Miss Me Princess?

Chapter Three

[1x10 – 'I Am Become Death']

He must have fallen asleep because Murphy woke up some time later feeling pain. He was sore and uncomfortable. And too hot. No, too cold. No…both. He groaned and the reverberations it sent through his body had him biting back another groan in pain.

"Murphy? Murphy can you hear me?….John?" he grunted, unable to do anything else. "You have a fever. I need you to drink some more of the seaweed and herb water." He started to shift but all of his muscles were already locked up, clenched against the shivers that were racking his body. With another low groan he tried again, gritting his teeth against the all over aching and rolled gingerly onto his back. A pretty face with a scrunched up forehead and surrounded by blonde curls came swimming into focus. The princess, he realised after several seconds.

"You must have an infection somewhere. All of your wounds still look fine but it could be something internal from exposure, like a chest infection or something. Can you tell me what hurts?"

"Head." He managed to rasp. "Throat." His tongue felt like a boulder; dry and heavy in his mouth as he answered.

"Flu like symptoms," she muttered to herself. "That's just dehydration from the fever." She explained still frowning. "Here drink more." She eased a folded blanket behind his head like a pillow, to prop him up and pressed the cup to his chapped lips.

Murphy felt the cot move and realised it was because Clarke moved, she was sitting next to him, her hip pressed against his. Her hand rested next to his shoulder, supporting her weight as she leaned over his chest, tendrils of her hair brushed along his collarbone as she shifted, mopping his brow and face with a damp cloth as he drank.

He drowsily watched her as she set aside the cloth to tuck the blankets more securely around his shaking shoulders. Clarke was still frowning when she returned her gaze to his. When she realised he was watching her the tightness around her eyes and lips loosened, opening up into a look of kindness and reassurance that instantly made him feel better.

"You're going to be ok." She soothed "I'm going to make you better." She was comforting him, he realised with a start. No one had treated him like that since before he got the flu which had led to his father being floated. For the first time in years, feeling ill didn't include feelings of guilt and grief. For the first time in a long time, being ill didn't involve feeling alone; drowning in memories of a dead father and a resentful mother. Someone cared enough to look after him; that was the thought that eased him back to sleep.


The sound of talking roused him from a fitful dream, the noise booming in his too sensitive ears. Heat was radiating from his neck and face as the fever flamed under his skin. A shiver rattled up his spine, shaking his aching bones as his stiff muscles quivered involuntarily. Murphy listened, but it wasn't Clarke's voice that he heard, it was deeper. It was Male. His eyes cracked open and blearily scanned his surroundings. His head was pounding.

"You're giving him medicine?" Murphy heard the voice say, in a low hiss that hurt like a blade cutting across his forehead.

"We don't have medicine." Murphy's concentration instantly sharpened at the steely edge in Clarke's voice. He fought to ignore the aching of his body as he strained to listen.

"Then what's that?" another hiss.

"Herbs." Was Clarke's stony reply.

"Ok so you're giving him herbs?" someone sneered.

"Yes." Clarke retort was cold and clipped.

"Our herbs?!" the growled question was followed by a loud bang that had Murphy tensing. Then Clarke spoke in a voice so calm and quiet that Murphy knew it was fuelled by more anger than her angry shouts ever were.

"This isn't the ark. There aren't rations anymore. You don't have a set allocation of food or water or medicine and once it's used that's it. If we want more food we hunt for more, if we need more herbs we pick more, if there's another party Monty makes more moonshine." She paused for breath and the male wisely remained silent. Some of her restraint slipped and her voice grew steadily louder and angrier as she continued to rant, "So yes, Murphy is hurt and I am giving him herbs to help him heal. I'm going to give him food when he gets hungry and give him water when he gets thirsty. If you have a problem with that then I'll give up my food and water. That will keep the quota in balance right?"

Murphy smirked to himself. That was the no-nonsense Clarke he remembered: the princess who wasn't afraid to voice an opinion or tell people what to do. But then, Murphy wondered, why had she been acting so differently around him? If she still had it in her to be that person why would she show him a different side of herself, a weaker side? Then another thought occurred to him: what if this weaker side of Clarke had always been there, hiding underneath the mask of the princess? Then what he had always thought of as an ego was actually just an armour. What if her conceited pride was just a shield, one that – for some reason – she was no longer putting up in front of him?


It was an overwhelming thirst that next woke Murphy from sleep. Despite the dryness threatening to spread up his throat and suffocate him from the inside, Murphy could tell that the fever had loosened its grip slightly. Where before his senses had been numb to everything beyond cramps of pain, throbbing muscles and cold sweats; now his senses could reach a little further and take in a little more. He registered time for the first time as he noticed the weak rays of light streaming through a gap in the dropships tarpaulin door. An uncomfortable twinge moved through his stomach – was that hunger maybe? His memories were too fractured - by his initial state of exhaustion and injury, and then the ensuing fever and delirium – for him to know exactly how long he had lain there on that cot under the care of the princess, but it must have been at least a day, likely longer. He shifted, stirring his unused limbs experimentally, testing the now healing injuries from his stay with the grounders. Definitely longer than a day. Turning onto his side Murphy stilled as he noticed Clarke sitting on the floor not far from him, back against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest, just staring at the opposite wall. Murphy studied her for a moment before following her gaze and seeing that the other two cots in the drop ship were now occupied by sleeping figures. Patients, Murphy realised.

"Hey," he said cautiously to her, his voice hoarse with disuse. Clarke's head whipped round to face him, eyes wide with surprise before relaxing, the corner of her mouth twitching up in the most pathetic attempt of a smile he had ever seen from her. The weak near-smile may have been faked but her eyes were still as open and unguarded as they had been recently whenever she looked at him. They both just looked at each other: Murphy seeing the stress lining her mouth and Clarke noting that the glassy look of the fever had eased in his eyes. Eventually she seemed to shake herself out of it and stiffly climbed to her feet, picking up a tray and moving closer.

"Uh here, I got you some food." She said handing him the tray and sitting on the floor next to his cot.

"Thanks." He said, sitting up as he looked over the tray, instantly grabbing the flask of water and taking several long gulps. He set it back on the tray half empty, his eyes flicking to the girl beside him as he reached for some berries, but her attention was back on the other two patients sleeping on the other side of the drop ship.

"What's wrong?" Murphy asked, stopping himself in the last second from tacking on princess to the end of his question, because he actually wanted an honest answer from her, and didn't want her to suddenly get defensive at the use of the nickname and shut him out.

"I'm worried." She answered distractedly, without turning to look at him.

"Already figured that out. Why are you worried?" he encouraged.

"They have the same symptoms you do." She answered, finally turning to face him. When he looked back at her blankly she added, "They were the once who brought you in."

"You think it's the same thing?" he asked with a frown of confusion.

"I don't think it's a coincidence." She told him.

"So it's not an infection?" he asked, remembering what she had said to him while he battled the worst of the fever.

"I have no idea what it is." She said it with such seriousness that she made it sound like a confession.

"Will it get worse?" he continued.

"I don't know." She answered softly, her eyes dropping from his gaze and her face scrunching in a grimace of irritation.

"Will you be able to help?" he pressed.

"I don't know." She sighed wearily. "I don't know enough. I don't have enough." She cast her eyes briefly over the sparse drop ship and the meagre collection of supplies she had amassed for medical use, gathered on a makeshift table in the corner. Then her eyes slid back to the other patients. "And I can't decide if I should tell them that you all have the same thing or not." She sighed again and her shoulders slumped forward as she pulled her knees up to her chest "All in all, I'm pretty useless." He took her in as she sat like that on the floor, her eyes downcast and her expression miserable - she looked so meek. Murphy wondered, in disbelief, how this submissive, scared and fragile young girl could ever possibly build herself up into the strong and confident women that the 100 thought their Princess co-leader and healer was.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because you asked and because I don't want to lie to you." When she looked up at him the expression on her face was sincere. "With everything you've been through I think the least you deserve is my honesty." She paused, seeming to think for a moment. The hypnotic depth of her shimmering eyes seemed to deepen further as a dejected look of acceptance cast a shadow over her face, before she added, "And also, because you already hate me. So even if you know the truth about what I think about this sickness, and how little I can help you, and how useless I am at this whole 'healer' thing…I doubt you could hate me anymore than you already must – so I can't disappoint you….I can't fail you, because I already did that." There was no worry swirling in the blue pools of her eyes anymore, they no longer swam with wet sadness, all emotion had vanished leaving her blue stare hollow and empty.

Murphy stared. He was stunned. He shook his head.

"I don't hate you." He didn't realise those words were true until they were coming out of his mouth. Maybe he couldn't have said that a few days ago, but now he was, and he meant it. Hate was for the grounders; those cruel and vicious people who wouldn't understand someone like Clarke; who thought that compassion and kindness and generosity were weaknesses. After days with the grounders his perspective had changed. The 100 were just a group of scared and lonely kids with shitty pasts, who were thrown together and abandoned by the people of the ark. They were really all just the same. And now he was just too tired to hold grudges and harbour hatred for people like that, people just like him, when there were far worse people out there to be worrying about.

"You don't?" she sounded equal parts sceptical and hopeful.

"Do you hate me?" he suddenly asked, doubt creeping into his voice. She was watching him intently as she shook her head. "Why not?" he asked.

"Because we're all just kids who've made mistakes." He gave one nod of his head, satisfied with that answer for now. He didn't have the energy to press her to explain herself more, and he hadn't quite figured out his own thoughts yet either, the remainder of the fever still fogging up his mind. So instead he adjusted his position on the cot, moving his legs so half of it was free and held out the berries to her. Clarke stared for a moment before unfolding herself from her position on the floor and reaching out for the berries. Shuffling closer to the cot she gave him one last examining look before popping a berry in her mouth and settling herself on top of the blankets beside him.


Blood?! Why was there blood? Sweat prickled along his brow and down his neck. Again something sharp stabbed at his insides like a blade. His stomach twisted. Squirmed. Murphy heaved again. He gagged at the coppery taste of his blood, coughing and spitting on the ground.

"Ok Murphy I need you to think for me." Clarke's voice sounded shriller than usual, tainted by the panic racing through her veins even as she crouched beside Murphy and rubbed soothing circles on his back. "Did you take any hard hits to your stomach or back?" he was already shaking his head to answer 'no' as she muttered under her breath "organ damage or internal bleeding?" But she was talking more to herself than to him, frantically wracking her brain for an answer.

"No," he finally managed to gasp out, "they mainly used knives and whips and hot pokers. The only punches were to my face."

Gasping for air he looked up into her face. Her eyebrows were crinkled together and her eyes stared blankly back at him, not seeing him, looking through him, distracted by her racing thoughts as she fought furiously to think. When her gaze came back into focus and she actually saw him in front of her, horror washed over her features, blowing her eyes wide and pulling her mouth open.

"Oh my god!" she cried. Her eyes were fixed on his in terror as she reached out to touch his face. Murphy froze as her fingers neared then lightly brushed along the corner of his eye. She pulled away, the tips of her fingers stained red. Blood.

"What's happening to me?" he asked in a scared whisper. Clarkes face creased with vexation as she shook her head.

"I don't know. It could be poison…or some kind of virus, maybe…I don't know." She groaned.

"Am I going to die?" he asked.

"Not if I can help it." Clarke said.

"I don't want to die!" Murphy whined.

"I'm not going to let you die Murphy." She said firmly, "Ok?"


Bad. This was very bad.

Clarke always stuck with logic and facts; it was what made her good in a crisis – what would make her a good doctor, her mom had always said. But her brain had skidded and stalled, all thought juddering to a halt. Her palms were already sweating. Tingles of panic were skating down her neck and along her arms as she kept her chin tucked close to her chest and hurried through camp and back to the dropship. Just because her brain had switched itself off to numb her from the impending terror didn't mean that she couldn't still see it flashing on the face of that girl. Clarke clenched her fists at her side to keep her hands from shaking. She didn't have long, that girl probably ran straight to Bellamy to raise the alarm. She ducked into the dropship and stopped. What now? Her breathing was becoming shallow, she could feel it in the exaggerated rise and fall of her chest – panic.

"Princess?"

She didn't answer. Just stared back at him. Murphy's movements were stiff as he started to sit up. His arms trembled slightly as they took his weight. He puffed out a breath, probably in pain. He surveyed her with a frown. He was still sickly pale underneath the patchwork of scarlet cuts and blue bruises, but his eyes were sharper than they had been in days. As she silently observed him she seen him tense and his eyes widen. Then Clarke felt it again, the warmth at the inside corner of her eye. It slipped slowly over the brim, just lick a tear only thicker. She reached up a hand to touch it. Blood. It made a wet smear across her finger tips. At the sight of it her brain came unstuck and the horror came smashing through the numbness, hitting her like a punch to the stomach.

"Blood." She said. Looking back at Murphy, stumbling towards his cot. He had already made room for her. She dropped down beside him, fear turning her limbs to liquid as she went limp, slumping against the cool metal wall behind them and closing her eyes. She felt something press against her hand and opened her eyes to see Murphy leaning towards her with a worried frown, trying to hand her a flask of water.

"I did this." Murphy whispered, looking over at Derek and Conor then back at her, his eyes shadowed by guilt.

"No Murphy the grounders did this. But we are going to fight it, together." She held out her hand, resting it palm up on the blankets between them. Murphy hesitated for a moment but with a deep breath slid his large scarred hand on top of hers. She closed her fingers around his and squeezed reassuringly and he tightened his hold on her hand in return. Together was a whole lot better than alone. Clarke took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Her head began to clear and the panic receded a little.


"Bellamy stay back." Clarke warned as he came rushing into the dropship.

"Did he do something to you?" Bellamy demanded as he took in the scene with confusion: Clarke and Murphy both pale faced, sitting slumped on the small cot Clarke used for patients. She shook her head and a little of the anger seeped out of his eyes. "What the hell is this?" he asked her.

"Biological warfare. You were waiting for the grounders to retaliate for the bridge? This is it. Murphy is their weapon." Clarke said sadly.

"Is this your revenge, helping the grounders kill us?" Bellamy shouted angrily at Murphy. But Clarke could see past the anger through to all the other emotions pressing up behind it: his irritation towards Murphy, his hatred of the grounders, his fear of failing everyone. Bellamy didn't know how to respond to something like biological warfare, hell neither did she but at least sickness was something she was familiar with, it was something that, when faced with it she knew what to do.

"I didn't know about this, ok, I swear." Murphy insisted. Bellamy clenched his fists tightly and glared down at him.

"Stop lying! When are the coming?" he demanded, prowling closer.

"Bellamy." Clarke warned. She understood his fear, but an anxious Bellamy was aggressive and rash, and she wasn't about to let him take it out on Murphy. "Murphy think, what can you tell us that's useful, did you hear anything?" she leaned towards him and asked softly, her tone almost pleading. Murphy shook his head and swallowed visible. When he looked into her eyes she flinched at the torment she saw reflected in his gaze.

"They are vicious. Cruel."

"You wanna see vicious?" Bellamy growled stepping closer still. Clarke lurched to her feet.

"Hey. Don't. That's enough." Bellamy actually halted at her fierceness. "And stay well back," she added, "whatever this thing is it spreads through contact." She waved her arms at him until he backed several steps away from them both.

"Clarke!" She sighed in exasperation as Finn came racing into the dropship.

"Finn you can't be in here. No one should be in here."

"I heard you were sick." Finn said wide eyed. Clarke absently nodded and turned to sit back down next to Murphy. "Clarke what is this?" From the look on Finn's face Murphy was pretty sure that he was really asking about her so casually sitting down so close to him that their arms brushed. But Clarke answered as if he were asking about the sickness, irritation washing over her face.

"I don't know. Some kind of haemorrhaging fever. We just need to contain it before-"

They all turned as with a load groan Derek jerked and rolled off of the cot he had been sleeping on and started to violently convulse on the floor. Clarke instantly leapt forward to help him. Finn tried to stop her but she was faster, dodging out of his reach as she barked at him not to touch her.

"What the hell is happening to him?" Finn asked her as Clarke crouched over Derek's prone form. She tilted his chin to the side and pressed two fingers to his neck. The convulsions stopped but now his body was too still.

"Is he…?" Bellamy couldn't finish the question. Clarke looked up, her eyes connecting with Murphy's and glistening with barely supressed fear.

"He's dead."


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