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.”