Chapter Eight
"You can't blame gravity for falling in love." –Albert Einstein
Bellamy finds Clarke at the graves in the early morning the next day. She is looking at the graves, but isn't seeing. It's a look he has become accustomed to seeing on her. It means that she is talking with him.
He settles himself next to her, and wordlessly hands her that orange blanket—that terribly cheerful blanket.
She acknowledges him with a slight nod and a tight smile and then resumes her conversation. Furrowing her brow, she draws the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
Bellamy is closer to her now, and he can see the pad of paper she has hid from the man. As she is talking—if you could even call it that—with him, she is writing down his replies.
She doesn't look at the pad, so the man does not see. But does the man know, even still? Is the man tricking her somehow? The thought worries Bellamy.
All of a sudden, a small hand darts out of the fleece and grasps his, squeezing and tightening its hold. Clarke holds on for dear life. She closes her eyes and grunts, and Bellamy knows that the man is going away.
But this is new. This strange hand-holding is undoubtedly new. Bellamy isn't arguing. He rather likes comforting her. And not because it makes him feel like a man—no. Because she's the only one who understands.
So before he can stop himself, he's placing his other hand on top of the knot their hands have made. "It's almost over," he tells the quivering girl.
Clarke gasps, heaving. And then she sits up. She blinks once, and again.
"What is it?" Bellamy asks gruffly, and he ignores the urge to let go of her hand, that hand sandwiched between his.
Wordlessly, she slides the pad in his direction. Bellamy begins to read, and he doesn't let go of Clarke's trembling hand.
Good morning.
I hate you.
Hate is a strong word, Clarke Griffin.
I know. That's why I used it. You killed Connor.
You wouldn't meet me.
Bellamy looks up, and immediately turns to Clarke. "What is this? He asked you to meet with him, and you didn't tell me?"
Clarke actually looks sorry. "He asked me yesterday. Before he had Connor killed."
Bellamy drops his angry look at the words, those soft and broken and scared words, and resumes reading. But not before he's given the hand he's holding a tight squeeze.
Who would I be meeting? Would I be meeting you, or the person you serve?
Who's to say you would be meeting either? The man answers cryptically.
What are you?
I have many forms.
Whatever form is inside my head, I want him out.
No. You haven't lost your use to us. We need you.
For what?
Memories.
The last word is scrawled lightly on the page, and the "s" is vaguely visible. Clarke was too shocked.
"They want to use me as a test subject," Clarke says, turning to him. "They are going to take my memories of the Ark, and the camp, and they are going to study me."
"No. I won't let him," Bellamy tells her, gruffly.
But her brow wrinkles, and suddenly she is looking at their entwined hands. She pauses, and it's a terrible pause. Bellamy's heart rate speeds up, because he has a terrible feeling about what she will say next.
"When did you start holding my hand?"
Bellamy swallows. "You grabbed me."
"No, I didn't."
Clarke doesn't remember taking his hand. And then Bellamy realizes. The testing, the memories. It's already begun.
They've already taken a memory. It's been deleted from her brain. Bellamy holds her hand tighter, and tries to forget too, but a word is weaving through his brain, over and over and over again.
Delete.
AN: Oh, my dears. This is just the beginning.
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