❛ the ground. that's the dream. ❜
On the list 𝘓𝘺𝘳𝘢 𝘑𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘛𝘰𝘱 𝘛𝘦𝘯 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘔𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘖𝘧 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦, getting arrested is definitely up there. But, hey! At least there's a silver lining ━━ getting shoved into a drops...
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(Quick authors note)
OK SO HERE'S THE THING - i lowkey realized that the beginning of this chapter makes more sense at the end of the last chapter and the end of the last chapter makes more sense at the beginning of this chapter.
So imma switch them in, like, a week. I just want to give y'all a chance to read this part here so that you don't get confused??? As if this message isn't already confusing enough - but basically the part where Bellamy comforts Lyra here will be put in the last chapter and the part where he kisses her will be put here in this chapter instead. If that makes anymore sense. If not,,, just enjoy, lmao, sorry i never make any sense!!!
AND THE VOICE does not leave her alone. . .
You killed Wells, it reminds her in a grating sing-song voice as she treks through the thick forests. Pale sunlight filters through the foliage, dappling the undergrowth in an almost sickly yellow. You killed Wells. You killed Wells. You killed Wells.
She feels physically ill, nausea churning her stomach like a hurricane. Burning nerves seethe deep within the hollow catacombs that have become her stomach. Her fingers sear where she had gripped the knife. Every time she closes her eyes, his anguished face fills her vision, and the agony Lyra felt as she relieved his pain returns at full force. It is almost unbearable.
Bellamy strides beside her, looking anxious and unsure. She doesn't look at him. He doesn't seem able to disturb her, as if she is glass and he is terrified of shattering her. But she can practically feel it, his yearning, his need to do something. And yet still she remains inconsolable.
"It's not much further," Bellamy says softly, brushing a finger across her arm.
Lyra flinches away. He pulls back. She can feel her cheeks boiling a ruby red. It's not his fault. But it is impossible to stand human touch right now. It all feels like killing Wells.
He stays near, as if not daring to stray to far away, as if unwilling to leave her alone. Probably he is unwilling to leave her alone. It is at the very least a way for him to keep the invitation for comfort open and every few minutes he gently repeats assurances that they are almost back to what has been christened Camp Jaha, almost back to the others. Lyra wants to somehow tell him that she doesn't need the others, that she doesn't need anyone at all, but the words never come. Words sit dead in her throat. Trapped somewhere beneath the tears, any courage she'd feigned having now completely and utterly gone. She feels desolate. Every time she thinks she might have finally gotten over the killing, the image of Wells ignites in her mind, coming with memories from the war and Mount Weather and the Reaper Tunnels. Blood bleeding down his hip, the stench of sickness heavy on his breath. Too close to death and yet not close enough. She'd been forced to draw the distinction between the blurred lines. She'd been the one to kill him.
