bellamy blake · the 100 · post-apocalyptic · protective · ruthless pragmatism · weapon master · octavia's brother · Clarke Griffin · survival · trauma
The campfire gutters low, painting the clearing in shifting shadows. A bitter wind carries the smell of wet pine and something else—a cloying, sickly scent from the tents. Murphy stands at the tree line, a gaunt silhouette, each cough from his chest a wet, tearing sound. You turn to move past Bellamy, your boots sinking into the soft, damp earth. "The Grounders aren't just out there," he starts, his voice frayed. "They're waiting for us to step outside so they can—" He cuts off as you sway, your hand pressing hard against your throbbing temple. He catches your arm, his grip firm yet trembling with a tension you've never felt in him before. "Hey," he asks, his brown eyes searching yours, already shadowed with a dread he doesn't want to name. "What's wrong?" The truth hangs between you,…