her steps forward, the face which was previously enshrouded in darkness now lit starkly by the harsh lights of the Ark. He is tall, with dark, unruly hair and eyes the color of the fire after it has been burning for too long, but there is no warmth in his gaze. There is calculation, and obedience.
“His name is Bellamy,” the Commander tells her, lazily, as though she is not about to be committed to him for life. As though this is a simple nothing. “He is our finest warrior, and has been my second for quite some time, now.” Bellamy grunts to acknowledge the praise, and he shifts on his feet, obviously uncomfortable with it.
“Clarke,” Abby whispers, “you don’t have to do this. If it makes you uncomfortable -”
“Mom, we’ve been fighting the Grounders since we crash-landed here a month go. We’ve...” She swallows. “We lost so many, because of this. And there’s a war we need to be fighting. A war... a war that we can’t do without this.” She lifts her head, staring straight into the coldness of the Commander’s eyes first, and then into Bellamy’s. She thinks she sees a flicker of something, there, and so she tears her gaze away.
“I’ll do it,” she tells the Commander. Her voice does not waver. Her hands do not shake. “I’ll do it.”
It happens a bit like this:
The Commander calls him into her tent early that morning. They are set to visit the Sky People that day, to discuss their terms. Bellamy enters and finds the tent empty, an unusual sight, and clears his throat. “You asked for me?”
The Commander turns, and he catches her mask of indifference half-off her face, concern etched into her irises. She masks it quickly, shaking her head a bit, and nods once. “Yes, Bellamy. There’s something I need to discuss with you.” Her voice is clipped, and she gestures for him to come forward. She is glancing at the maps Lincoln had made months ago. She sighs once and then reattaches her attention to him rather than the battle plans that are likely twisting about her brain.
“Today we are establishing the terms for the treaty with the Sky People, as you are aware,” she says slowly, and he nods. “We... I should say, I have decided that it would be in the best interest for both sides to have a marriage ceremony between a member of our clan and their leader, to establish a true bridge between our two groups.” She tilts her head ever so slightly as a show of power. “Do you understand what I am saying?”
He has been asked to fight and die for his Commander. To kill and murder for his Commander. He would do so in a heartbeat - for her, or for his sister. He would have done it for his mother, as well. This is a tight circle, one he has prided himself upon.
He has never been asked to expand that list.
“Yes,” he says, and he hopes the Commander cannot detect the hesitance in his voice.
“I have selected you because you are my most trusted warrior,” she continues, and her voice picks up speed, as though she is worried he will deny her. “And because I believe you will handle this role not only with dignity, but also with respect for their people. I... I worry, that in the hands of another, the Sky Princess would be... mistreated.”
(He knows. Oh, gods, how he knows.)
He pauses, contemplating her offer. I am not afraid. “I’ll do it,” he tells her.
The small smile she rewards him is one filled with relief. “Thank you, Bellamy.”
Later, hours later, when the Sky Princess enters the room with her head held high and terror in her eyes (but not in her face - no, she is smart, this Princess), she repeats the same words he had uttered to her mother. She repeats the words, and she looks him in the eye, and he wonders if this is where it actually, truly begins.
They are married beneath a sky that is pockmarked by the stars. He can trace the constellations in his mind, can remember the stories his mother had once whispered to him. He wonders if he will ever tell Clarke these stories. If he will tell their children.
(He has to count to fifty to calm his breathing, after that thought.)
They are married, and she’s wearing a white dress, and she looks like a goddess, like a siren floating down the aisle to him. Nyko says the traditional vows, and they both repeat them, Clarke stumbling on the words a bit, but trying valiantly. They slip matching rings onto their fingers.
The flowers in her hand are blue, and he thinks they match her eyes.
They are married, and they walk back down the aisle together, her hand tucked into his arm, and he thinks of how small she is, how fragile, and yet she walks with a determination he had not anticipated. She holds her head high, like she did just a few days ago, and he wonders how heavy the burden of the world is, sitting upon this young girl’s shoulders.
They enter their tent together very late that night, and her eyes are barely open, she is so tired. She gingerly deposits the bouquet on the table, but he doesn’t question her. “You can take the bed,” he says quietly. “I’ll just be right over here, and -”
“Are you serious?” she asks, and when he looks up at her, Clarke’s eyes are blown wide, her face a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. When he doesn’t respond, she scoffs. “No, no, no. We can share.” He stares. “Seriously. It... it isn’t a big deal. We’re married, right?”
It’s only then that he can hear the fear in her voice, the uncertainty. He wonders how she does this - how, so simply, she embraces this situation and him - when any other in her position would be cruel and maybe a bit bitter. Would probably not even speak to him, let alone be kind.
They disagree on most things, and he wonders if it is because the world has not made her hard, yet, like it has built him of stone.
And so he falls beside her on the bed, their backs pressed together, and he murmurs a soft thank you into the pillow, so quiet he almost hopes she doesn’t hear it.
And she presses her face into her pillow and whispers goodnight.
They are married.