don't you remember when you were young (and you wanted to set the world on fire?)

Rockin' Lyrics: A Songfic Competition Based off of Rise Against's 'The Architects'.


1. don't you remember when you were young (and you wanted to set the world on fire?)

Our heroes, our icons have mellowed with age.

Following rules that they once disobeyed.

They’re now being led when they used to lead the way.



Bellamy Blake was born from the ashes of revolution; gunpowder in his bones and tear gas swirling around his lungs. His mother was a revolutionary - that’s what they called her in the warehouses and basements of the fighters - a hero , dead with shrapnel in her chest where there should have been a beating heart, and two young children at home, waiting for their mother to come back from a peaceful protest she’d spearheaded.

There was chatter, after that. A week of mourning Aurora Blake - the sleeping beauty who would never awake, and the fight that she had led. Her best friend, Amy Vie, taking the children from their house and giving them a place in her own, another player in the rebellion against the council. The Blake children grew, beautiful and hardened, and people stared in wonder as they arrived at rallies and protests, fighting the good fight like their mother had before them.

“Bellamy’s the key,” Marcus Kane, former council member, would say. “He’s the key that’ll win this fight for us.”

Bellamy, secretly, didn’t want to be the key. He wanted to a be a boy with a real education - he didn’t want to get into fights and have perpetually bruised knuckles. Sure, he liked the fast cars he drove, teenage rebellion in his soul, but the adults were fighting a war - not a scuffle on the streets. The battle was far above him, and Bellamy was in over his head.

Still, he fought on anyway - the good soldier he had always been.

“We deserve our rights!” he was yelling, into a crowd of masked protesters, hoods up and fists clenched. They cheered. “We deserve to be able to elect people from our districts to represent us! We deserve to be heard!”

Bellamy wore his bandana around his neck when he spoke - everyone knew his face. The revolutionary’s son, here to pick up the pieces. They all knew the two daughters too - they knew Octavia Blake and her curiosity, her motorbike that would be the only sound in the middle of the night, roaring through the streets. And Maya Vie, the deceased Amy’s daughter, shier and quieter than the other two siblings, but just as strong of heart, and just as powerful, leading the underground rebellion with a gentle smile but an iron grip.

Both of Bellamy’s sisters stood either side of him, in the protest, fighting the good fight like they had for twenty years, bandanas up and cheering. Octavia took the megaphone from Bellamy, yanking down her scarf as Bellamy pushed up his own.

“We want to be heard !” she yelled. “We want to be listened to! We want to have a say in how our welfare affects our kids, how the education system is going to work-”

Someone yelled, “our benefits!”, as someone else shouted, “our money!”

Down by the side of them, was the line of police, riot barriers up and helmets on. Bellamy had always been a little skittish around them, even if he’d been attending rallies since age ten. He knew that some of the cops in this town were good people - hell, some even supported them, but there were some that would take any opportunity to tase a Filipino kid from the bad end of town, and Bellamy liked to stay away from them.

People began to push up against the police barrier, and it was just one of those protests - one that would turn sour after beginning so well. Bellamy had always believed that words were stronger than violence, but many in his following didn’t agree.

Then someone threw a brick, a window smashed, and the world screamed.

Bellamy’s arms instinctively went around his sisters, pushing them in the opposite direction to the line of police. “Get back to the warehouse,” he told them. “Make sure you’re not followed - I’ll meet you there.” Octavia looked back at him and nodded, grabbing Maya’s hand and pulling her through the crowd.

Bellamy looked around then for the rest of his friends. Usually, they knew when to bolt, but it was so easy to get caught up in the riot. Like always, Miller was in the middle of the crowd and Bellamy pushed his way towards him.

“Warehouse, now,” he ordered, grabbing Miller’s shoulder.


“This is getting out of hand,” Bellamy interrupted. “Your dad may support us, but he’s not going to get away with having you arrested in another one of these.” Miller paused for a second before looking down. He nodded.

“I’ll see you back there,” he said, before ducking out of an opening. Bellamy glanced about, yanking back Murphy’s shoulder and sending him a glare.

“No,” he reprimanded and Murphy sighed.

“Spoil sport,” he groused, pushing his way immediately from the riot. Bellamy wasn’t in charge of the war - no, he was just a soldier following the orders of the adults, but the teenage rebellion was something he looked after, nurtured and helped to grow. This was his territory - this was something he could control.

The police were fighting back now, and he could see the first instances of the barrier breaking, and men in uniforms with batons funneling out into the crowd. His friends all wore matching bandanas to him, so he could find them in the crowd, and he spotted Raven at the edge of it. As Bellamy jogged over, two boys joined her and she nodded at them.

“You guys heading out?” he checked, and Monty and Jasper turned around to face him.

“Yeah, this is bad,” Jasper replied.

“We’ll go back to the warehouse,” Raven said. “I’m not sticking around for the cops to take advantage of this.” She slapped a hand down on her leg brace and sent him a pointed look. He nodded, ushering them away.

The riot was growing now, and Bellamy watched as the first flaming ammunition was thrown. It was just a piece of paper on fire, but it was how that was taken was the important part. The protest was out of control, the message either enhanced or forgotten about entirely.

Bellamy was about to push himself into a side street and head on to the warehouse, to regroup, when he noticed a girl getting pushed about in the crowd. She looked lost, afraid, her eyes wide as someone lifted up a knife near by. She got jabbed in the stomach with an elbow, and the girl ducked, maybe hoping to crawl out of the group.

He darted forward, as the first person accidentally stepped on her, and Bellamy immediately pulled her up and away from the crowd. He helped her to the side street where they stopped, the girl eyeing him cautiously. Bellamy pulled down his bandana, glancing at the riot before looking back to her.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re getting out of this shit-storm.” She watched him for a second longer before nodding, mumbling her thanks, and following him down the road.

When they reached the other end of it, she slipped her hood off of her head, unleashing a wild mane of blonde curls, before pulling her scarf down from where she’d had it up over half of her face. She was familiar, in a broad sense - he was almost sure that he’d seen her face before, but couldn’t place it for the life of him. But the girl was beautiful; all strong and poised with bright eyes and pink lips.

They walked for a second longer before she looked up at him. The streets were mainly empty - people were either in the riot, or trying to get away from it, and Bellamy noticed a face poking out from behind a curtain of a window, watching them head down the road. He ducked his head, positioning himself in between the person and the girl at his side, just incase they were going to make a statement when the police inevitably wrote this up.

“What’s your name?” the girl asked. She looked about eighteen, and Bellamy felt a twinge of pity for her - he loved when teenagers got involved, sure, but he hated how it could wreck them like it wrecked him.

“Bellamy,” he replied. Her eyes lit up in recognition.

“You were the man speaking,” she said. He nodded. “Do you lead all the riots?” Bellamy scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“I lead the protests,” he corrected. “I have nothing to do with the riots.”


“Yeah, riots aren’t my style - they’re too destructive and it really takes away from every point I was trying to make in the speech.” She nodded slowly, eyes drifting around the road in front of them. Bellamy glanced back, checking that they weren’t being followed, but the roads were empty. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Clarke,” she replied.

“Pretty name,” he said. She looked a little surprised for a second, before smirking a little.

“Most people say that it’s a boys name,” she told him.

“Well, you didn’t say that Bellamy’s a girls name, so I’m just paying back the favour.” There was something in her smile then; something like surprise and actual happiness - like she was lucky or something. But Bellamy was pretty sure he was just reading her wrong.

“Where are we headed anyway?”


“Well I assume we’re headed somewhere, because you’re pretty confident in which way we’re going.” She nodded as to how he pressed the button at the traffic light and Bellamy stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Ah, well I’m headed to a warehouse-”

“To do more shady things, no doubt,” Clarke interrupted.

“Exactly,” Bellamy smiled. “But I can walk you home, if you’d like?” Clarke seemed to think on this for a moment, before looking up at him warily. The traffic lights turned red and the beeping for the crossing started, so the two of them walked across the road.

“Can’t I come to the warehouse?”

“It’s only for dedicated members of the protests,” he replied with a shrug.

“I’ve been to the last six,” she told him, and Bellamy raised his eyebrows. He would have remembered a girl like her. “And anyway, last time I was there I met this girl, uh, Raven, I think, who said I should stop by the warehouse some time, but she disappeared before I could ask her where it is.” Bellamy raised an eyebrow.

“I think we all just assume that everyone in the area knows where it is by now,” he said.

“I’m not technically from this area,” Clarke replied slowly, gesturing her hands about for the general vicinity.

“Then why are you protesting with us?”

“Because what you’re fighting for is right,” Clarke said. “You deserve to be heard, deserve to have one of your people on the council, instead of just the top one percent. You deserve to know what’s going on with your schools, and your benefits, and I think it sucks that the people on the upper side of Ark have great everything because they can afford it, whilst you guys all slip through the cracks.”

Bellamy eyed her for a moment, mostly amazed, before smiling slowly.

“Either you’re quoting one of my speeches or you’re just really good at this,” he said. Clarke let out a laugh - she looked as if it even surprised her , being able to make that sound.

“Probably a bit of both.” Bellamy nodded.

“If Raven invited you though,” he continued. “You can come along if you want?” Clarke paused before nodding, and the two of them wandered over to the warehouse - taking the long route that doubled back on themselves because, well, it wouldn’t be the first time people had been followed back to the warehouse.

When they arrived, Bellamy pulled at the handle finding it locked, and pulled out a set of keys. Clarke watched silently as he unlocked the door and then locked it behind them, before pushing her through the darkened hall. The walls were covered with graffiti, and only one light worked, so Clarke shuffled through in front of him as Bellamy smiled. (Okay, sue him, it was a little cute that Clarke was nervous.)

When they reached the next door, it was unlocked, and Clarke opened it to find a large hall, with pillars in the middle of the floor, flags draped over windows and graffiti across the walls. Everything was lit with natural lighting, tinged with red from the flags. Beat up sofas were skewed in different areas, a single flat screen on one wall with playstation attached, a pool table with duct-taped holes in the fabric. Everything was old but with character; broken but tinged with rebellion and a blazing fire that every member lit.

The warehouse was a little packed - not always like this after a protest, but usually more so before. Bellamy smiled when Octavia noticed him across the hall, and Maya grinned next to her.

“And the  key returns,” Murphy jibed, rolling his eyes. A few glanced over, and Bellamy looked away - he was nothing special; just the face of a rebellion he was raised into.

“Who’s that?” Octavia asked, wandering over, nodding to Clarke.  Bellamy placed his hand on the small of her back, nudging her forward - shyness and fear weren’t things that Octavia responded to well.

“Clarke,” she said, holding out her hand for Octavia to shake. After a moment, Bellamy’s sister did, even though she looked a little freaked by it.

“Clarke!” Raven said happily, recognising her.

“Raven,” Bellamy said. “Clarke, here, says you invited her?”

“Of course I did,” Raven replied, half limping, half sauntering over. “Clarke,” she smiled, wrapping an arm around the girl’s shoulder. “How’s the upper five percent treating you?” Bellamy raised an eyebrow, but Clarke didn’t look over.

He instead glanced over to Octavia, who looked just as confused. As Clarke opened her mouth to respond, Octavia jumped in.

“Upper five percent?” she asked cautiously. Raven nodded, and Clarke did so, but meekly. Bellamy noticed his friends wandering over, watching with interest as the few others just went about their day, not really caring. Murphy and Miller stood side-by-side, eyebrows raised, and Harper and Monroe (who had been focusing on the social media of the protest, instead of attending) watched with arms crossed.

“Yeah,” Raven agreed. “Clarke’s from the upper side of Ark, right?” Clarke nodded.

“You didn’t say that,” Bellamy said slowly.

“I said I wasn’t from the area,” Clarke corrected. “The area being this end of Ark - I should have specified.” Bellamy and Clarke locked eyes for a second, and he nodded. She agreed with them - that was the main point. Sure, she came from the upper end and she was probably richer than he would even dream to be, but she was protesting for their rights and-

“What area of the upper side?” Octavia asked next. Maya moved over to Bellamy’s side, sending a questioning glance in his direction, like,  what is Octavia doing?

He sent back a shrug, like, no clue in hell , and his sister nodded.

“Ah, you know,” Clarke shrugged. “The upper end.”

“The upper end of the upper side? So, like, the rich one percent that runs this town? You come from that area?” Clarke coughed, glancing up at Bellamy who looked more confused than anything. It wasn’t about the wealth she had, right? Sure, he was a little worried about that - she’s probably not a spy, Bell, Maya was sending with her eyes - but it was that she supported them and wanted to join the cause that was important here, not upbringings.

“I should go,” Clarke told him, and Raven frowned deeply.

“No,” Raven said. “You shouldn’t.”

“I don’t think I’m wanted here,” Clarke replied, scrunching up her nose a little. She dared to send a look at Octavia, who was still standing, crossed arms and glare about her expression.

“You are,” Bellamy said, firmly. “O, stop being rude, go and sit down.”


“I’ll talk to you later. Clarke attends the protests, she supports the movement, stop giving her shit about where she comes from.” Octavia switched her glare to him then, before turning and stalking away from the group, over to Lincoln, who was by the television, watching the news report on the riot - not the damn message. Harper and Monroe’s scowls dissipated, and Murphy and Miller returned their faces to their passive states.

Raven, however, was suppressing a grin, and Clarke was watching him, open-faced and smiling. After a moment, the crowd dispersed.

“Thanks,” Clarke said, ducking her head.

“Anytime, Princess,” he replied. Her head darted back up, judging the inflection of the comment, and Bellamy just shrugged. “You didn’t think I’d let it go, did you? You’re top one percent, Clarkey, we’re all bottom five.” She seemed annoyed for a split second before nodding, like she could accept that.

“What are you then?” she asked. Bellamy made a show of thinking about it, but it wasn’t difficult - it was the same thing they called him as a joke, or maybe sometimes it was serious, when they were about to head out onto the streets.

“Rebel King,” he smirked, before heading away, leaving a dumbfounded Clarke with a smirking Raven.




He learnt quickly that if he was made of gunpowder and tear gas, Clarke was built with ashes and blood. The riots became more and more frequent, the buildings wanting to shatter under the force of their anger. It was became harder to drag people away from the fight, harder to drag himself away, and Bellamy stood there, more often than not, wanting to join in, unleash the rage that he’d had pent up since the day Amy Vie came to his home, tears trailing down her face, saying that his mother would never be back.

It was because of that that he didn’t, though - because riots had killed his mother; impulsive and rash, joining in with a fight and forgetting who had the bigger stick, or gun, in that case. He yanked his sister back from the crowds, over and over and over, and she’d shake her arm away, glaring like he was someone she hated - she wore that look a lot since Clarke arrived, like he was no longer making decisions based on morality and Octavia, but morality and Clarke.

“Get off of me,” she would hiss, people running and screaming around them. “I’m staying, Bell.”

“No, you’re not,” he would reply, each and every time. “This place isn’t safe anymore.”

“Protests are never safe,” she would retort.

“They are when they’re peaceful! This is not peace, Octavia! This is war, and you are not a soldier.”

“And what, you are?”

“More of one than you, O,” he would reply, his voice going low. “I, at least, listen to orders.”

“I’m staying,” she would tell him, firm and solid, like nothing could change her mind.

“I bet that’s what Mum said, too,” he would say. “I bet she said she’d stay for the riot, it’d be alright. She’s dead, O. She’s dead because the police don’t care who they kill, as long as the fighting stops.” Octavia would stare at him, her heart shattering in her chest, her world breaking all over again and she would look so small, so afraid. “Go find Lincoln, O. He’ll get you out of here.”

Maya was smart, though. He was glad that at least one of his sisters was. She would leave, dragging Jasper and Monty with her - not stopping until they were in a safe space, hiding out with her face too goddamn known now. People knew of her, knew of the message she passed around on the streets, of how she hid people in basements who needed protection, carried a gun on her even though she looked too scared to pull the trigger-

Bellamy’s sister Maya was smart, she was strong, she had pulled that goddamn trigger one too many times. The riots were worsening, Octavia was enraged, Maya’s spirit was dissipating. The siblings were breaking under the weight of the world that had been thrusted upon their shoulders.

But then there was Clarke-

Clarke who didn’t know how to help other than turn up to events and scream with the masses. Clarke who came to the warehouse most days because she liked open spaces and loud music. Clarke who took one of the graffiti covered walls for herself, and painted beautiful murals and images across the bricks. She was this ray of sunshine amongst the darkness of the battle and Bellamy could only watch her in wonder.

“The protests just aren’t working,” Kane said, Clarke painting in the corner with her headphones on (Bellamy would be lying if he said he was completely paying attention to the meeting at hand). The sofas were all pushed together in a circle and the revolutionaries - those who considered themselves part of the battle, not just watching it - sat on them, discussing the next plan of action. Arguably, Marcus Kane was the leader of the revolution - he used to be one of the council, used to reign over Ark with an iron fist, until he realised that the rest of the council weren’t on the same page. They were for building walls around the city, not giving benefits, increasing taxes.

The day Marcus Kane was fired from the council was the day he turned up at Aurora Blake’s house. She, back then, was leading the revolution, and he turned up and spilt every detail he remembered - gave up every slither of information he had; traded in the suit for a pair of combat boots and took to the streets to make the people aware of their inequality. Alongside Maya’s father, Vincent Vie, Marcus Kane was the father figure Bellamy had needed.

“We need a bigger plan of action.”

“We wouldn’t if every peaceful protest didn’t result in a riot,” Bellamy groused, sitting with his elbows on his knees.

“But they do anyway,” Marcus sighed. “The people are angry.”

“The people need to chill the fuck out,” Octavia replied, arms crossed and leaning back in her seat. Marcus elected to ignore her contribution to the discussion.

“We need to get them to listen - the corporations are sucking us dry, as are the governments. The council is just standing by.”

“We could hand out more flyers,” Vincent suggested, sat next to Maya.

“We could up our game on social media, too,” Harper agreed. “We’re popular, but we’re not popular enough .” Marcus paused for a second, and Bellamy could distantly hear Clarke’s music, blasting in her ears.

“How many hits do we get on the website?” Marcus asked, looking at Monroe and Harper, the former’s arm around the shoulder of the latter’s.

“About twenty thousand a week,” Monroe replied. “But that’s not enough when there are a hundred thousand in Ark. If we only have a fifth we’re not going to be heard.”

“We could make some bigger videos,” Miller suggested, his boyfriend Bryan next to him on the sofa across from Bellamy. “Actually explain our manifesto, how people can help - make it clear that we’re not just making noise.” Marcus nodded, liking the idea.

“But it’s not enough,” he replied. “It’s good, and we should definitely get on that-” he sent a look to Harper and Monroe who nodded their agreement. “But we need something more.”

“Maybe we could just make bigger protests and rallies,” Bellamy suggested with a sigh. “There’s not much else we can do.”

“Short of getting a politician on our side,” Lincoln agreed. “That’s as much as we can do.” The room was silent; the only light coming from the yellow glow above them on the ceiling. It was dark outside, and Bellamy loved meetings like this - when everything felt covert and dangerous, like they were doing more than just planning another sit-in. He was a peaceful protester, when it came down to it, he may have witnessed one too many gun fights and been in some… precarious situations, but he didn’t want anything to escalate further than it had to.

“Does anyone even know a politician?” Monty asked, raising his eyebrows under his mop of black hair. “We’re from the lower districts, Linc, we don’t know any of them.”

“Even I don’t anymore,” Marcus admitted, running a hand through his hair.

“I do,” a voice said into the silence. Every head bolted upright, looking for the new person. In the corner, Clarke watched them, open expression and a ear phone dangling. She had a paintbrush in her hand and smears of colour across her skin. She was living art, so beautiful and poised.

“You do?” Bellamy asked slowly. Clarke nodded, placing her paintbrush down in a water pot on the table next to her, and wandering over into the circle of light. She squeezed through the gap between two sofas and settled in next to Bellamy, who she was closest to within the rebellion.

“None of you bothered to learn my last name, did you?” she asked, a single raised eyebrow as she looked about the group. Everyone’s expressions were sheepish and Bellamy disregarded any thought about how well he knew her. She rolled her eyes, sitting back against the sofa. As she did so, her arm brushed against Bellamy’s, and a streak of cyan paint smudged over onto his skin. Clarke didn’t notice as she continued speaking. “It’s Griffin. As in, Clarke Griffin. As in, Jake and Abby Griffin.”

The group was silent for a moment, Bellamy and the others staring at her dumbfounded.

“I knew I recognised you from somewhere,” he announced into the silence. Clarke let out a short laugh, shaking her head.

“Your mother’s on the council,” Octavia said. Clarke nodded.


“How so?” Marcus asked, leaning forward now.

“You didn’t hear this from me,” she said with a smile. “But Mum’s been trying to get out of the council for ages - she hates how everything’s run. She doesn’t know I’ve been protesting or anything, because she agrees with one or two of the policies - but she’s been trying to take down Pike, Jaha and Dante for as long as I can remember.”

“No shit,” Murphy breathed, eyes wide. Clarke nodded.

“And you didn’t hear this from me, either - because the police wouldn’t take my statement seriously,” she continued, sitting up now, and her tone turned serious. “But Mum’s rebellion against the council rules led my Dad to start investigating them-”

Everyone, by the way - everyone had heard of Jake Griffin; business tech mogul and all around nice guy. Everyone had also heard of his murder - a trail of obvious-if-you-look clues all leading them back to Anya Woods - head of a competing company who’d been trying for a merger. The motive, the weapon - everything led oh-so-sweetly back to her, even though she vehemently denies being any part of it. Bellamy had always found it suspicious how easily they could tell it was her, when Anya had never been a messy person who would leave DNA in the victim’s home even if shewere to go on a murder spree.

“-And it was when he was investigating them, and found a little too much about their business plans, that he was murdered,” Clarke said. “Anya Woods has been to our house plenty of times - that’s why her DNA is all over the place. Plus, she’s not a killer and not my Dad’s killer.”

“You’re saying that someone on the council killed Jake Griffin?” Miller asked with a single raised eyebrow. Clarke shrugged.

“Or had him killed,” she agreed. “But it’s their fault he’s dead.”

“What was the information that he knew that they didn’t want him to?” Jasper asked, whilst Raven rolls her eyes.

“She’s not going to know,” she said. “They killed the guy for knowing in the first place - how the hell would Clarke get the information? They would’ve taken any copies of it with them.” Clarke snorted as she nodded.

“Yeah, that , or Dad has a secret safe that no one else knows about,” Clarke laughed. Everyone sat in stunned silence for a moment before she shrugged. “Taxes are going up, benefits and welfare down, and state school money is disappearing because every member of the council skims off the top each quarter,” Clarke said. “Dante Wallace, in particular, is also to blame for six murders so far, each of them covered up by his “illegitimate child” as the news calls him, when he’s very much legitimate, by the way, Cage. Cage does the killing most of the time, covers the entire thing up, incinerates the body, gets paid out of the tax money and is well looked after.”

After a second of pure silence, Marcus laughed. It was quick at first, but it moved on to the next person and the one after that. A moment later, everyone was laughing. Over the murders, over the protests, over Clarke being the best goddamn asset they had - how this eighteen year old girl knew secrets she would be killed for, how she was so okay with it.

“Do you have the proof?” Marcus asked when they’d died down. Clarke nodded.

“A few copies of it,” she replied.

“Holy shit,” Bellamy smiled. “This revolution could actually work."




It shouldn’t be surprising, but it was to Bellamy, that in a place where they spread so much hate - for the system, the council, the world - love could burst through the cracks. After Clarke came along, anything could happen, though. Anything was possible as Bellamy watched Clarke paint, mid-morning in the empty warehouse. People had work and school, and it was just the two of them, taking in the music and the artwork that she’d created.

From one end to another, light pencil outlines covered the white bricks. There were sections of joy and happiness; rolling hills and skyscrapers, beautiful portraits of Monroe, Harper, even Octavia - and then there were the sections of turmoil; of them fighting a battle that they were never ready for; of a figure that looked distinctly like Bellamy leading an army made of his friends and family. It was all absolutely perfect, though; precisely painted and beautifully done.

“This is amazing,” he breathed, staring at the wall. He tore his gaze to Clarke, who was already watching him, and he smiled softly. “You’re amazing.” She ducked her head, before placing the paintbrush she was working with back in the pot.

“I’m alright,” she replied. “I think you’re the amazing one for managing to lead a revolution like this.”

“I don’t lead it,” he said, but she sent him a pointed look, like, stop selling yourself short, Bell . He swallowed before shrugging. “We wouldn’t be finally coming to an end if you hadn’t come along.” Clarke smiled.

“Team effort,” she decided, and Bellamy nodded. They were slowly drawing closer to one another; closing the distance, and Bellamy wanted to reach out and touch her - hell, he was close enough.

“I’m glad I saved you at that protest,” he told her, and she grinned up at him.

“I’m glad you saved me, too.” He reached out a hand - because fuck it - and grazed his fingertips up her arm. Bellamy watched as she shuddered, before he reached her face, cupping her cheek in his calloused hands. The two locked eyes for a moment, checking with one another, before closing the gap entirely.

Bellamy’s lips landed on hers, and Clarke pushed back against them like she was yearning - like she had been waiting for this for so long, that it was all she wanted. Bellamy kissed her passionately, carding his fingers through her hair with one hand, and cupping the back of her neck with another. He couldn’t get enough of this girl, cheek smudged with painted and eyes of pure blue. Clarke’s hands gripped at his shirt, pulling him closer and closer, until they were touching as much as they could, as much as possible-

Still, Bellamy wanted more. He wanted more of this girl, everything she could give, and he wanted to give everything he had back. They were in a revolution and he was the King they followed into battle, but hell he would go with his Princess into a thousand wars if she would just kiss him like this every morning before they stalked to the battlefield. He would give up a hundred peaceful protests and take on the riots for this girl; tear gas and gunpowder in his body, like he was born for, and the ashes and blood of the dead in her wake.

The war following them was difficult and perilous - Bellamy watched his people getting gunned down when their knowledge came to light, and he mourned over every single body he wouldn’t see again. Clarke kissed at his tears, mixing them with her own, and loved and loved and loved until he could face the light of day again and not hide in the shadows.

From one kiss in an empty warehouse, blaring a song he barely knew, to the streets, grey and dingy, with their red and white bandanas, matching, and their hands in a vice-like grip on one another. They were leaders in a battle, they were fighters in a world of politics they didn’t understand. Abby Griffin took down the council from the inside in the same way that they took them down from the streets - a joint effort littered with bodies and pain, all in the hopes of a better tomorrow.

Then, when tomorrow came, Bellamy woke up in Clarke’s arms; sunlight streaming in through the window of his bedroom, her smile pressed against his skin. He could hear his sisters moving about the house, still happy, still alive, still fighting, and he could feel the warmth of the sun on his body.

Maybe he wasn’t the key, like they always thought. Maybe Clarke was - or maybe Bellamy was the key, and it was him who was going to find their Princess, or him who was going to love her, or him who was going to lead side by side with her in the final protests, rallies, riots that brought down the people on top. Maybe Bellamy was the key, but maybe he was more than that -

Maybe they were just revolutionaries, him and his family. They were anarchists promoting equality and life, and they were happy - which was a long way from his mother’s best friend returning home in the night, tears streaking down her face over the body that was still out in the road.



Make no mistake, we are not afraid,

To bear the burden of repeating

What they’re thinking anyway.

Let’s raise the stakes

On the bet we made.

Let’s decide to be the architects,

The masters of our fate.

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...