[ Bellamy moves, and the echo of his discomfort resonates - causing the Darkling to once more reach out, pressing a hand down on his shoulder. Willing him to be still, to rest. Even as Bellamy's mind pours images of Clarke into his own, and he nods imperceptive. Yes, indeed she does resemble Alina. Willful young women, with eyes that took in all that could be seen and could transform it in their favor - that sort.

Who is she?

Alina Starkov. White-haired, light pouring from the palms of her hands. The thought of who she was - once more, the complexity of how he felt towards her. Of what she meant to him. In one stray thought, he is kissing her outside the brilliance of a ballroom - she is growing stronger, her hair a lovely brown. Another: she is looking at him with venom, cold comprehension, as a collar of antler is affixed around her throat and oh, her soul and his sing together from that moment onward. ] My equal and my opposite. In everything.

[ Beloved. Rival. She is beyond what words can compare; and the sense, the bittersweet longing he feels. It's the result of waiting, centuries upon centuries, for her. ]

The Sun Summoner, [ he admits, ] that's what she is. The only one of her kind. She leads the army that opposes mine.

[ If it quiets Bellamy's mind and soothes his illness, he'll tell him everything. Like a story, unfurling one page at a time. ]