Bellamy Blake | Imagines & Preferences

The Things Taken From Us.

HER RUTHLESS GAZE rested numbly on the furious flames fighting for the sovereignty of her throne, of her palace, of her home. Her chamber, Polis, was up in flames, and by the destruction of your hand.

Her eyes were hardened, cold and unmerciful and beady from under the obsidian of her war paint. And you couldn't help but think of how many other people faced the wrath of the unrelenting stare seared into your mind, or faced the loss brought out by her reckless decisions.

She'd taken your home. She'd taken your family, your friends. She'd taken your hope. She'd taken the person you used to be. And now you were back for vengeance and retribution.

Your chest heaved, anticipation curling like vines around your bones. Here you were, awaiting your dreaded fate. The glare contorting your features to stolid hatred almost wavered with fear. But then, you reminded yourself that you lit the match, you dominated the flame, you breathed the fire. You wreaked this havoc. These peoples' - these monsters' - hysterical panic was on you. You got the justice you, and so many others, deserved. You were a warrior, and you weren't backing down.

Not even when her cold eyes flickered from the orange dusk roaring in front of her, snapping harshly to your tense figure - your sword gripped so tightly in your fist that your knuckles protruded with coiling anger. Her chin raised with power, her shoulders rolled back with confidence. She located her relentless scrutiny to the people by your side. Your friends.

Then, they landed back on you. Her jaw clenched with rage. You held your breath, not giving her the satisfaction of prevailing your nerves that settled in when the tense silence did. Instead, your glare sharpened and your stance straightened. You weren't afraid of her. You weren't afraid of what she could do. You were afraid that when you finally got your chance to kill her, you'd enjoy it more than you were supposed to.

Despite the trembling roar of the fire gripping the towering building, you heard her unmerciful demand loud and clear.

"Kill them all."

And like a match coming alive with one sharp swipe, everybody sprung into action. Your friends all swilled on their heels, rapidly following your moves. Back to back with Bellamy, shoulder to shoulder with Octavia, side by side with Clarke, weapons hot, and ready to fight.
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Her guards lay dead and dying, no match for the power of the guns clenched tightly in the vengeance-seeking fists of Skaikru. Their bullets stayed strictly reserved to those who stepped up to fight them, but it didn't stop the bypassers of Polis city cowering back in fear. Only you and Octavia adorned the sharp, unmerciful malice of a sword, finding the skilful act of wielding your animosity a lot more therapeutic than aiming a barrel and squeezing a trigger.