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Chapter Text

Wallace Estate, Renaissance England, 1521 AD

“Well,” Bellamy said, turning his head to glance over at the marble block being slowly chipped into his likeness. Clarke hissed and he chuckled, returning to his pose. “Will you let him put his name on this one as well?”

Clarke shot him a glare, her fingers still working diligently at the stone. “You know perfectly well I have no other choice.”

“No other choice,” he snorted. “I don’t suppose you could’ve not married him in the first place.”

“I think we can both agree that I could not.”

Cage Wallage, son of the renowned artist Dante Wallace, was known to be a brute. He’d not been Clarke’s first choice, nor her choice at all, if she was being fair. But her parents had reached an arrangement with the Wallace family, and that was how it was.

At least she was allowed to carve, even if it was under her husband’s name. Many men would not have been so kind, no matter what her unruly model said.

Bellamy had been with her from the beginning of the arrangement, paid just as much to model as to keep his mouth shut.

They had started out as strangers, both standoffish and rude, if they were honest. Clarke was used to working with female models, and Bellamy was used to working with no one. He had resented Clarke’s wealth, her title, her family, until one day he’d seen Clarke and her husband together.

Cage had come to inspect her piece, standing over her shoulder and scrutinizing each detail, each flaw. He made it clear the piece was a reflection on him, and it was to be made how he instructed, not how Clarke wanted. The finished piece wouldn’t be hers by any accounts, anyways. After spending nearly a half hour tearing apart Clarke’s work, he proceeded to paw at her in front of Bellamy, his roaming hands causing his wife to stiffen visibly, not that it had seemed to matter to him.

When he finally left, Bellamy and Clarke had looked at each other with a new understanding.

“You hate him,” he said, his tone somewhat disbelieving.

“He is my husband,” Clarke replied shortly.

Bellamy snorted, meeting her eyes with a savage grin. “My condolences.”

After that, the hostility that lingered around the studio had ceased. The two of them started chatting while Clarke worked, and though Bellamy was still often rude and inappropriate, it was in a teasing manner. Clarke gave it back to him just as well, and they grew closer with each long day spent together.

"Sometimes I think you’re the only person who truly knows me,” she’d remarked one night, after finishing a sculpture she’d been working on for months: a figure of Perseus, Medusa’s severed head grasped in one fist and held high, like a lantern. Her biggest commission to date, from some nobleman whose name she hadn’t bothered to learn.

Clarke hated it.

She and Bellamy were sitting on the modeling platform, sharing a bottle of wine. No glasses, just trading the bottle between them.

“Then there is no one in this world luckier than I,” Bellamy said. Their fingers brushed together as they passed the bottle and Clarke met his eyes, finding his gaze dark, pupils blown wide.

She’d kissed him first, that night.

She’d never meant for it to be more, not purposefully, but how was she to stop it? They spent practically all their time together, and besides that: Bellamy was smart, beautiful, interesting. Falling in love with him was like breathing.

The only point of contention that remained between them was the same as the initial one: Cage.

Bellamy hated him just as much as Clarke did, but he thought she should do more, fight back against his decrees. In her opinion, conducting an affair was about as far as she could push back against her husband without facing serious reprisal, so she did not care to invite further scrutiny by fighting him in other areas of their life.

The other truth was that Bellamy was jealous. He did not like that Clarke still warmed her husband’s bed, no matter how begrudgingly. He would never admit it to her, but she could tell how much it pained him to see her return to the manor at night.

She wished she didn’t have to just as much as he.

This night, she worked until sunset, finally giving up as the light streaming into the studio from the skylight above waned. The piece was close to finished, but not quite. From this point it needed mostly detail work, the imagined facial features being her least favorite part of carving.

Clarke set her tools down and wiped her hands on her skirt, moving to inspect the work to come.

Bellamy came up behind her, sliding his hands around her waist. She could feel the hard length of him pressed up against her rump, and his lips slid to her neck, teasing at the soft skin there.

She shuddered.

“He doesn’t look like me,” Bellamy mused. Clarke frowned, shrugging away from him.

“He’s not meant to. If I made all my commissions true to the model, your face would be in every court in Europe.”

Bellamy trailed his fingers over her collar bone, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “All of Cage’s commissions, you mean.”

“What’s the difference?” she complained, but tilted her neck, letting his fingers slide up the column of her throat.

“How can you bear to let him take credit for your work? The man is useless with a chisel, even more so than he is with a brush. He is a shame to his father’s name.”

His other hand came around to the front of her dress, finding the laces that held the bodice together. With a swift tug, they came undone, and he loosened the stays. His fingers slid back up to the neck of her shift, undoing the tie there as well. “Not an ounce of talent in his fingers.”

His hand was hot against her skin, his touch searing. Clarke closed her eyes as it snuck beneath her clothing, cupping her breast. His thumb swiped over the bud of her nipple, teasing it to attention.

“He is my husband.”

Bellamy wet his lips, his breath ghosting across Clarke’s shoulder. “He is a prick, and a fool.”

She hummed, leaning back into his body as his ministrations continued. Her head tilted back, eyes closed.

“If you were my wife,” Bellamy growled into her ear, “I’d worship you. I’d make sure everyone knew how perfect you were, how talented.”

“But I’m not your wife.”

“No,” he agreed, hitching up her skirts. “You’re not.” He traced the soft skin of her thighs, hand smoothing up over the curve of her behind to the small of her back, pressing her forward over her workbench. “But nonetheless, you are mine.”

Clarke let out a low moan as he parted her thighs, fingers slipping through her folds, gathering up her arousal. “Bellamy, please.”

“Hush,” he whispered, pressing on the bud of her clit. “Be good for me.”

She heard the rustle of the belt as he undid his robe, dropping it to the floor with a whoosh, and he fisted a hand in her hair, tugging her head back until her spine arched. His hard cock slid through the crease of her thighs once, twice, before nestling at her entrance.

She let out a cry as he thrust home.

What a scene they must make, Clarke thought, he breaths coming in heavy pants as he worked his cock in and out of her wet cunt. Her, leaned over the work table, back curved like a bow with her skirts pushed up over her hips, tits falling from the open neck of her gown, and Bellamy, naked behind her, looking like some kind of greek god come alive with the hard planes of his muscles, the sharp line of his jaw.

“I need—” she begged, not sure quite what she meant.

Bellamy knew, thrusting harder into her so her bones rattled, his hand slipping around her waist to work her clit in tight circles.

Clarke moaned, feeling the heavy slide of his cock within her, spreading her open like nothing else. She felt pinned by him, by his weight, by the pleasure he wrought from her body.

Bellamy leaned over her back, covering her body with his own. The hand in her hair twisted, forcing her face to the side, and he caught her lips in a savage kiss. “I love you,” he growled. “I love you.”

She tasted the words on her tongue, sweeter than any dessert she’d ever eaten. “I love you,” she swore. “Now and always.”

****

She finished the piece a week later. He took her again afterwards, this time on the modeling platform, tangling up in the drop cloths. She went to bed with marble dust in her hair and a grin on her lips that she couldn’t seem to shake.

The next day Clarke spent in a daze, head full of thoughts of Bellamy.

The bittersweet thing about finishing a piece was that it meant she would not see him until Cage received another commission. There was no reason for him to be there if she was not carving. She hated those times, more than anything else.

Breakfast the following morning was uncomfortable, as Cage had returned from a trip to his father’s. Clarke sat stiffly at the table, taking dainty sips of her tea and longing to leave.

“I think my wife deserves a prize for her good work,” Cage said grandly. “I’ve had a new block delivered, you may do with it what you will. Consider it an anniversary present.”

Clarke’s eyes widened, struggling to contain her excitement as it managed to override her contempt. “You mean—”

Cage looked up from his papers, smirking. “Yes, you may keep it.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Go, be with your stone.”

Clarke rose from her chair abruptly, nearly knocking over her plate in her haste. “Thank you, I—” She hesitated, chewing her lip. It was a risk, to ask. And yet— “I’ll need the model to come.”

“As I am well aware,” her husband scoffed. “No matter, he’s been called.”

Clarke felt joy rise high in her chest. “Oh, thank you, I— thank you. It is a very kind gesture.”

She nodded demurely and curtseyed, exiting the room with slow steps, spine held straight as was proper. The minute she cleared the doorway, she raced down the stairs, nearly skipping down the path to her studio.

Bellamy was already there when she arrived, and he turned to look at her as the door banged open. His lips quirked up, taking in her giddy state.

“My,” he drawled. “What has you this worked up?”

She eyed him, awash in the warm golden light of morning. Her feet began to circle, taking in each line, each detail of the body she knew so well. Her eyes never leaving him, she moved to her work table, grabbing a sheet of parchment. With quick even strokes of charcoal, Clarke sketched him just as she wanted.

“This is an important piece,” she informed him. Setting down the charcoal, she marched over to her new block of stone, dragging her fingers across the surface. “Perhaps the most important work I’ve ever done.”

She left the paper by the stone and approached Bellamy once more. He laughed as she herded him onto the modeling platform, moving gamely while she prodded his limbs into place. She stepped back, observing, then dragged a stool onto the platform, gesturing at him to sit. “And what is it about this one that makes it so important, as you say?”

“This one—” Clarke said brightly, her tone heavy with possession. “—is mine.”

She looked at him from the front, eyebrows furrowed, then circled him to see the other angles. Standing, perhaps, she thought. Standing is better.

“Very well,” Bellamy chuckled, shaking his head. “And who will it be? Apollo? Adonis?”

As if he wasn’t divine enough in his own right.

“We can call it Apollo, I suppose. Better to have a story for Cage.” Her husband was bound to appear at some point, to check in on what his gift had bought him. Clarke sighed and slung her arms around Bellamy’s neck, pressing a kiss into his dark curls. “But for me? This one will finally just be you.”

“Ah,” he said. “I see.” His chin dipped, lips finding the soft skin of her wrist. “No wonder you’re so excited. You’re carving my replacement.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, tugging away from him. “Oh hush,” she said, trotting back to her work table to start another sketch. She threw him onto paper, his shoulders bold and broad, hips tilted deep into a contrapposto pose. Her eyes glanced up, meeting his with a glimmer. “We both know to me you cannot be replaced.”

****

It usually took Clarke weeks before she’d begin on a new piece. She’d work on studies, make models, carve miniatures; till she was sure she had everything right.

Not this time.

She knew Bellamy’s body like the back of her hand. Carving him felt right, felt natural. There was no need to force anything, no need to veer away from what was in front of her eyes, because what was in front of her eyes was the finished project. Was perfection.

But where the initial carving went quickly, she grew near obsessive in the details. She wanted each muscle just as it was on Bellamy, each bony prominence just as solid, just as firm. She wanted his skin to look as soft as it felt, to look as though she might slide into the statue’s arms the way she could slide into Bellamy’s.

She had him stand right next to the statue as she formed its face, making sure each line, each curve was just right. She ran her fingers down his chest, finding the exact planes she had carved, the divots of his abdominal muscles, of his hips.

The hair, on which she’d normally spend the least time, took weeks; no simple generic curls good enough for her standards.

Her husband had begun to grow restless, no longer amused by his wife’s little pet project. With commissions waiting for completion, he gave her a deadline.

This meant nothing to Clarke but that she got to spend more hours with Bellamy each day, working long into the night, carving by candlelight. And as an added bonus, night brought its own sense of safety. The later they worked, the less likely they were to be bothered.

She slept some nights in the studio until dawn, wrapped in the cradle of Bellamy’s arms.

But eventually, as with all things, it came to an end.

She spent their last apportioned day going over minute details, making sure each inch of the stone was just right. Just Bellamy.

“I have to say,” he mused, staring at the finished product. It was a near perfect replica, like staring into a strange sort of mirror. “I think this is your most handsome one yet.”

Clarke couldn’t help but agree, wrapping herself around his back.

The night was warm, so warm she’d risked shedding her outer dress, her shift tied scandalously up around her knees. Even with that, Clarke was sweating. The process, turning stone into Bellamy, shaping the face of Apollo himself, the body, the cock— it had been strangely erotic. She felt keyed up in a way she never had before, itchy under her skin.

Her cheek was pressed between his shoulder blades, hands slipping over his abs.

He groaned deeply as her hands moved lower, the noise rumbling through his chest. “Haven’t had enough of me yet, then?”

“Never,” Clarke promised, pressing kisses along his spine.

Bellamy let out a noise like a growl, tugging her around his body so he could capture her lips with his own. His hands cupped her face, stepping forward as he kissed her fiercely. Clarke sat as her calves hit the edge of the modeling platform, and Bellamy crawled over her, his strong thighs nudging her knees apart.

Her arms clasped around his neck, chest heaving as his teeth found the soft skin of her throat. He was always so careful not to leave marks. She wished he didn’t have to be.

“This may be our last night together for a long while,” he said. Clarke’s next piece was to be of the Magdalena, so she’d have no need for a male model, not until it was finished. In other circumstances she might be excited for the change in pace, but all she could think of was how Bellamy would be gone from her. “We should make it count.”

She murmured a noise of agreement, hooking her knees up over his hips. He wrapped his arm around her body, pressing up on the small of her back until her spine arched.

His hard length ground down against her center, drawing out a moan. Bellamy turned his body to be seated on the platform, pulling Clarke along with him so she sat astride him, one knee on either side of his hips.

Clarke’s eyes fluttered open.

Their bodies were flush against each other. His eyes on her face were reverent, arms wrapped around her waist, fingers spanning the breath of her back. Clarke leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his mouth. Suddenly all she could feel was her heart aching.

Bellamy slid his lips along her jaw, down to her collarbone. Clarke’s face tilted down, her cheek resting against the crown of his head.

“Bellamy,” she whispered against his hair. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” he agreed.

She nodded, tears starting to creep down her cheeks. Bellamy pulled back as one hit his skin, looking at her with concerned eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I—” she sniffled, biting her lip. “I just hate it. I hate that I’m married to him when it should be you. I wish it was you.”

“I’m here. You still have me, no matter what.”

“Yes but— it’s not fair. When we go out, all I am is Lady Cage Wallace. I’ll—I’ll have to have his children. When I die, I’ll be buried beside him. And I will never, ever love him.

“Just imagine,” she begged, “Imagine what it would be like, just the two of us. We could have a home together, a family. We could love each other all the time, not just when work allowed it. We wouldn’t have to hide.”

“I’d never hide you,” Bellamy promised, kissing her skin. “If you were my wife, I’d want everyone to know.”

“I know,” Clarke said hollowly, climbing off his lap. She sat on the edge of the platform, looking away.

Bellamy frowned, scooting to sit by her side. “What can I do?” he asked, taking one of her hands in his own. “What would make this better?”

Clarke shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s anything to be done. I just wish— I wish we had something. Something to prove that you are mine, and I am yours.”

Bellamy was quiet for a moment. He released her hands for a second before taking them back, placing something warm and heavy in her palm.

Clarke opened her hands.

In her palm sat a gold ring, one Bellamy had worn always, ever since the time she’d met him.

“It won’t fit you,” he warned. Clarke looked up, her eyes wide. “You’ll have to put it on a chain.”

“What—?”

Bellamy smiled, his eyes soft. His hand reached up, finding her face. “I can’t marry you, we both know that. Not in truth.” He stroked her cheek and she leaned into the touch. “But there’s something else we could do.”

Clarke blinked at him, still half in shock. “Anything.”

“There’s binding spell my mother taught me as a boy. It’s superstitious nonsense, most likely, but it could be ours. Our secret.”

Clarke kissed his hand, sighing. “What will it bind?”

He shrugged, smiling sweetly. “I suppose I don’t rightly know. Our souls, I think; if you believe in all that.”

She wasn’t sure she did, but she wanted— something. Anything that would feel like a tie to him was enough.

“Sounds good to me. What will we need?”

****

They planned the ritual for three nights hence.

Because Bellamy was no longer needed for modeling, he’d have to sneak into the studio, and Clarke would have to sneak out of the house. She did so eagerly, slipping out of bed in only her dressing gown, tiptoeing down the halls barefoot until she reached the door.

Once outside she could not contain herself, practically running to the studio, her white nightdress fluttering behind her in the moonlight.

Bellamy was waiting beside the door, a rucksack slung over his shoulder. He caught her as she hurtled towards him, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her hard.

Clarke smiled, holding his hand while she opened the studio door. They separated for a moment, moving to light the small tea-lights Clarke had arranged earlier that day. The normal oil lamps would be too bright, too visible.

The first step involved sharing spiced wine from a cup of silver. They sat on the low bench near Clarke’s work table for this, pouring wine into the goblet she’d pilfered from the main house. Bellamy added the spices from a paper sachet, tilting them into the cup and swirling it.

He went first, holding the goblet to Clarke’s lips. She drank as he spoke the words, the wine rich in her mouth, eyes locked on his.

A bead of wine clung to her lip like a ruby, and Bellamy’s eyes darkened as Clarke’s tongue darted out to capture it.

“Your turn,” he said gruffly, holding out the cup. Clarke took it.

She watched his throat as he drank, murmuring the words he’d taught her, the language foreign on her tongue. As I am yours, so you are mine, they meant, or so he’d told her.

They stared at each other for a moment when the exchange was complete, chests heaving from some unknown power. Whether they believed in the ritual or not, they could feel it, some strange wheel being set in motion.

“What next?” Clarke asked breathlessly.

Bellamy gulped, pulling a candle from the bag he’d brought. It was long and tapered, its color strange.

“While the candle burns, we must show our love, provide the spell with its energy,” he explained. The undertone of his words was immediately understood. “Then we will make the exchange of blood, which will bind our souls to one another.”

“Forever?” Clarke asked.

“In this life and those to come,” Bellamy promised. “Or so they say.”

“Good.”

The studio was dark, lit only by candlelight. They held the ritual candle together, dipping the wick into the flame of a tea-light until it caught. It smelled like something rich, some herb or spice or flower that Clarke could not recognize. Frankincense, perhaps. It was heady, nearly overwhelming.

Bellamy led her over to the platform, lined with blankets and cushions. Clarke fell to her knees in front of him, gazing up at his face in the warm light. He was—so beautiful, his beauty echoed by the near perfect copy behind him.

She reached a hand up for him, urging him to join her.

He acquiesced, sinking down to kneel at the edge of the platform. His gaze was intense, dark. His hands found the ties of her robe, slowly untying it until he could push it from her shoulders. Her nightdress followed, lying crumpled and discarded beside them.

Finally, carefully, he peeled her shift over her head, leaving her bare in front of him save for the ring around her neck.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the curve of her breast. Clarke sighed, threading her fingers through his hair. His lips moved slowly down her skin, mouthing at the softness of her belly.

Bellamy settled between her legs, his shoulders nudging her thighs apart wider, so she was spread for him.

He mouthed at her center, licking and sucking until her legs shook, muscles quivering. “Please,” Clarke begged. “I need—”

“I know,” Bellamy promised, his clever fingers moving to work her pretty cunt. He stroked through her folds, thumb pressing hard at her nub until she broke. Clarke tugged hard on his hair, pulling him up so she could meet his mouth with her own, tasting herself on his lips.

His cock dragged hard and heavy across her slick core.

She wiggled her hips, desperately, trying to align them so that he might slip inside her, relieve the unending ache that her orgasm had not abated. Bellamy slid a hand down, notching himself at her entrance.

“I love you,” he said, eyes hot on hers.

“I love you,” Clarke repeated, lips parting in a gasp.

He thrust home, and the candle flared behind them, flame jumping.

Bellamy made love to her like never before, each movement filled with devotion, with worship. His arms cradled her shoulders as he worked his cock into her, slowly, tortuously.

Clarke felt tears spring to her eyes and she blinked them away, sliding her hand into his hair and pulling his head down so she might kiss him again. The pleasure was like a wildfire, burning through her belly as his hips pistoned into her.

When they came, it was together: a single cry tearing from both their lips as one.

They lay back and stared at each other, panting. The room was inexplicably brighter, the ritual candle burning high like a flare.

“It’s time,” Bellamy breathed, sitting up. Clarke followed, watching as he walked naked over to his rucksack and drew a silver needle from a case she hadn’t noticed before.

He came back over, sitting down beside her. “Would you like me—”

Clarke plucked the needle from his fingers. “I shall go first.”

She swallowed, looking at the needle in her hands. “Clarke—”

She shook her head, raising one eyebrow. Her eyes found his, lips quirking up. “Forever, you said?”

Bellamy nodded silently, his gaze heavy. Clarke felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

“Good.” She smiled blindingly at him and said the words: “I bind myself to you.”

Holding the needle in one hand, Clarke pricked her finger; squeezing until a red drop of blood beaded at the tip. She looked up at Bellamy in askance.

“It should be enough,” he assured her.

She nodded, her eyes locked on his. Slowly, deliberately, she dragged her finger across his chest, right above where his heart lay caged in his ribs.

“Oh,” Bellamy gasped, his eyes widening. “Do you feel it?” Clarke shook her head, frowning. “It’s like… a tether. You’ll see in a moment.”

Blood set alight, he drew her face in, kissing her lips softly once and again. He pressed her back down against the platform, his touch hungry, eyes heated. Against her throat, he whispered words in the same strange language they’d spoke afore. I bind myself to you.

The needle tumbled to the floor, rolling beneath the platform before Bellamy could even think to use it. They were so caught up in each other, neither heard the studio door creak open.

“You whore.”

The words startled Clarke, and she jerked upright, clutching a cloth to her chest. Her husband stood in the doorway, flanked by two of his men, red with a level of fury she’d never seen on him before. He looked— deadly.

Bellamy sat up as well, moving protectively in front of Clarke. “Don’t call her that.”

“Don’t you dare presume to tell me how to treat my wife, gutter rat,” Cage sneered. “Tell me, was it all you dreamed of, sticking your cock into a noble woman? Clarke is mine.”

“No,” Bellamy spat. “You think a ring on her finger is enough to make a woman yours? She doesn’t love you, she will never love you.”

“Love? What do I care of love?” Cage barked out a laugh, unsheathing his sword. “What I care about is you defiling my property, villain.”

Clarke panicked at the sight of steel, gleaming brightly in the candlelight. “Please, Cage, don’t do this—”

“You can have another model, my dear. One that won’t insist on bedding you.” He glared at Bellamy, eyes glittering cruelly. “This one, however, will have to be dealt with. What kind of man would I be if I let the help fuck my wife with no consequences?”

Cage stepped forward, settling the point of his sword in the hollow of Bellamy’s throat. He lifted it, forcing Bellamy’s chin up. “Put some clothes on and stand up.”

Bellamy swallowed. His hands reached for his pants, tugging them up over his hips and lacing them shut. He stood, shoulders proud.

Clarke watched in horror, looking between the two men. “What will you do to him?”

“What do you think, darling wife?” Cage laughs, the sound echoing throughout the studio. “He will die.”

He feinted forward and Clarke screamed.

“No!” She scrambled to her feet, lunging in front of Bellamy and shielding him with her nude body. Chest heaving, she faced her husband down with wild eyes. “I’m yours, I’m sorry, I won’t— I’ll never see him again, never touch him again. Just, please— please, don’t hurt him.”

“Oh, my beautiful wife.” Cage took a step forward and Clarke sighed out a long breath, relief flooding her veins. He let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t think so.”

His hand shot forward, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her to the ground. Her head cracked hard against the floor, the blow echoing through her skull. She lay there, dazed and naked.

“Clarke!” Bellamy made to move towards her but Cage stepped in front of her, sword extended out in front of him. He stepped forward, forcing Bellamy back across the room.

“It is time to show my wife what her disloyalty will cost.”

Cage struck lightning fast, sword swinging wildly towards the man in front of him. Bellamy moved quickly, snatching a carving tool from Clarke’s table and parrying the blow.  The clash of metal on metal rang through the room.

Cage had the advantage, being properly armed, but Bellamy was strong. His blows rattled the other man’s bones, causing him to tire quickly. His strikes grew sloppy, desperate.

Bellamy pushed forward, eyes hot, jaw clenched. They passed the statue again, moving into the midline of the room. The moon shone through the skylight, illuminating the fight in icy light.

“Wait!” Cage yelled, raising one hand. “I give.”

“It’s a trick!” Clarke countered, seeing something in his eyes glitter cruelly despite his supposed surrender. “Bellamy don’t—”

Alas, the end of the fight was already set.

In the split second Bellamy hesitated, eyes flicking to Clarke, Cage knocked the tool from his hands. It clattered against the floor as Cage lunged forward, trapping Bellamy against the statue of himself.

“No!” Clarke screamed, but it was too late. Cage’s sword went through Bellamy’s chest, piercing his heart, gouging the stone behind him.

His blood dripped out onto the marble statue, and with his last glimmer of life, he met Clarke’s eyes. I’m sorry, they pleaded. I love you.

And then Cage withdrew the sword, and his body crumpled to the ground.

Clarke let out a strangled cry, throwing herself to the ground beside him. Her arms cradled his still body, her skin painted red with his blood. Her tears fell wet onto his cheeks as she sobbed. “Please, God, please,” she begged, rocking back and forth. “Please don’t leave me. You promised me that we would be together, this life and the next! You promised.”

There was no answer, of course there was no answer.

“Take her,” Cage said to his men. “Get her home before anybody sees her like this, and send someone to take care of the body.”

The men seized Clarke under the shoulders, heaving her up and dragging her away from Bellamy’s body. She struggled violently against them, kicking and screaming, but it was no use. A cloak was thrown over her body, binding her arms against her body so she couldn’t fight, and she was pulled out of the building.

Cage wiped his sword on his pants and sheathed it. Looking back at the statue, at the crumpled body of his rival, he sneered, and spat at the floor. “Good riddance.”

He left, slamming the door behind him.

The studio went still, empty and silent. Bellamy’s blood leached slowly from his body, pooling around the base of the statue.

With a flicker, the ritual candle went out.

When the men came to clean up, they would find no blood, no body. The only evidence of a fight was the deep wound the sword had left in the chest of the statue, stained rust brown. It was a mystery, but not one of them bothered to think about it too deeply. Perhaps Cage had simply sent someone else before them.

****

For a while, Clarke refused to return to the studio, refused to return to the place she’d watched the love of her life be murdered, but then she started to forget. Started to forget exactly what the angle of his jaw had been, how many inches he had stood taller than her. The realization tore the breath from her lungs, and so she went back.

They’d moved his statue into a corner, out of the light. Clarke sat in front of it for hours, just staring, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, as though he could hear her. The ring hanging around her neck felt a weight, an albatross. “I love you.”

She placed her hand over the gouge in the stone, covering it so that she might picture him whole again.

Cage had a new block of marble delivered, sat in the middle of the studio, ready to be carved for his newest commission, but Clarke ignored it. A model came, some new girl Clarke had never met, but she sent her home with nary a glance.

She didn’t need a new model. She would never carve again.

She stopped going home at night, started sleeping in the studio at Bellamy’s feet, head nestled against the pedestal of the statue. She stopped eating, stopped bathing.

She’d been in the studio for two weeks straight when Cage had finally had enough.

“Get up,” he said, barreling through the door. “Stop staring at that wretched thing and get to work.”

She barely lifted her head before setting it back down.

With a rage, Cage had her hauled out of the studio, back to their home, dumped in a bath tub. Her lady’s maids scrubbed her body, cooed over her hair as they painstakingly untangled the knots she hadn’t bother to brush out.

When they tried to take the ring from round her neck, Clarke’s hand shot out of the water like a wraith, clamping around the wrist of the unsuspecting maid. They let her keep it.

Clarke was dressed in fresh clothing, forced to eat, and escorted back to the studio.

The model she’d sent home was back, arranged as Cage instructed on the platform beside the blank cut of marble. Clarke stared at the scene with dead eyes.

“I won’t do it.”

“You will,” her husband growled, thrusting the tools into her hands and pushing her towards the stone. “Or I will make you regret it.” He gave Bellamy’s statue a meaningful look.

She tried, she did. Cage stood over her shoulder as she carved, pacing behind her for weeks on end. But it all went— wrong. Her gaze kept slipping into the corner of the studio, meeting Bellamy’s blank eyes.

The statue was so lifelike, she almost thought sometimes she’d see him move, see his lips move, but of course it was all in her head.

Or was it?

One time, she could’ve sworn she saw him blink, and she startled, her hand slipping as she stared across the room. She hit the mallet much harder than she’d intended, and the stone cracked. Clarke looked down, unfeeling, as the arm of the piece she’d been working on for weeks shattered on the floor of the studio.

Cage yelled at her, screaming insults, screaming threats, but she could barely hear it. She felt like her head was underwater, like she was slowly drowning.

She realized her mistake only when Cage’s men started moving towards Bellamy’s statue.

“Don’t,” she begged, but her voice was a whisper, raspy from disuse.

Cage held her tight, keeping her back. “You’ve left me no choice, Clarke.”

They covered the statue with a sheet, carrying it out of the room. Something about it was— unsettling, the workers would say later. The stone felt almost warm.

It took eight men to carry it to the docks, but only one to push it over, sending it toppling into the river.

“There,” Cage said, wiping his hands. He looked at his wife, standing stoically beside him, gazing into the ripples as the statue settled gently in the silt of the riverbed. The dark water was too murky to see through, leaving no trace of the figure at the bottom. “Like it never happened.”

He watched as her fingers went to her breast, to the necklace wrapped around her throat and his eyes narrowed. His hands darted out, tearing the chain from her neck.

Clarke let out a sharp gasp.

Cage turned it over, the ring shining in his hands like a trophy. He stepped back towards the water, letting the ring and its chain slip out of his fist. It made no sound as it hit the water, disappearing quickly below the surface.

“There,” he said again. Cage wrapped his arm around Clarke and turned, leading her away from the docks.

She didn’t look back.

****

Chapter Text

Franko Conservation Institute, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C., 2018 AD

It’s the most exciting find of the century, they tell her.

“You won’t believe it,” Harper says, rushing in front of her to open the doors to the restoration room. “It was found in the mud under the docks of the Wallace estate when they dredged it looking for somebody’s wedding ring, if you can believe that. They’re pretty sure it’s a real Dante II.”

“Cage,” Clarke mumbles under her breath.

Harper turns to her, giving her a curious look. “What?”

Clarke shakes her head, pressing forward into the room. “So what’s the condition like?”

Harper makes a face. “You’ll see.”

The two women stand back as the forklift brings in the box, leaving it in the middle of the room. Clarke signs off on the papers the delivery driver hands to her, indicating transfer of custody officially to the museum.

“Alright,” she says, stepping forward towards the wooden box. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

The delivery team blocks her view as they pry away the sides of the box, so her first glimpse is of the full thing.

It’s— she’s never seen anything like it.

Dante II —Cage Wallace, that is— was known for his exquisite renaissance sculptures of men, so much so that historians have speculated on his sexuality. Clarke has always been skeptical of the rumors, unwilling to label the sexuality of a historical figure she found inexplicably repulsive despite his masterful art, but this—

This statue, ruined as it is by years in the riverbed: it’s a love letter.

Normally, she can tell where the artist riffed on their model’s features, where they took artistic license, but on this, it’s impossible to tell.

She feels breathless, shaken.

Harper whistles beside her, startling her out of her reverie. “Pretty ugly, isn’t it?”

Clarke’s eyes narrow, flickering sharply to her companion. “What are you talking about?”

Harper looks back at Clarke apologetically. “Sorry, I mean— well, it’s pretty banged up. Hard to see what it’ll be like under all that muck.” She takes in Clarke’s starstruck expression and sighs. “Or not. But I guess that’s why they called you in anyways.”

That’s Clarke’s special talent in restoration, part of the reason she’s the best at what she does. She can look at a sculpture, at a painting, and no matter how many years since it was made, no matter how it’s faded or cracked or broken, she can see it as it is. As it should be.

This piece, as it should be, is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. The most beautiful man she’s ever seen.

Something aches deep inside her, a feeling of loss she has no business feeling. The model is long dead, gone for hundreds of years. She did not know him. She cannot miss him. And yet…

“Clear the room,” she says to Harper, eyes locked on the statue before her. She sets her tools on the metal tray beside it, gazing up at the face carved into the stone beneath the mud and algae. “I need space to work.”

Harper does as she says immediately, used to her friend’s eccentricities when it comes to restoration.

The door closes behind Harper with a snick, leaving just Clarke and her statue behind, alone in the airy room. Clarke’s hand reaches up unbidden, against all her training, her bare hand resting on the cheek of the figure.

“Who are you?” she asks, her tone full of wonder.

There is, of course, no reply.

****

The next day they deliver to her a box containing the statue’s left arm, and other broken pieces they’d found lodged in the silt beside it.

The head of Wallace estate legal team comes with it to observe, lingering obtrusively behind Clarke as she begins to sort and catalogue the pieces.

“Is there something you need?” Clarke knows her tone is harsh, rude; but she hates being watched while working. It makes her skin crawl.

The suit gives her a smarmy grin as she glances over her shoulder. “Just wanted to go over your part of the contract, when you’ve got a minute.”

Clarke lets out a deep huff, straightening her back. She peels off her gloves, settling them neatly beside her work, and turns. She starts towards her office. “Follow me.”

Clarke prefers to deal with business conversations from behind her desk. It gives her an authority that executives and administrators tend to overlook when she’s out in the restoration space, given her gender and stature. Her desk is big and imposing; it makes her feel less like an impertinent child and more like a mob boss.

She gestures at the suit to sit.

“So,” Clarkes says, crossing her hands in front of her. “What’s this about then?”

The man slides her a thick stack of papers. “I’ll need your signature on these, Ms. Griffin.”

“Dr. Griffin,” Clarke corrects sharply, skimming over the papers. “And I won’t be signing these. I already completed the forms sent over by our in-house counsel.”

The man’s face goes red, lips pressing together. “We need your approval on the consult of outside specialists. Outlined in these are the additional terms and procedures that the estate—”

She shoves the stack back across the desk towards him. “The estate made a binding agreement with my facility that I will be following. There is no need to contract additional parties, nor will I be working with them, pursuant to the agreement signed by the estate upon relinquishment of the statue into our custody. Beyond that you will have to talk to legal.”

“You have to understand, Ms. Griffin—”

Clarke crosses her arms over her chest.

“Dr. Griffin.”

“Dr. Griffin,” the man acknowledges, his expression pained, as if the words physically hurt him. Clarke feels a smirk start to curl at her lips. “This is a very important project, and a very important piece of art. We just want to make sure the restoration goes— smoothly.”

“As do I. And I can assure you this piece will receive the same high level of care and attention that all my work receives.”

“It is my understanding that you are not a specialist in sculpture.”

Clarke tilts her chin, sticking her nose in the air. “I am a specialist in classical art restoration. That includes sculpture. You may check my list of publications and portfolio for references should you be unfamiliar, but there is a reason my help was enlisted in the project.”

“The estate feels—”

Clarke stands abruptly, her hands slamming onto the top of the desk.

“It doesn’t matter how the estate feels; Cage said this one would be mine,” she spits, the words coming out unbidden. Her face is hot, flushed with anger. “So it’s mine.”

The man looks at her in confusion. “What?”

Clarke frowns, blinking hard. “Ca— what?”

“Who’s Cage?”

Clarke— doesn’t know. Cage Wallace, obviously, makes the most sense; but the words— nobody has told her the statue is hers. It isn’t hers. It doesn’t even belong to the Institute, she’s known that this entire time. Yet she feels— possessive.

It’s her project, she justifies to herself. So it makes sense she might feel some sort of ownership over it.

She sits again, shaken. “Never mind, just—” she waves her hand at the man dismissively. “Take it up with legal. We don’t let in outside contractors. It’s a liability issue.”

“Right.” The man clears his throat, looking awkwardly away from her. And that’s just great, now he thinks she’s not only an amateur, but a crazy amateur. Excellent. “There’s also the issue of restoration approach.”

“Integral,” Clarke says without thinking. “We will be doing an integral restoration.”

Integral restoration involved making the piece aesthetically as it was. There were some schools of practice that thought this diminished value, diminished authenticity by erasing the effects of time on a piece, and sometimes Clarke agreed. Sometimes the works should show their age, show their life, like the loss of an arm or a chipped off nose, like the cracks of a sepia tinted varnish. But not this one.

No, not this one.

Clarke would see this piece whole, or she would not see it at all.

The lawyer looked less than convinced. “Given the condition of the piece, it has been suggested—”

“No,” she interjects. “I understand the argument, but not for this one. The estate can trust that the value will be significantly improved by integral restoration. And the expense from our unit will be the same.”

Somehow she knows that is the real sticking point.

A greasy sort of satisfaction crosses the mans face, and Clarke feels a tension release from her shoulders. “Very well,” he says, sweeping his papers off her desk. “Thank you for your time.”

She leans back in her chair as he leaves, grumbling to herself. “Fucking suits.”

****

It takes them weeks to catalogue all the pieces. Clarke does a cursory cleaning of the main aspect of the statue, gently cleaning off the outer layer of mud and algae and putting the remnants through a sifter, looking for any other missing chunks she might find.

All in all, she thinks, the piece is in pretty good condition for having spent five hundred years on a river bed. The most damage appears to have been caused by the dredging equipment, the breaks fresh and uncovered by any aquatic plants.

Most of the statue is accounted for, the broken pieces encompassing the vast majority of damage she can find. The only thing she can’t explain is the chunk missing from the statue’s chest. None of the found pieces fit it, and it is clearly old, made possibly even before the statue was sunk.

Maybe it’s the reason the statue was sunk, she thinks. Maybe the artist couldn’t bear to see the damage.

She places her gloved palm over the gash, throat tight.

“Hey boss!” Harper calls, jerking her out of her reverie.

“Yes?”

“Something else from the Wallace estate.” She hands over a padded envelope, too small and flimsy to hold any more pieces of statue.

Clarke frowns, flipping it over in her hands. “What is it?”

Harper shrugs. “A ring. They thought it was the missing wedding ring on first glance but the bride says no. Figured it maybe went with the statue instead.”

That sounds— abnormal, to say the least. “Why would they think that?”

“Probably because they’re river dredgers, not historians. Either way, it’s all yours.” The younger woman snorts. “Who knows? Maybe it’ll fit him.” She jerks her chin towards the statue with a grin and Clarke rolls her eyes, shaking her head.

“Right, of course.” Clarke rips open the envelope, tilting it so the contents slide into her gloved hand. Her eyebrows furrow, staring hard at the ring and a broken chain she thinks it must’ve hung from. “We should send it down to the cave to get dated, jewelry isn’t really my department.”

Her head feels— odd, woozy almost, as she looks over the piece, turning away from Harper to get some better light on it. Like the feeling of being underwater for too long.

The ring is heavy, almost certainly pure gold. The weight of it is solid, comforting.

Something in Clarke’s chest clenches, aching like a raw wound. Her fingers close around the cold metal, imprinting its shape into her palm. She bites her lip hard.

“Boss?” Harper’s voice is tentative.

Clarke’s eyes snap open, blinking hard. Her cheeks are wet, she realizes, and she hastily swipes at them with her free hand. “Sorry, uh—” She slips the jewelry back into the envelope, passing it behind her to Harper without looking. “Take this down to Textiles and Fashion Arts, but—” Her mouth tightens, lips pinching together. “Make sure it comes back, okay?”

“Sure thing.” Harper’s voice is gentle, and Clarke can feel her lingering behind her uneasily. “Hey, Clarke are you—is everything okay?”

Clarke rubs her eyes again and turns, letting out a forced laugh. “Yeah, of course. Just not sleeping enough, as always.”

Harper doesn’t look convinced, but she has the tact not to press the issue. “Right. Okay. Well, try to leave before dinner today, yeah?”

Clarke gives her a watery smile. “No promises.”

****

She lets Harper join her for the initial restoration work, mostly removing the old dirt.

The fine cleaning is a tedious process, and the statue will have to be immaculate before they can even begin to start putting it together, or else the cracks will show.

“I feel like a manicurist,” she jokes, holding the statue’s fingers in her own as she examines the minute lines of detail in his knuckles. The silt is ground in, and she has to use a solvent to get it to loosen. “What color would you like, sir? Or just buff?” She looks over at Harper, who’s working at cleaning the bicep of the loose arm. “Get it? Buff?”

Harper laughs. “If only he could hear you. Then I’d have someone to share in the pain of your awful jokes.”

Clarke flicks a chunk of dirt at her friend’s head, pouting. “He’d think I was funny, thank you very much.” She looks at the statue’s face, at the slight curve of his full lips. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course, Clarke,” Harper pantomimes on the statue’s behalf, aping a comically deep voice. “You’re as hilarious as you are gorgeous.”

“Why, thank you, my beautiful friend,” Clarke says grandly to the statue, but it’s not quite right. She tries again. “Mon bel ami.” 

The French is closer, better. Falls more naturally from her tongue. She uses the small brush to carefully pry a layer of dirt from the statue’s fingers. 

“Bel ami,” she repeats in a whisper, smiling to herself. 

Harper gives her an amused look, raising one eyebrow. “It should be beau though, shouldn’t it?”

Clarke hums, not really listening. “Hmmm?”

“Because he’s a man. Belle is the feminine adjective.” Harper catches the other woman’s deep frown, her momentary confusion. “But Bellamy is a name, isn’t it?”

“A last name,” Clarke says, shaking her head. “But I wasn’t— ami starts with a vowel, you’re forgetting the liaison.”

She wasn’t trying to name him. She doesn’t do that, doesn’t humanize her pieces. It isn’t the subjects Clarke feels connected to, it’s the artists. Getting attached the piece doesn’t allow her the proper distance she needs to do her work with an objective eye. And yet—

“Bellamy,” she whispers, eyes locked on the statue’s face.

It fits him, she thinks.

****

His features start to become clearer the more they work.

The strong jaw, sharp and clean. His shoulders and arms, broad, their muscles defined but not oversized. The full pout of his lips, and the small smirk. It is a smirk, Clarke decides. It has to be.

Within a week Harper begins to agree with Clarke’s initial assessment of its beauty, standing back and whistling. “That really was one good looking man, huh?”

Clarke feels an odd hint of pride. “The best, I think.”

He is, of course, beautiful. Clarke has no other words for it. She imagines the sculptor must’ve felt like Pygmalion, but crafting the ideal man instead of the ideal woman. For some reason she cannot imagine the artist as Cage Wallace, though she knows the piece fits his style.

She starts to imagine the sculptor as a woman, smaller than the model, so she can appreciate his size. She imagines she would have careful hands, precise, and an eye for detail. She would have to spend hours staring at her model, getting the full sense of him. Maybe even putting her hands on him.

It would be inappropriate for the times, not to mention unheard of. Clarke realizes after a while she is just picturing herself, and shakes her head. Only in her dreams.

“What do you think he’s supposed to be, then?”

Clarke frowns, glancing over at the other woman. “What do you mean?”

Harper shrugs. “The sculpture. Adonis? Achilles, maybe?”

“Apollo,” Clarke says, suddenly unerringly sure of herself. “But I think it’s really just him.”

“Just who?”

Clarke waves her hand at the sculpture as a whole, blushing. “Him, you know. Him.”

“Oh, right,” Harper jokes. “Bellamy.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. Harper calls the statue that, speaking to him as if he were in the room with them. It’s not that Clarke minds it, it just— makes her feel funny. Makes something flutter in her belly that she can’t explain.

Jealousy, maybe?

But of what she cannot be sure.

****

The repair work starts once the cleaning has finished.

With integral restoration, the goal is to make a piece whole again with no indication that any work has been done. In order to put the pieces back together, Clarke has to source a block of marble of the same type to mix with her solvents, and attach each piece with careful precision.

She starts on the broken arm, the piece with the most damage. Three fingers have been knocked clean off, and there is a line of chips from wrist to mid bicep caused by the dredging equipment.

It makes Clarke want to scream.

She spends hours at her workbench, magnifying glasses and headlamp on, carefully affixing each piece in such an order so that all will fit. Her back aches, fingers cramping, but she can’t seem to put it down.

This is the point at which Harper gets sent out, so she’s all alone. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the other woman’s help, but Clarke gets very—particular about her restorations. Not to mention snippy.

“You know,” she says conversationally, glancing over at the statue. “As pretty as you are, I wouldn’t mind working with a little less detail. Wallace pieces aren’t usually this precise.”

The statue stares back, unmoving, and Clarke sighs.

Her eyes run over the statue’s shoulders, his neck, the v of his waist. Her eyes narrow. It all looks so…familiar, and not in the odd deja-vu way she’s been getting accustomed to. She sets down the arm and pulls off her gloves, stalking into her office, and comes back with a book.

Flipping through the pictures, she circles the statue, her gaze assessing. Clarke holds the book up next to him and compares.

“Huh,” she says. “This is you, isn’t it? These are all you.”

She reads the inset aloud:

“There are three distinct periods that art historians have identified in Dante II’s works: the first, his early work prior to 1514, is the most distinct. It lacks the skill and delicacy he became known for, but these pieces are hard to come across. Some historians have speculated that his early works may have been purposefully destroyed, ^4,9,16 although there is no contemporaneous evidence for that claim.

The second is his main period, from 1514-1521, in which he sculpted mainly young men. The works for which he became renowned are included in this group, such as Adonis in Repose (1517), and Perseus with the Head of Medusa (1521).”

As Clarke compares those pieces to the statue before her, she can pick out the similarities, the common shapes and lines. Like they were all based on the same model.

“It was you,” Clarke breathes, her eyes wide. “They’re all based on you. But— what happened?”

“The third period switched from mostly males to an even mix, and the style shifted somewhat, lacking the same depth of the pieces before it. The bulk of his work falls into this group, but they are less well-know, less valued, and widely considered to be less beautiful. These works include—”

She eyes the later works, comparing their features to her statue here. “But these aren’t you anymore, are they? So where do you fit in?”

“This period concluded with the untimely death of his wife in 1529. Perhaps he was too heartbroken to continue his work without her—”

Clarke scoffs. “Cage Wallace, heartbroken? I doubt it.” Her eyebrows furrow as she reads over the passage again. “Wait a minute—”

Suddenly she becomes absolutely certain of what happened. She drops the book onto her table, taking out her phone and pulling up the Wikipedia article for Dante II.

Spouse: Lady Clare Wallace (m. 1514, d. 1529)

She looks up at the statue, raising one eyebrow. “Those dates seem a little too convenient, don’t they? I always knew there was a reason I hated Cage Wallace. So— Lady Clare, huh?” Clarke steps closer, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. “Did she make you?”

“She did,” Clarke says, confident in her theory. Her eyes fix on his: the white stone blank, unseeing. It’s wrong, she thinks. It’s all wrong.

She runs her fingers down the marble chest and her throat ticks.

“Did she love you?”

She did. Clarke knows she did.

****

Clarke feels— off balance, somehow.

She’s been having these dreams, of what she can’t say, because she can never quite remember them, but they hurt like a punch to the stomach. A feeling of loss, of longing seeps into her very soul, and it throws her, because she can’t seem to find a reason for it. Nothing has changed except the statue.

Her work is still excellent, still precise, but she feels something off about this entire project, something deep in the pit of her stomach. Putting the statue’s arm back makes her deeply uncomfortable, reminding her of her early college days when she still thought she might go pre-med. It doesn’t feel like restoration, it feels like a surgical procedure.

She has to drill pins into either side of the shoulder joint to affix the arm, and her hand shakes so violently at the idea of causing further damage to the sculpture that she has to put the drill down and come back.

Once the pins are in place she has Harper come assist, helping her to position and pad the arm so it will have support while the epoxy dries. The end result is essentially a cast and a sling, and Harper pokes fun at it.

“Looks like our Bellamy got into a fight.”

The words chill Clarke to the bone. “It’s a sculpture, Harper. It didn’t get into anything.”

Her tone is harsh, too harsh for someone who has been speaking to the sculpture herself for weeks. But something about Harper’s joking dismissal makes her angry.

Can’t she see this is serious? Clarke thinks, and then frowns. What, exactly, is serious? The damage? The situation? She can’t explain her own thoughts.

“Have I told you my conspiracy theory yet?” she asks, trying to break the awkward tension that’s descended.

Harper shakes her head. “No, what is it?”

Clarke bites her lip, clearing away a bit of stray epoxy from the joint line. “I don’t think Wallace carved this after all.”

“What?” Harper’s eyebrows shoot up. “But it matches his style.”

“Ah, but that’s it,” Clarke says, raising a finger. “I don’t think he carved any of them. Not any of the good ones, at least.”

Harper hums, and shifts her grip. “An interesting theory, Clarke, but just because you irrationally dislike him—”

Irrationally? Clarke is affronted, even though there’s no reason to be. Her dislike of Cage Wallace does seem to be some sort of—projection, but who’s to say if she’s wrong.

“His wife, Harp,” Clarke interjects. “He married her and the good pieces started, and when she died they stopped altogether. Coincidence?”

The other woman shrugs. “Maybe she was his muse,” Harper suggests. “Lady Clarke Wallace was supposed to be very beautiful.”

She has to resist the urge to flinch at the name for some reason. Her own name, tied to Wallace—it’s nauseating.

Clarke frowns. “Lady Clare, you mean.”

“No, Lady Clarke.”

That— that can’t be right.

Clarke shakes her head firmly. “It says Clare on Wikipedia—”

“Then they spelled it wrong. There’s some debate because people back then had shitty handwriting, but I’ve looked at some of the originals and there’s definitely a k in there. I spent one summer working archival on the Dante papers, so I know way too much about the Wallace family.” Harper gives her a look. “I figured you were named after her or something, did you really not know?”

“I’m named after Clarke like Lewis and… Why would I be named after some renaissance artist’s wife?”

Harper shrugs. “I don’t know, but it would explain the profession. It’s not a particularly common name.”

Clarke snorts out a half-laugh, ready to let the subject drop. “Yeah, I guess.”

She can’t shake the feeling of wrongness that settles over her, the revulsion. Hadn’t she imagined herself the artist already? But something makes her viscerally unhappy, like the tie is a desecration of something special, a revision.

She looks down at the label on the working pedestal proclaiming the piece to be a Cage Wallace work and her expression sours further. No, she thinks, not him. The idea of the man coming near this sculpture, this magnificent piece of art, laying his hands on it, on him— she suppresses a gag.

“Oh,” Harper says, jerking her chin over at the work bench. “TFA sent the ring back. Apparently it’s contemporaneous with the statue, so they figure it can be used as a side display. They fixed the necklace part of it, too.”

Clarke feels that sense of loss again, her gaze falling to the statue’s hands, to the long fingers held in a slight curve. “Hmmm,” she says, swallowing hard past the lump in her throat. “Good to know.”

Later, when Harper leaves, she approaches the statue, her eyes running over his beautiful features.

“Was it me?” she asks nonsensically. “Bellamy, did I carve you? Did I love you?”

Clarke feels tears rise in her eyes, lip quivering. She shakes her head, stalking back to her work table. “God, what am I even saying?”

The ring and its chain lay next to her tools, encased in the protective wrapping from Textiles and Fashion Arts. In a daze, she stares at it, fingers reaching for it of their own volition. She thumbs open the wrapping, running her finger down the cool metal of the chain, examining the links near the clasp where they’d repaired it.

She opens it, unlacing the ring from the necklace, and carries them both over to the statue. Her hands tremble as she touches the delicately carved marble fingers, slipping the ring on. It doesn’t go past the second knuckle, the stone too unyielding.

Something in her chest falls. She’s not sure what she’d expected, but— not this. It seemed— she thought it would fit, for some reason.

Clarke pulls the ring off, threading it back onto its chain. She moves to put it back into its case and hesitates, fist closed around the smooth gold.

Carefully, she thumbs the clasp open, drawing the chain up around her neck. The hook finds the loose link at her nape, and the necklace settles against her skin.

The ring is a weight, warm and comforting where it rests above her heart.

It quiets her mind, slows her racing heartbeat just enough. The sense of loss fades slightly, but the longing intensifies. Her eyes move hungrily over the statue’s form, memorizing him.

“You’re mine, you know,” she says, the words coming out without conscious thought. Her feet move her closer. She steps up onto the edge of the pedestal. “He promised me. You promised me.”

He’s so perfect, Clarke thinks, every feature just perfect, just right. She thinks she’s never seen such beauty before, that she could never find anyone who could rival it.

Her face tilts, and she rises on her toes so she stands nearly nose-to-nose with him. Her hands run over his torso, down his chest and over his abs. She imagines it wouldn’t feel so different, even if he was flesh.

But he isn’t.

Her eyes widen as she comes into full awareness of herself, of her position. Clarke takes a step back, chest heaving.

“I’m losing my mind.”

****

She dreams about him, that night.

She can’t see anything, but she knows it’s him nonetheless, the shape of his body against hers unmistakeable.

She’s naked, pressed up against him, and he runs his hands over her skin, tracing her curves with a reverence she can feel. His hard cock presses into her thigh and she moans, hands reaching out to pull him closer.

Her fingers sink into a soft mass of curls, holding tight as his head dips to find her neck. Hot lips slide down the column of her throat, and she feels his eyelashes flutter against her skin. Her mouth opens with a gasp.

“Bellamy,” she cries, as his mouth closes around the peak of her breast, teeth grazing the nipple.

His fingers slip between her legs for just a moment, swiping through her arousal. He lays kisses down her belly and presses her knees apart with strong hands, creating space so his shoulders fit between her thighs.

“Please,” Clarke begs, and then his mouth is on her. He plays her body like an instrument, like he knows everything about her: each place to touch, each motion to make. She’s never felt anything so good; nothing as magnificent as the tension that builds within her, as the waves that follow when she shatters for him like glass on tile.

He is silent as he moves back up her body, his lips finally finding hers. Clarke tastes herself on his tongue, groaning into his mouth. His cock drags heavy through her swollen folds.

“Bellamy,” she says again, the name a prayer.

He has no words for her in return, but she can feel his lips move against hers, tracing out the shape of the thing she longs to hear him say.

Clarke.

****

As the holidays approach the lab begins to empty out.

Clarke never goes home for Christmas if she can help it, and this is no exception. Sex dreams notwithstanding, she wants to finish her restoration, wants to see her statue whole again. And if it means she can avoid seeing her mother at the same time, all the better.

The problem is, with fewer people there, there is nothing to distract her from the spiral. Nobody checks on her, nobody brings her lunch, nobody tells her to go home.

So she just—doesn’t.

The Institute is generous with their holidays, giving staff a full month off for Christmas and New Years. The first week Clarke is fairly good about going home, sleeping a few hours each night, but it doesn’t help.

Her dreams become so vivid she feels like they’re memories, but she dreams of things she’s never seen, people she’s never met. She looks at her statue and sees color where there is only white marble, as if she knows the bronze of the model’s skin, the dark shock of hair on his head, the pink of his lips.

Bellamy.

She thinks his voice would be deep, a low rumble she would be able to feel in her bones. She thinks when he’d fuck her, it would be rough and reverent, just like his touch.

Clarke thinks maybe she’s going crazy.

She can’t seem to stop working, though. Anytime she leaves the room all she can think of is him, is the work to be done.

He gets closer and closer to perfection, to being whole and healed with each day that passes. Something in her chest aches with each broken piece she affixes, with each repair she makes. I know you, Clarke thinks. I can almost see you now.

The second week is worse. The cast comes off his arm, the epoxy dry, and Clarke has to put a hand over her mouth to hold back a sob that she cannot explain. Her eyes shoot to his, expecting to see dark brown irises, to see life and love and mirth, but there’s just that same expanse of white stone, nothing to be read.

It crushes her.

Clarke stops going home as often, and then at all, opting instead to sleep in her office, and when that ceases to be close enough, on the floor of the restoration space. Sleep is a strong word, she supposes, for what it is. It’s not gentle, or restful.

Her dreams jerk her awake each night, and sometimes she can’t tell if she’s awake or dreaming. It’s like a movie, happening around her as she works frantically, piecing stone into place bit by bit.

She sees a modeling pedestal set flush with blankets and pillows, the bright silver flash of a needle, a candle with a flame that flares higher than she’d thought possible.

She sees a man with a sword, his face flushed with rage, and she knows he is Cage. She knows it was his sword that struck her statue’s chest, that caused the gash she has no pieces for.

“He did this to you,” she whispers to the statue, to Bellamy, her hand moving to cover the wound. “Why would he do such a terrible thing?”

The fingers of her other hand stroke his cheek. Clarke stares into the vast blankness of his eyes, searching for a spark, for something.

He says nothing, as always.

Her heart sinks inexplicably. Her head aches, a dull throb, and she blinks the pain away, stepping back. There is more work to be done, after all.

She loses track of the days, throwing herself into the restoration. She spends forty hours straight on his face, the damage there minor but viscerally painful for Clarke to look at. Her professional practices go out the door: she works ungloved, unshod, her hair unbound over her shoulders.

She has no reference to consult on his features, but she needs none. She knows him, knows Bellamy, just as well as she knows the back of her hand.

The dreams—memories—come faster and clearer, each one like an icepick to her brain. Clarke welcomes them, drawing them in close with greedy fingers. She can’t quite access them once she’s seen them yet she knows they’re still there, sitting in the back of her head like a static hum.  They’re hers, the same way he is.

There’s a wound on his left thigh from the dredge, and she spends hours kneeling between his legs. His cock, blissfully undamaged, hangs proudly beside her cheek, making her mouth water. When she finishes, she presses a kiss to the freshly mended stone of his thigh, her fingers tracing the strong muscles, stroking down over his knee to his calf.

Clarke noses at his cock, her tongue darting out to lave over the tip. She rises slowly on her knees, trailing kisses over his hips, his abdomen, his chest. Coming to her feet, she stands on the pedestal, her arms wrapping around his neck.

Her mouth moves along the line of his jaw, her eyes closed tight. She finds his lips, pleasantly warm beneath hers, though hard and unforgiving, and she wishes absentmindedly she might have carved him seated so that she might sit astride his cock. Her eyes flutter open, blue meeting blank white.

Clarke scrambles back, gasping.

She slips from the pedestal, ass hitting the floor hard, and skitters back until her back hits her work bench. Her chest heaves, wide eyes filled with panic.

Her head whips around the room, her surroundings foreign and unfamiliar. For a moment, all she recognizes is Bellamy, is her own overwhelming grief, and she lets out a sob. “Where am I? What is happening to me?”

Then she blinks, and it’s gone again.

Clarke’s head throbs, feeling almost bruised; like another mind has been shoved into her skull atop her own. The last few minutes are a dull blur, the tears on her cheeks just another thing she cannot explain.

She starts to—lose time, she thinks. She can’t be sure.

Her mind oscillates wildly between confusion and lucidity, until she’s unsure which is which. She finds herself places not knowing how she got there, speaks to herself using words she cannot define.

Her mom calls on Christmas and it nearly goes to voicemail before Clarke remembers how to work her phone. When she hangs up she realizes she can’t recall her mother’s given name.

At the center of it all is the statue, standing beautiful and unmoving in the center of the room. Though she doesn’t always remember doing the work, nonetheless it continues; each day brings him closer and closer to completion. Clarke orbits him like he is the sun, like she is caught in the pull of his gravity.

Sometimes he is a stranger, sometimes he is her lover Bellamy, sometimes he is an immortal God, staring out at her in judgement. Sometimes he is not a he at all, is nothing but a cold block of pretty marble.

One such night she wakes up on the floor of the lab, overwrought with the idea that something is alive inside the statue, with the compulsion to strike it to see if it might crack like an egg. She gets over to her bench, even goes so far as to heft a mallet into her hands, draw her arm back— Clarke lets it drop to the ground, collapsing to her knees at his feet.

Bellamy’s feet.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, not quite knowing what it is she is apologizing for. “I’m sorry.” She presses her forehead to the pedestal, tears falling heavy onto the marble.

And time slips away once more.

****

Harper shakes her awake Monday morning, New Year’s Eve, aghast at her condition. “I came to check on you because you hadn’t texted but— Clarke, have you been here all week?”

Clarke blinks at her, not understanding. “Where else would I be?”

The other woman’s eyebrows furrow, deep concern clouding her features. “Clarke, you need—” She puts the back of her hand on Clarke’s forehead. It feels like ice against Clarke’s hot skin. “Jesus Christ, you’re burning up!”

Is she sick? Clarke hasn’t noticed.

Her head aches of course, but it has been aching for days. She tries to stand and stumbles, nearly toppling to the floor. Harper helps her sit down.

“Fuck,” she says, chewing on her lip. “Fuck, Clarke, is there someone I can call? You need to go home.”

Clarke shakes her head weakly. “Can’t go. Need to stay with him.”

“With who?” Harper follows her gaze to the statue and swears. “Oh, god.”

It shouldn’t be a surprise to Clarke that she calls 911.

“I love him,” she remembers trying to explain as they gently helped her onto a stretcher. “I know he’s in there.”

At the hospital she hears words thrown out over her— encephalitis, sepsis, glioma, but they float past her without sinking in. Her brain CT comes back clean: no edema, no tumors, no ischemia. Maybe it should surprise her, but it doesn’t.

They let her go from the ER a few hours later, loaded up on fever meds. After a few IV drips she stopped feeling quite so loopy, and realized she needed to stop talking if she didn’t want to get committed to the psych ward.

“You were severely dehydrated,” the doctor tells her sternly, “And your blood glucose was alarmingly low. I have some literature here for you to look over about eating disorders—”

Clarke stops listening. “It was the fever,” she says. “It wasn’t on purpose. I just didn’t feel well.”

He doesn’t look like he believes her, but they let her go regardless. Clarke takes a bath when she gets home, looking at herself in the mirror for the first time in weeks, and begins to understand why they were concerned. She’s lost an alarming amount of weight, her collarbones protruding grossly beneath the chain of the necklace. Her skin is wan and waxy, her lips are cracked and dry.

Her hair has gotten longer than it’s been in years, falling down past her shoulders. She spends ten minutes brushing it out, untangling the knots. For some reason she feels like somebody else should be doing it for her.

Harper lingers in her living room, unsure if she should stay or not. “What if you need help?”

Clarke gives her a weak smile. “I’m fine, the doctors checked everything. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

Clarke promises to take the week off as she shows her friend out, but it’s a lie. It’s still the holidays, and nobody will be there to tattle on her. She sleeps in her own bed til the sun comes up, puts on fresh clothes, eats something, and heads back in.

The security guard gives her a look as she walks in, but she just smiles weakly at him, raising her coffee. He shakes his head fondly, used to her absurd schedule. Thankfully there’s been a shift change since she was wheeled out on a gurney the day before.

The lights are off in the restoration space when she opens it, all except the spotlight in the center.

The statue sits bathed in its warm glow, lit as if by the fire of heaven itself. The stone almost seems to shine from within.

Clarke takes a deep breath, moving forward.

Slowly, she circles the platform, her eyes moving over the statue analytically, inspecting her recent work. Fever aside, it seems she had enough hold of her mind to follow her training. The restoration is flawless, exquisitely done.

She takes a seat on the floor in front of him and just stares, sipping her coffee. There is no piece out of place, no visible discontinuities in the stone. If she didn’t know where the marble had been damaged, she wouldn’t be able to tell.

The only thing left is the gash at his chest.

With the rest of the statue immaculately clean and repaired, it stands out like a gaping wound. There is obvious discoloration within the damage that she hadn’t been able to see before, some sort of a rust red stain that seems to have seeped into the marble itself, though that should not be possible.

With a sigh, she stands. Her motions are smooth, almost mechanical as she pulls her hair back, gathers her supplies, slips on her gloves.

In near silence, Clarke works through the day and into the night. From her matching marble, she carves a piece to fit the gap. She smoothes the edges of the wound with a bur, cleaning the jagged edges so this new piece might fit. Her mind is quiet, the pain dulled by the fever meds.

She fits the piece into place, bonding it with epoxy, and unrolls a set of carving tools. With smooth, careful strokes, she brings the new stone level with the old. The join is seamless to the touch.

She works without a reference, her hands moving autonomously as she carves the piece with the same level of care, of attention, of detail; as the rest of his chest, so it matches. As the day wears on, the meds wear off, the ache in her head returning slowly but surely.

By the time she is finished, the pain is a dull roar in her head, overwhelming in its intensity.

Clarke stumbles back, knocking over her tray of tools with a clatter. Dropping to her knees, she leans forward, clamping her hands over her ears as if to stop her brain from pouring out. She feels something start to break in her mind, cracks spiraling out from a wall she didn’t know was there. It crumbles, pieces falling away bit by bit till there is nothing left but dust.

And suddenly Clarke remembers everything.

It hits her like a flood, burying her in memories of a life already lived, a life she thought well and ended. Where there was confusion before, there is startling lucidity, like her brain has been dunked in ice water. There is no mistaking this for hallucination, for delusion. As impossible as it should be, these are her memories. This was her life.

They layer on top of the memories she has already, the ones of this life. She sees the differences in her upbringing, in her parents, in her future. She sees the way her past life changed her current one, how it influenced her choices. She sees what she has gained, and what she has lost.

What she has lost.

She forces her eyes open against the pain, tears streaming down her cheeks. The statue looms before her, as beautiful as it is terrible.

“Bellamy,” she croaks. “Oh, god.”

Her heart shatters anew, drinking in his features like she’s dying of thirst. This Clarke, now, has been in the room with the statue for months, but the Clarke from before went nearly eight years without seeing his face. She died without seeing his face.

It hurts more than she can imagine. More than the pain in her head, more than anything.

She lived without him, died without him, and now against all odds she is here, and Bellamy is still dead. Still gone.

The pain is fresh, like a knife in the heart, like her very soul torn asunder. Her eyes trace the stone around the piece she has fit into place in his chest, forever stained with his blood. She cannot fix it.

Slowly, she gathers her wits, calming her breathing. Her palms rest heavy on the cold floor, grounding her as her heartbeat slows to a steady thump. The tears still drip down her face, and she does nothing to stop them.

Clarke sits back, opening her eyes. She surveys the tools on the floor around her, assessing them, but none will be suitable for her task. She stands, her heart like lead in her chest as she walks to her office.

It’s sitting right where she left it. Clarke plucks the sterling silver letter opener off her desk and turns, returning calmly to the restoration space.

Pulling the tie from her hair, she shakes it loose, letting it fall heavy down her back. Her shoes are kicked off, her sweater stripped from her shoulders and laid neatly on her workbench. The hair on her arms prickles at the cold air.

Hesitating slightly, she reaches behind her neck, unclasping the necklace. Clarke presses a kiss to the ring, setting it gently back into its case.

With bare feet, she makes her way across the room. Her eyes stay fixed on Bellamy, hand clenched around the letter opener.

She steps onto the pedestal, the stone cool beneath her toes. Her free hand comes up to cup his face, and she smiles.

“As I am yours, so you are mine,” Clarke says. She leans forwards, pressing a soft kiss to his unmoving mouth. Her eyelids flutter shut. “In this life, and the next.”

Clarke can almost feel the warmth of his lips beneath hers. She pulls back, a tremulous smile on her lips, tears streaming from her still closed eyes.

One arm wrapped around his neck for balance, she holds the sharp point of the letter opener to her throat. It pricks her skin, blood spilling from the small wound. She can hear it drip onto the stone of the statue’s chest.

The pain floods out of her head in an instant, the two pieces of her clicking seamlessly into place alongside each other. Clarke lets out a sigh of relief, her shoulders relaxing, but her resolve is unchanged.

“I’ve already lived this life without you once,” she says, squeezing her eyes tighter. The hand around the blade tenses, at the ready. “I will not do it again.”

She takes a deep breath, chest rising and falling. On the exhale, she moves to draw the blade across her throat.

Suddenly, a hand closes tightly around her wrist. Another snakes around her back, pressing against her spine, and she startles. The blade drops from her fingers, clattering against the stone pedestal. Clarke’s eyes fly open, wild blue meeting furious brown.

“Don’t you dare,” Bellamy growls.

A cry spills from her lips, and her knees give out. Bellamy sweeps her off her feet, collecting her in his arms. He steps off the pedestal, sitting on the ground with Clarke clutched in his lap.

Clarke’s heart pounds like a jackhammer, her head spinning. Her eyes move hungrily over his face, over the beautiful brown of his skin, the pink of his lips, the near black of his hair. Her hand finds his face, thumb brushing over his cheek. “Am I dead?”

Bellamy leans into her touch, tightening his grip on her. “Not for lack of trying.”

“You’re here,” Clarke gasps. “You’re really here?” Her hands slide down to his chest, searching desperately for the mortal wound he’d had last she’d seen him.

He catches them gently, bringing her fingers to his lips. “I’m here, I’m alive. Breathe.”

“How?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “I don’t know. The blood, maybe, or the words. Maybe both.”

Clarke sobs, burying her face into his neck. His arms wrap tightly around her. “It was you,” she says, chest heaving. “It was you the whole time? Were you trapped? Did you—”

Bellamy hushes her, fingers stroking through her hair. “Yes,” he says. “And no. I was both there and not. I can’t explain it.”

“Did you see me?”

Clarke feels him nod against her.

She lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I thought I was losing my mind.”

“I know,” he says, his voice full of remorse. “I’m sorry.”

The heat of his body against her, the soft give of his flesh— it’s euphoric. Clarke draws back to look at him, her hands pressed against his bare skin. “I love you.”

Bellamy’s eyes soften. “I love you,” he says. “Always.”

He kisses her slowly, like a vow, like a promise. Clarke sinks into it, cradled in his arms, reveling in his touch, in his presence.

His hands roam over her body, starved for touch. Her teeth sink into his bottom lip, tugging at it, and Bellamy groans. His fingers twist in her hair, pulling it to the side so he can lay kisses down her throat.

It ignites something dormant within her, and suddenly Clarke is frantic with need. “I love you,” she gasps, fingers clutching at his dark curls as his mouth traces her collarbone. “I love you.”

She fumbles with her shirt, desperate to get it off so she can feel his skin against her, warm and smooth and alive. Bellamy’s hands close over her own, taking over, and he tugs the shirt apart, buttons flying off. Clarke doesn’t even care, shrugging off the ruined garment as he pushes it from her shoulders, throwing it to the floor beside them. Her pants go next, unharmed but unceremoniously discarded.

Bellamy lets out a growl, flipping them to lay her down against the floor. Clarke shivers under his hot gaze.

His finger trails over the lace of her bra, slipping over her belly to her panties.

“I like these,” he says huskily, giving her a feral smirk. “We didn’t have these before.” Bellamy lays a kiss against the bow nestles between her breasts. “Take them off.”

She complies, lying naked below him. Bellamy tugs her up, pulling her over him as he leans back, till she’s sitting in his lap. Their bodies press together along their entire abdomens, skin flush against skin.

His fingers find her cunt, hot and wet and aching. Clarke moans.

“Did you miss me?” Bellamy asks. He rubs at her clit with the heel of his hand, fingers sliding inside her.

She nods. “Even when I didn’t know you.”

He presses down a little harder and her hips jump. “Do you want me?”

“Always,” Clarke pants. She grinds down, desperate for friction. “More than anything.”

Bellamy captures her lips in a searing kiss, his fingers pumping in and out of her cunt. “Are you mine?”

“I’m yours,” she swears. Her eyes pop open, hot against his, as she raises slightly onto her knees. “As you are mine.” He gives her a blinding grin.

“Forever,” Bellamy says, notching the head of his cock at her entrance.

Clarke sinks onto him with a gasp. “Forever.”

Her hands trace over his body as he fucks into her, caressing the lines of muscle she spent hours carving, hours repairing. He is perfect. He has always been perfect.

He is even more perfect now, breathing hard against her, his cock moving inside her, stretching her in just the right way.

“I love you,” Clarke says. She cannot stop crying, but the tears are joyful.

Bellamy kisses her, his arms pulling her tighter as his hips snap. “I love you.”

Her orgasm hits her faster than she expects, washing over her like a wave. She shudders in his arms and he groans, peppering kisses across her face as her cunt clamps down around her. “So perfect, Clarke.”

She comes again before he finishes. They spend the night wrapped in each other’s arms, in each other’s bodies, in each other’s skin. She will never get enough of him. She doesn’t know how she lived this long without him. In this life, or the one before it.

They lay tangled up as the sun rises, warm rays shining in through the windows. It paints their bodies in light, his sweat slicked skin pressed up against hers.

“I love you,” she whispers again, gazing up into his brown eyes like she’s revealing a secret. Her finger slides over his lips and he takes the tip into his mouth, laving it with his tongue. “I’m going to get fired.”

Bellamy holds her hand, pressing soft kisses to each fingertip in turn. “Why’s that?”

Clarke looks guiltily over at the pedestal and blinks.

She looks back at the man beside her, her eyebrows furrowing. Where the pedestal stood empty sits an exact copy of the statue she restored, the statue that had stepped from the pedestal the night before, Clarke held in his arms.

Her heart clenches hard in her chest, reaching out to assure herself Bellamy remains at her side. He laces his fingers between hers, warm and solid. Alive.

Together they rise, moving over to stand in front of the marble. Clarke’s eyes stop at its chest, the stone milky white and even, not a hint of red.

“And the ring?” she asks, voice tight in her throat.

Bellamy tugs her body into his, tilting her face so he can kiss her soundly. “We’ll get you a new one,” he promises. “One that will fit.”

His fingers stroke down her cheek, and she can feel his heartbeat through his chest, steady and sure. Clarke bites her lip, unsure. “It won’t be yours.”

“No,” Bellamy agrees, his lips curving into a smile. “But you will be.”