These night Bellamy hadn’t slept even a second, he couldn’t close his eyes when he pondered all the questions, whether this was a right decision or not, whether this was going to save his people… how painful his death was going to be… But what did it matter anyway? He would be dead soon enough, he didn’t need sleep, not anymore.
Once the camp started to become more silent, people heading to their beds, Bellamy slipped into his tent as well. He mostly just sat there, staring at nowhere, listening to an owl hooting somewhere in the woods. He would land his feet into the woods for one last time after a few days. People who were going to settle down in the dropship, were almost done with packing. Soon it was time for him to say his final goodbye.
He glanced up to the boy who ducked into the tent without a permission. Not that Murphy had ever asked before. Bellamy let out a deep sigh, the last thing he needed was to have this conversation with Murphy. He should’ve known this was coming, sooner or later. But still he clenched his hands into fists after Murphy’s words.
“We don’t have a choice,” Bellamy replied in bored tone. “This is our best chance. If you came here to change my mind, you can fuck off right away. That’s not gonna happen.”
“Yeah, why don’t I fuck
off, just like you’re fucking off
to the Grounders?” Murphy snapped, with
a slightly hysterical laugh. He resented how quickly the group had agreed to let
Bellamy go – so eager to save their own pathetic hides. But Murphy
didn’t—couldn’t. He wouldn’t succumb to that mob mentality. “Bullshit—this
bullshit. So it’s alright when they
torture me twice, but when you do it
to that stupid Grounder bitch, you’re the criminal?”
He stopped abruptly, silent for a moment. Bellamy had a point;
there was no changing his mind, no forfeiting the inevitable. Murphy exhaled
hard in a way that left him dizzy, exhaustion carved into the hollows of his
face. Most nights he woke up sweat-slick and nauseous, haunted by images of his
imprisonment. And now ‘his people’
were to be herded up like cattle, their dignity expunged, and for what? For a
phony truce – peace that the Grounders would ultimately terminate at their own leisure.
And worse still, Bellamy would be given to the Grounders
like a slab of fresh meat, ready to whittle away to bones. He’d be vulnerable. Bellamy.
Bellamy, his leader. Bellamy, his judge, his jury, his revenge, would be subjected to the same knives that carved hollowed
out Murphy’s skin that felt him bruised and contorted. Months ago, he might’ve been pleased, but now Murphy was sickened by the mere notion of it. He felt weak, useless to stop this tired fate; emotion clotted in his stomach, a parasite bent on devouring its host.
“This is ridiculous. You saw my scars – you know
what they did to me. We can’t lose you. Not like this.”
Murphy felt sick to the stomach as Clarke gathered the citizens
of Camp Jaha and informed them of the proposed truce.
Stageda, it was called,
and took the form of a traitorous ultimatum. Most of the crowd were quiet and
entranced, though careful not to say anything. Some clapped or cheered on the leaders
who stood at the head of the sombre procession, and still others looked upon them with utter
disgust. A nearby Arker spat upon the ground and muttered something cynical.
Murphy, on the other hand, was furious. It was so fucking unfair. Murphy had tried so hard to be
good. Immediately after being permitted back into camp – following
an invaluable lesson – Murphy had
signed up for the job roster, and climbed his way through shitty tasks like a drowning
man, gulping for air and recognition. And now – well, here he was, surrounded by cowards. He wanted to pull a Finn and shoot
everything in sight.
Oh, but that wasn’t the end of it – of course not. Worse still was the news of Bellamy’s proposed trial – at Grounder hands.
Murphy held his tongue for two whole days, until finally the
burden of it was too much to bare. He pushed his way into Bellamy’s tent just
as the sun had begun its slow descent behind the Ark’s skeleton: it would be
dark soon, and no one would disturb them.
“This is bullshit,” Murphy spat in lieu of a greeting. The ire that now gripped
him made coherent thought impossible. “You can’t seriously agree with this.”
Pietra had made her choice to stay, she didn’t completely like it, but she trusted Aiden. Maybe they could fix this, take care of the people who were staying. Not all of them were ones who fell in line with Kane, some of them were just too scared to leave and she wasn’t going to abandon those people. However, nothing could keep her from helping those who were leaving, in whatever way she could. Pietra sat at her desk, meticulously copying her herbal research when she heard someone outside her doorway. “Not a good time,” she huffed without looking up.
It had been a very long, very irritating day. The camp was
abuzz with commotion; most residents were haggard and fraught, and bumbling
around to pack and prepare for upcoming events. Murphy idly wondered what Jaha
would think of all of this, if he was still alive – the crazy bastard was
probably still out there somewhere. Typical.
Murphy found himself wandering over to the biologist’s
workspace in pursuit of poison. He lingered in the doorway, vaguely aware that
his back ached from sleeplessness; he was used to ignoring such little pains,
along with the greater ones. He watched Pietra work, brow furrowed in contemplation,
her pen moving at a meticulous speed, jotting down something important. She sounded
less than pleased when she finally acknowledged him.
“What, do you want me to come back when the Grounders are on
our doorstep?”
Monroe sat up on her elbows when she heard the laugh, raising a brow at Murphy. Her brows furrowed slightly at his aggression and she clenched her jaw tight. She sat up all the way and eyed the young man coldly as he finished speaking, her gaze following him a moment after he hopped down. She swallowed, how could he just walk away? Everyone was walking away from her her and she couldn’t just let Murphy do it too.
Monroe slid down from the bunk and hurried forward, grasping at her friend’s sleeve. “Hey!” she tugged on his arm to make him look at her. She felt her chest tighten as anger and betrayal began to build inside her. No, she wasn’t going to cry about, instead she wanted to scream at someone, something. “Where are you going?!” she asked in an edged tone, trying to swallow down in the lump in her throat.
Monroe chased after Murphy and grabbed his sleeve, demanding
his attention; he couldn’t escape this confrontation. Finally, he stopped, and reeled about to face her—a jerky,
abrupt movement that set his waspish eyes ablaze. The sound of her voice
tightened around his throat – and hell,
did it hurt. The only way he knew how to deal with sadness was to do something
bad for attention, and maybe this was it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Murphy croaked, and then his voice
rose. “I’m staying here.”
There. It was out in the open. He couldn’t do this forever;
this had always been inevitable, no matter how hard he tried to be good. It was
right for him to die by the hands of Grounders.
As Jaha would say, it was his destiny.
He had imagined it vividly when they’d tortured him. Every step of his journey
had led him to this exact moment. His father had been brave enough to die for
him, and now he was going to return the favour. He’d die for them, for these useless cowards. For Clarke. For Bellamy. For Monroe.
Roman felt a pang in his heart at John’s embarrassment. He probably felt afraid to reveal himself to Roman, afraid to show the flaws he was born with. If he knew what I had done toher,Roman thought,
he would be terrified of me. He forced himself to push those thoughts away; that had been ten years ago and he didn’t need the dreams to haunt him again.
Instead, he rose to his feet and closed the distance between them. He stopped less than a step away from John and said, “You don’t need to be ashamed, John. Please remember that I’m a healer. Besides, I,” he paused and licked his lips. “I may not have lived your life or suffered the things you have, but I have been hurt by my own kin and marked by scars.” Roman took a deep breath before turning around and taking off his shirt. He let John seen the thick, bright pink scars that covered his back, seven in all. He swallowed thickly and said, “I was punished for helping the Sky People, of all things.” Roman tossed his shirt to the side and turned back to face John. He touched the hem of John’s shirt and brought it up several inches. He kept his eyes locked on John’s, not looking at the exposed skin of his stomach. “Don’t be afraid to be seen.”
Camp Jaha had begun to fall into a busier bustle than usual between those packing to leave and those readying themselves for war. All Monroe had left to do was wait. Wait for Bellamy to die. Wait to have to leave Tegan. Wait to be forced into an unfriendly environment and watch her people be killed. She felt like she was losing her mind, but she’d already tried drinking it down. She just had to wait.
The girl wandered into the dormitory, not sure what she was looking for until she spotted Murphy on the bunk above her own. She approached the bed and nimbly climbed up next to him, dangling her legs off the side. Monroe laid back and turned her head to look at him, eyeing the belongings littered around bedding. She furrowed her brows slightly before asking “Why aren’t you packed?”
The bustle was annoying as hell. Murphy closed his eyes in a futile attempt to shut out the commotion that surrounded
him. These skaikru were sniveling cowards. Most of the fleeing delinquents were the same ones who orchestrated his execution and supported his exile, and yet they couldn’t even stay loyal to their cause. To their leader. Pathetic.
Eventually, someone new encroached on Murphy’s bunk. The footfall was familiar, and Murphy slitted one eye open and considered
hiding beneath the covers until Monroe left. Unfortunately, she was persistent,
and she soon climbed up and settled next to him. She asked why Murphy had not
packed, and he laughed like she’d told a joke instead. Oh great, here it comes. He was not in the
mood for this conversation.
Murphy leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, and he refused to make eye contact. “The hell would I pack?” he deadpanned, finally turning to face her, and – nope, he wasn’t having this
conversation; Monroe’s half-hopeful eyes inspired something guilty and painful within Murphy’s chest. He’d already made up his mind, and she wouldn’t like it, and that hurt. “Go annoy someone else, Roe.”
Murphy promptly jumped off the bunk with all the grace of a
flea-ridden alley cat, and slowly sauntered towards the mouth of the dormitory.
Monroe narrowed her eyes at Murphy, ready to accept the challenge. “You wanna bet?” she shot back, sitting forward. It had been too long since she’d sparred, she was practically itching to have a go. The girl was distracted by Murphy’s flicking a bug in her direction. She looked down and picked up that insect, holding it on a finger as she inspected it.
She looked back at Murphy when he spoke, raising her brows slightly. She fought back an amused smile at his enthusiasm and flicked the ladybug back at him. She smirked at his last words, giving him a teasing look. “Maybe it’s not the Grounders you should be worried about, eagle face.” She leaned back on her hands and yawned before adding “A dip in a river sounds nice.”
“Eagle face?” Murphy all but elbowed her, distaste writ plain on
his face. “Fine. I’ll peck your eyes ou– ”
Before he’d even finished talking, the flicked ladybug scuttled
across his throat, earning an alarmed hiss. The hell? Murphy writhed and slapped his neck, and still the pesky
insect managed to escape back into the grass. Murphy huffed and threw both arms up over his eyes; he was much too sober to have his pride damaged
by a stupid insect. “I hate the Ground.”
He reached out to snatch the flask back from Monroe.
However, he stopped dead in his tracks as a sinister thought slithered into his head,
loud and true: look at you, you’re just like
your mother. Just like that, his stomach heaved. No, not now. He rolled over and got to
his knees, and made it ten or so steps before dropping to his knees. He heaved into the dirt until his stomach was clear, but gagged emptily for a minute longer
as his body tried in vain to purge itself of the thought.
Roman smiled at John’s cooperation. “Let me start a fire to warm some water for you.” He stood and got to work on his patient’s bath. Luckily, he had enough water in the healer’s tent for a bath. Usually the baths given to patients were limited to sponge baths, but Roman could tell John needed a real bath. It wasn’t just the filth that covered him, but the obvious rough time the kid had been having lately. It was his demeanor and distrust that spoke volumes about John. So far, speaking softly and light smiles had been working.
With the bath drawn, Roman turned back to him with a smile. He placed a towel nearby the tub. “Do you need privacy? Or I can help you if you need it.” He took a bowl of crushed herbs and poured it into the water. He sat on the edge of the bath and dipped his hand in to mix it. “Since you’ve been in the Dead Zone, I figured you could use something for your skin. It smells nice too.”
Murphy shoved his hands into his pockets and warily watched
Roman work. He still didn’t trust the guy, despite his soft smiles and surprisingly
mellow demeanour. The sight of fresh water made Murphy impatient. There was so
much of it; he wanted to sink in right away, to submerge himself and scrub his
skin raw. He wanted to be well and truly clean
for the first time in months. However,
the prospect of nudity immediately unnerved him.
“So what, you want me to…?” Murphy squared his jaw and cursed
himself for accepting the bath. Nudity was a terrible idea. The denizens of the Dead Zone all were mutated to
some extent, and here he was,
masquerading as a desert nomad; Roman would surely notice Murphy’s lack of
deformity. He shuddered a little, inwardly. He wasn’t exactly keen on being captured and tortured for the umpteenth time.
“Yeah, fine.” Murphy managed at last, removing his hands
from his pockets. He shrugged off his jacket and paused at the hem of Jason’s
shirt; he blushed, crimson spreading up his throat like rope burn. “You should turn around.”
