❝𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯' 𝘮𝘦, 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯' 𝘮𝘦
𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯' 𝘮𝘦, 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺❞
In which Bellamy Blake learns to open his heart, and Theodora Sutton learns maybe she isn't the monster everyone...
Sorry for the break, I've been focussing more on my JJ and Isaac fanfics.
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The guards led Clarke and me down a few hallways, before finally walking us into a room. The first thing I noticed was the music that drifted from the room as soon as the door opened. It was classical, like what they listened to at the opera in the movies I used to watch before being incarcerated.
There were several famous paintings hung on the walls around the room and Dante stood at an easel working on a painting of his own. "Lose the handcuffs," he instructed the guards.
Two of the guards stepped up and retrieved keys from their belts. I felt some of my anxiety lift once the handcuffs were gone, but not all of it. We were still in an underground compound that apparently we weren't allowed to leave.
The guards went and stood by the door so that Clarke and I had some breathing room, waiting silently as Dante continued to paint. "There are some blank canvases if either of you would like," the man offered, pointing with his paintbrush.
"I'm not really much of an artist," I said, looking around the room.
It appeared to be his office. with several shelves and filing cabinets lining the walls, and a large oak desk sitting near the centre. I wondered how things worked here and how similar they were to the Ark.
Clarke watched the man paint, not making any move to get closer. "I used to paint the ground, too."
"It's not just the ground. . ." Dante told us. "It's a memory."
At this, I focused back on the man. "Wait, hang on, you've been outside?"
"Yes. Fifty-six years ago. . . for five minutes," he claimed as he dabbed his brush on the palette. "I was seven when the first of what we call The Outsiders appeared. Before that, we thought we were all there was. Imagine our surprise."
"We don't have to imagine," Clarke stated.
And she had been right, we didn't. Coming to the Ground not all that long ago, we thought that we were going to be the only ones. So, it came as no less than a shock when we came across the Grounders.
Dante glimpsed over his shoulder for a moment before continuing. "My father- this was his office at the time- believed it meant that the Earth was survivable again. And so he opened the doors. Within a week, 54 people were dead from the exposure. My mother and sister among them.
"Loss. . . pain. Regret," he said as he put his brush down and began to clean his hands on a rag. "Time eases these things, girls. But the only time it's ever truly gone is when I'm painting."
"You didn't bring us here to talk about painting," Clarke replied bluntly, not in the mood for small talk. "Did you?"
The man stopped what he was doing to face us, "I'm afraid I have bad news. Our patrols have swept the area and found no evidence of survivors. Either at your camp or from the Ark."
