Lost Love Found [ #Wattys2015 ] {Bellarke}

Hallucinations

Bellamy's POV

The last thing Bellamy remembered was Clarke's cool hands upon his face, her fingers brushing away his hair - calming him. He remembered hearing her challenge Lexa, demanding information about Polis and the supposed "council". He also recalled being in such severe pain that he would've welcomed death if Death had come to claim him. It had reached a point where even breathing had felt like a thousand, painful stabs to the chest.

Bellamy had blacked out soon after that.

His dreams, however, were strangely pleasant. They were filled with euphoric, colorful images - almost like one of Clarke's watercolor paintings. The visions were a cacophony of life and death, an almost violent symphony of his greatest wishes and deepest desires. He could see Octavia, spinning and dancing across the Ark's ballroom floor - laughing with obvious joy, her face alight with happiness. She was wearing a blue dress that mirrored the likeness of van Gogh's The Starry Night. Bellamy also saw his mother, a swirl of scarlet and grey brush strokes, a luscious yet oddly enigmatic woman.

And then there was Clarke. Beautiful and intelligent and courageous Clarke Griffin.

She stood before Bellamy, uncorrupted by the events that would later come to define their days here on Earth. Her blonde hair was tamed and uncharacteristically straight. Her white shirt and, he believed they were called jeans, made her appear light - wholesome. The landscape behind her was a swirl of green and blue, mixing and mingling like water in a stream. Bellamy wanted to reach out and touch her, wanted to see if she felt as soft as she looked. He wondered if the cool scent of earth and air clung to her just as it clung to him. This was a side of Clarke that he'd never seen before. Her image, swathed in innocence, captivated him wholly.

Smiling at him, dream Clarke crossed her arms and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "What's gotten into you, Bell? You look different." she remarked, her voice echoing all around them.

Bellamy looked down at himself. Surprisingly, he was wearing a white, collared shirt and light colored pants - similar to what he wore the day they returned to Camp Jaha. The clothes matched Clarke's perfectly, his colors complimenting hers. It was unusual. Bellamy almost always preferred darker tones. Blacks and greys, those were the shades that mirrored his demeanor, his personality.

"Not your clothes," Clarke clarified, her tone laughing. "You."

And, suddenly, she was standing directly in front of him, as if transported by magic. Bellamy gazed down at her then, Clarke's body awash in a golden glow. She was grinning like she used to grin all those months ago, a rosiness in her cheeks that wasn't there before.

"I look different?" He questioned, words caught in his throat and voice too soft.

"Yes," dream Clarke breathed and reached up, running a gentle finger along the side of his face. "Your eyes are softer - clearer."

She was studying him now, no longer just a girl, but a master artist inspecting an illustrated canvas. Clarke - delicately, lightly, slowly - ran her hand down his neck, her touch teasing his exposed skin until she eventually reached his chest. Bellamy committed her face to memory and watched closely as her eyes concentrated on the task at hand.

"You can't see it, but there is no dark hatred tainting your soul anymore, resentment maybe, but not hatred," Clarke placed both hands firmly on his upper chest. "It's beautiful. Have you ever seen the Sun emerge from an eclipse? Well that is what this looks like. I wish I could draw -"

Bellamy caught her hands, stopping her calculated movements, her lovely words, and entwined their fingers together. They fit together perfectly, like missing puzzle pieces recently discovered.

"Why are you telling me this?" He whispered, gazing down at her with an open and curious expression.

Clarke tilted her head, looking dumbfounded. "Because I want to make you understand that there is goodness inside of you."

"I'm not a good man, Clarke." Bellamy replied callously.

"Then you don't see what I see," she whispered, untwining her fingers from his. Instead, Clarke pressed against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Survival hasn't corrupted you. It has made you into a good and honest leader. You're the one person that I have complete faith in."

"Clarke..."

"You're the one person that hasn't abandoned me." Clarke choked, tears clouding her eyes.

Bellamy yearned to embrace her, to reassure her that he was only human, that he was no different than her. But as she placed her head on his chest and as he was about to wrap his arms securely around her frame, she faded away. Clarke materialized, once again, a few feet in front of him, only this time she was dressed as a Grounder in dark leathers and black war paint.

"I wouldn't be anything without you. You're the one they respect, not me. I'm just a drunk that has a reputation for sleeping around." Bellamy explained, wanting to take a step forward but found that his feet were rooted to the earth.

"I'm poison to them, poison to you." Clarke grounded out, her demeanor changing instantly, the landscape suddenly turning dark - black even. The war paint on her face changed from black to red. The paint, the color of fresh blood, dripped down her face and onto her armor. "Unlike you, my heart has turned black because of the things we've done and, and you don't need me anymore."

"Of course I need you, Clarke," Bellamy pleaded. "We all do."

"You can't let me in. You can't let me into your life," Clarke went on, shaking her head as little tremors shot through her body. "Everyone I love..."

"Stop -" Bellamy began, trying desperately to move his feet, but his feet were not to be moved. He looked up again and saw that Clarke had turned her back on him, staring off into the black void.

"You can't let me in... let me -" Clarke's voice started to fade off into the distance and her image started to crumble and fly away like an old, archaic vase.

The landscape around Bellamy began to collapse in on itself. And, unlike before, instead of a swirl of bright colors, there was only darkness. Clarke had vanished - nothing but her echoing voice remained.

"No!" He screamed, but his throat was raw. He struggled to escape from where he stood, but it seemed as though he was bound to the earth. Eventually he gave up and sank to his knees, unable to cry out because he had no voice.

"Bellamy, you don't need my help... don't let me in..." Clarke's voice was nothing but a wisp in the air.

Blackness consumed him and his world went dark. He called out, but Clarke's name was only a whisper upon his lips. She continued to tease him, to warn him. Consciousness soon overcame Bellamy's hallucination, but her words still remained in his head.

"He needs my help!" Clarke's voice was distant now, muffled. "I swear on my mom's life, if you don't let me in I'll slit your beefy throat!"

"Lexa ordered that I let no one in without her command." A gruff voice replied.

"The hell she did!" Clarke snapped.

"Don't make me -" the same man replied before being hastily silenced. There was the sound of someone gasping and the sickening thud of a punched gut.

Bellamy attempted to open his eyes, but the light instantly blinded him.

"Damn Grounders..." Clarke muttered. Bellamy tilted his head and through narrowed eyes, he could see her dragging a hefty body inside. It appeared that Bellamy was lying on a cot furnished within a large, empty tent.

"Clarke?" He choked, his voice nothing but a throttled whisper.

"Bell!" She immediately replied, straightening her back and rushing to his side. "You're alright."

Clarke, sitting down on a stool beside his cot, ran a gentle hand across his hair.

"Everything fucking hurts." He groaned. And it seemed that the more conscious he became, the more pain he felt.

"I know," Clarke answered quietly. "I'm here. It's going to be okay."