Her Own Rescuer- A 100 Bellarke Fanfiction

1 - rescuers - who needs them?

(Set for 1x12: Clarke and Finn are still missing, and it’s the day after Bellamy’s and Ravens… rumpus. WARNING: Bellarke feelings forthcoming.)

CHAPTER ONE

Clarke lay motionless on the ground, too exhausted to try and defend her body from the grounders relentless beatings. When they’d caught her trying to escape, caught in one of their snares, there had been abuse, but when they discovered the grounders dead body, there had been torture. She hadn’t slept, she hadn’t eaten, nor had she drank anything, and she found the little hope that she clung to was fading fast. She willed Bellamy to come crashing through the dense undergrowth, guns in hand, and a rescue team on hand. She knew, she knew this was selfish, but could she not be rescued? Just this once, could someone not save her?

She heard the crunch of leaves beneath solid boots, and for half a second, she thought that this may be Bellamy, Jasper, Monty, Raven and Octavia, faithfully coming to her rescue as she had once done for them.

But no, it wasn’t them, but the grounder princess, Anya, her features curled into a vicious snarl, and a tanned fist painfully clutching at her golden curls. Clarke winced, and a slight whimper slipped through her bloodied lips, seemingly satisfying Anya’s need to hurt, as her lips turned up in a savage smirk. Bringing her lips to Clarke’s ear, she began to whisper,

“You’re weak. A weak, pathetic girl. They won’t come for you, you know. They wouldn’t risk themselves for you- you’re nothing.”

Clarke inhaled sharply, every breath screaming against her lungs. She stifled a sob, unwilling to give Anya the satisfaction of breaking Clarke, even more so than she already had. With the physical abuse Anya would administer, she would spit out words of poison, throwing them like knives, at Clarkes crumbling defences. But Clarke would never give Anya the pleasure of seeing how much she was hurting, and instead fixed on a permanent detached state, refusing to scream, to sob, to beg her, beg her to stop, as she knew Anya would so love her to do. Sure, she would fight the beatings at first, but as they became more frequent, her resolve broke, and she learned they were over quicker if she didn’t fight against her hand. 

Was this, Clarke Griffin, giving up? Entering into a state of icy coldness that she wouldn’t be able to drag herself out of, not this time. Did she really want to? What was left of her, but a cracked shell? Her mother was dead, her father long gone, Wells had left her, and Finn.. Finn was someone she’d let in, one of the few she allowed to truly see her, and that had all gone to flames. She wasn’t wanted, not really. The camp viewed her as a tight-ass, they didn’t really like her, and Bellamy…

Aah, Bellamy Blake, their rebel leader, risen from the despair of loss and betrayal to lead the 100 to their victory, their freedom on earth. She mentally snorted, yeah, right.

It was then she realised, that beaten and broken, she could still bring herself back, away from the edge just a little bit, to insult Bellamy Blake.

Leave him in charge of the camp? Alone?

So that wasn’t happening.

Clarke pushed away the self-pity, and for the first time in what felt like days, (though only perhaps, a day and a half) found the burning determination flickering deep inside her. Reaching towards that, finding this unknown strength within her, she glared harshly at Anya, and, though the movement sent waves of pain bouncing throughout her, jerked backwards away from her clawing fingers. Anya gasped slightly, taken aback by the sudden movement in the girl, and felt her hair slip through her fingers as she released her vice-like grip on Clarke in shock.

Clarke smiled the tiniest triumphant smile, just a ghost of it, hovering above her lips, and was met with a harsh backhand from Anya in retaliation. Clarke gritted her teeth, pushing down the scream of frustration, more than pain, which wanted to surface so badly.