When Songbirds Fly | Bellamy Blake

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Making The Cut

TW (This is gonna be a big one, I'm afraid)// Gore, somewhat graphic description of injury, vomit, surgery, loss of limb

—

We arrive at Camp Jaha after nine hours of silent travelling. The sun has just started to rise, peeking over the mountain tops. It would be a beautiful sight if I weren't so sick of mountains.

My head rests against Bellamy's chest now as I focus on the sound of his steady heartbeat. I can practically feel the aching in his arms from carrying me. I want nothing more than to unburden him of my weight but I know that I cannot stand. The world spins around us at a dizzying pace.

'We're here,' he murmurs. 'We're home.'

He gently sets me down on an upturned crate in the centre of camp. I hear him whisper something in my ear about waiting by the gate for the last stragglers. His lips ghost against my hairline before he leaves.

I stare after him, my face weighing down in a blank stare. Something happened in the Command Centre, something he doesn't want to tell me.

Somebody crouches next to me. Their hand squeezes mine and I think I hear them say something, only their voice is too distant for me to comprehend. I don't look up.

I can see Bellamy talking to Clarke just outside the gates. They're both crying. She kisses his cheek and hugs him, glancing over her shoulder at me one last time before turning her back and walking away.

My head has begun to pound. A terrible feeling seeps through me, chilling through my veins and freezing my bones. A chill that also burns me right through.

The voice beside me grows more urgent. Still, I don't respond. Their words are a blur muffled by my laboured breaths.

There is a despairing dullness in Bellamy's eyes as he trudges towards me. The voice comes again and he freezes for a moment before running the rest of the way towards me.

My vision swims with confusion and unshed tears.

This time, I can hear them much clearer.

'Monty? What's going on?'

The hand that had held mine now moves to my shoulder. I can't tell whether it's shaking or I am, maybe it's both of us. 'I don't know. She's not talking to me.'

Frowning, Bellamy crouches next to me and wipes away the sweat that hangs low on my brow. His hand rests on my cheek. His touch is like ice. I find myself longing for it, praying for something to balance with the scorching of my body. 'Sweetheart, are you feeling okay? You don't look so good.'

He doesn't wait for a reply before picking me up and carrying me towards the crashed station. The sudden movement forces a quiet groan. I can't form the words. I can't even say his name.

—

Medical is almost packed full. It takes us a moment to find an empty bed, which Bellamy carefully sets me down on.

My sweater has been long since discarded and the only thing covering my torso is a black tank top that is now plastered to my sweat soaked skin. I'm so tired.

Jackson sprints over to us. He begins to examine my leg, which has been bandaged with long strips of Bellamy's once-white button-down shirt. The dressings feel painfully tight around the wound, which they had not done when they were first put on.

Most of my left leg is red and swollen. The pain is dizzying.

'How are you feeling?'

A wave of nausea hits me and I whine, my head falling back against the pillow. Bellamy's hands grip tightly onto both of mine and he takes each clench of my fists without as much as a grimace.