Bellamy nodded and smiled a little, nobody had really waited to see Murphy again, and Bellamy was probably the last one who had waited for him. But still he was happy to see he was alive, anything could’ve happened outside. He walked beside Murphy before the bottle was tossed at his chest, his eyebrow rose but he let out a dry laugh. At least he wasn’t going to throw it away, instead he slipped the bottle in his jacket pocket.
“A tent? Well, now you ask a bit too much,” he teased him and glanced down to him with a smirk. “I’ll try to make sure you don’t have to sleep on the floor but I can’t make promises yet.” It was obvious they would have a tent or two empty anyway, they would have no problem with get a place to him. “Have you eaten? Wouldn’t be surprised if you’re hungry.”
They entered the camp, and Murphy’s stomach tied itself into
knots. A dozen armed, wary eyes tracked his every step; he’d almost forgotten
how damn annoying it was to be treated like a criminal. Perhaps
if Bellamy gave him a – what
was it now, fourth? – chance, his people would follow suit and leave him the hell
alone.
He glanced sidelong at Bellamy and watched him pocket the
whiskey. A small smile tugged at his lips, and Murphy immediately looked away: there
was something so frustratingly reticent about Bellamy. His smile, though
sometimes hard-won, was a blossoming thing. It took his face and lit it up.
Everything about him became warm, and his dark eyes and dusky skin were
luminescent when he allowed them to be – which frustrated Murphy to no end.
He’d seen that same face turn cold and apathetic in the bedlam of his hanging,
and part of him still wanted to wrap his hands around Bellamy’s throat and
watch that smile turn blue.
“Shit, Bellamy, did you just make a joke?” he asked incredulously. All nefarious thoughts left his head as he smirked and thought back to their first days on the
ground. Once upon a time, his little arguments with Bellamy were something to
look forward to, rather than an inevitable fistfight waiting to happen.
So much had changed since then, but he welcomed the small reprieve. For now. He was sure he’d fuck it up somehow.
Also, now
that Bellamy mentioned it, Murphy was hungry. He’d lived on stale crackers for
the past few weeks, and his ribs jutted out in exasperated angles. He’d always
been thin, but
the Dead Zone had carved him up ‘til his edges were sharp and hollow. “Well, if you count hundred year old crackers as food. Which I don’t.”
He
licked his lips and rubbed a hand under his nose. “I’d kill for actual meat.”
Bellamy couldn’t help but huff at him, yeah… he had thought they would’ve handled this already but it clearly wasn’t anywhere as easy as everyone had thought. They had had months, months, full of hope, they had thought they would live beside the Grounders peacefully, they would figure this out. But things had become bad again and Murphy had no idea of that. Bellamy wasn’t sure what he did know then. “Yeah, I guess we all thought we would’ve this under control. But things have just become a huge mess again.”
He glared at Murphy as he talked, frowned at mention about Craig and Richards, that didn’t sound good at all. Bellamy just nodded, he didn’t know what he could say. Things surely were bad out there as well, he didn’t question that, if things were this bad right here, it wasn’t a surprise it was that outside as well.
“Sorry to disappoint you in case you waited for a happy homecoming party. We might not have too much time for that,” Bellamy laughed dryly. He decided he could as well just tell him what was going on. Murphy would hear that soon anyway. “We’re in a war, Murphy. Anyone who doesn’t want to get killed will not be allowed outside the camp. The Grounder Commander decided not to let us live in peace anymore. So yeah, home sweet home, welcome back.”
Murphy surveyed the camp with wary eyes. He could
practically feel the firearms trained
on him; shit knows they’d probably shoot if Bellamy wasn’t there. Though Murphy was fiercely curious as to nature of the war, he was
nonetheless aware, at least vaguely,
of the gravity of the situation and withheld most of his usual banter and snark.
However, Bellamy’s passing comment about
a homecoming party earned an
indignant scoff from the younger delinquent.
“Yeah, sure Bellamy:
yourpeople missed me, war and all.” He
shifted his backpack onto one shoulder and idly rummaged through the side
compartment. From it, he withdrew a small bottle of whiskey: one of the many that he’d taken from the Lighthouse
prior to his altercation with Jaha. “Our truce,” he said, chucking the bottle
at Bellamy’s chest; his voice was laden with sarcasm. “You need it more than I
do. Now do I get a tent?”
Where on Earth had Murphy even been hiding for this long? But it didn’t matter now, Bellamy had found him, he was standing right in front of him, alive and pretty much in one piece. He wasn’t sure what he had been waiting for after he had rushed into the woods, but he felt like it definitely couldn’t have been this. Good thing was that Murphy at least didn’t seem to have changed at all. For some reason it made Bellamy happier than it should have.
“I guess I could say same to you,” he shrugged and looked around to make sure the forest was just as quiet as he wished, he didn’t want to get caught for Murphy. And more importantly he didn’t want Murphy to get caught when he was right there. He sighed and rolled his eyes at Murphy’s words. “I would keep your tongue controlled until you’re behind the walls, you should be glad the Grounders hadn’t noticed you yet. They could’ve already killed you,” Bellamy huffed, turned around and walked to lead Murphy back. “Where have you been all this time?”
Murphy’s shoulders eventually sagged. He holstered his gun and
shoved both hands into his pocket, and for a brief moment, he observed the
tension in Bellamy’s shoulders. Damn it if he was actually worried about the leader’s health: he looked like shit. They both did. The mottled sunlight illuminated the scars along Murphy’s
left cheek and brow, and dust from the Dead Zone skill caked his clothes and
settled under his nails. He matched Bellamy’s stride.
“This again? I’m sure
they can handle it,” Murphy scoffed at the ensuing comment. Since when had he ever held his tongue? More importantly, why the hell were the Grounders still a problem?
Murphy had left during the bedlam at Mount Weather—he knew nothing of the
resolution, let alone the manifolded tension between the Grounders and Sky
People. He was pretty irritated that there’d been no resolution. “I thought you
guys would’ve had that under control by now.”
Murphy shook his head. He was then silent for a
moment—weighing the pros and cons, perhaps, of finally talking about Jaha’s
so-called Promised Land. The knowledge he’d ascertained from the Lighthouse
gave him an edge. He was stubbornly reluctant to relinquish that.
“Jaha recruited me for his so-called pilgrimage. Craig and Richards
went too, but they aren’t here to tell you that because captain crazy went ahead and offed
them. Things are badout there, Bellamy.” As they drew close to camp, Murphy blinked up at the familiar mouth of Camp Jaha, now reinforced. “Looks like things are
just as bad here. Great.”
“Harder, guys!” Bellamy shouted, avoided a hit of his training partner and tried to punch back. “When we’re in the war, they won’t play nice with us! You need to focus on what your opponent is doing, try to figure out where they’re going to hit and step back before hit yourself! Look into their eyes, learn to read their mind!”
Sheer pain struck Bellamy’s arm after a successful hit and he nodded encouragingly before turned to look at the young woman who had run to him. “What?” he asked. “First of all, what on Earth were you doing outside the camp? And where?” The girl explained quickly, almost forgot to breathe while gesticulating with her hands. Bellamy sighed and growled an order: “you stay here”. He looked up to the training people, told them to keep going and sneaked out of there grabbing a gun with himself. If Murphy was back, alive and back, Bellamy had to get him to the camp as soon as possible, he hardly would know about their situation with the Grounders. And if the Grounders found him, he would be screwed. Bellamy into the woods, his gun ready to shoot in case it was needed. It didn’t take long to find him clearly trying to find his way to the camp. “Hey!” Bellamy shouted to get his attention. “You better hurry up! We don’t have this whole day to play hide and seek!”
Murphy continued his trek towards camp. He came across a
familiar landmark: a misshaped rock which he and Mbege had carved their twin
initials into back when the drop ship first landed. Murphy idly considered unsheathing
his new knife and striking out one of the names. However, he was abruptly interrupted
as a second presence made itself known. He couldn’t see the figure in question,
but the heavy clacking of shoes against the undergrowth was evidence enough.
Murphy quickly scrambled towards a thick-based tree to evade detection.
However, he was not fast enough—Bellamy appeared in the narrow clearing and
looked right at him.
“Bellamy,” Murphy said, almost tentative. “You’re…still alive.”
Murphy had no
choice in the matter; he rolled his eyes and crossed over to Bellamy. His face and figure were mostly unchanged. The set of his jaw was still harsh, and
his tawny skin was littered with the same constellations. However, upon closer inspection,
Murphy saw the way exhaustion had etched and carved itself into the hollows of
Bellamy’s face. Murphy was almost relieved to see a familiar face. Almost. He hid his respite with a layer of blatant sarcasm. “Lead the way, chancellor.”
John Murphy cut through the forest with bleary eyes and a
stolen machete. He had returned to the woods that very same morning – he took
several hours to blink away the dust of the Dead Zone. The Lighthouse was far
behind him, a faded point along the narrow path of his history – and between
each image laid a thousand shades of human life and death.
Murphy stopped by a brook and refilled his canisters, all
depleted from his journey, then stored them away in his backpack. He stole it
from the Lighthouse: it was frayed from trek through the Dead Zone and patched
with various skins. Suddenly, Murphy saw a flicker of movement from his
peripherals. He shot up, firearm in hand, and walked to the edge of the brook.
He stood listened, working his toes into the worn soles of his shoes, and
strained to make out fading footsteps. Huh.
Well, that didn’t take long. His mouth drew into a tight line; he grabbed
his stuff and idly followed in the general direction.
Little did he know that the footsteps belonged to a skittish
sky person, who immediately sprinted back to Camp and grabbed Bellamy’s
attention. “It’s Murphy,” she insisted,
feeling somewhat delirious. Most people assumed that Murphy was dead. “I saw
him. Only him—not the others. He’s back.”
