AN: Sorry for the delay with this update. I got really busy, and then I got writers block. I really struggled with this one, so I hope it still flows ok. I have half a mind to rewrite it once I get the next chapter done, so please let me know what you guys think of it.

Miss Me Princess?

Chapter Twelve

"Come on Princess you need to wake up."

Clarke heard a deep voice muttered somewhere to her right. She groaned as she settled back into consciousness and gradually became aware of the throbbing pain radiating from her temple. "Clarke?" The voice spoke again. She started to move, wincing at the ache along her spine, then frowning when she realised her hands were tightly bound together.

"Murphy?" she forced her eyes open, grimacing against the pain. "What happened?" she asked slowly, cumbersomely picking herself up from where she lay sprawled out on her side across a dusty floor.

"The grounders caught us. They knocked you out." She turned towards the sound of Murphy's voice and squinted through the darkness. He spoke quietly, his words softened by a note of concern. He sat on the floor a few feet away from her, his hands tied behind his back, and clearly getting in the way as he tried to lean against the wall, his head resting against the bare bricks. Through the dim light Clarke could see a nasty lump protruding from his temple which looked swollen and painful. At the sight of it a flood of images came rushing back to her along with the memory of her fear. She shuffled awkwardly towards him on her knees, her movements impeded by her bound hands, and the ache in her back, and the throbbing in her head.

"I remember…they were about to hit you…." She said as she settled herself against the wall, her shoulder brushing his.

"Yeah they did," he jerked his head, motioning to the angry lump on his temple then squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth as the motion caused a flash of pain behind his eyes. "Just not hard enough to knock me out." He told her quietly, the strain of pain evident in his voice. "I guess they didn't want to have to drag me the whole way here. They hit me enough to daze me, they knocked you out, then we were tied up and blindfolded, and they brought us here." Clarke worriedly watched him, her eyes scanning his body for any sign of other injuries.

"How long was I out? And where's here?" Clarke asked.

"An hour maybe? It's all a bit hazy, they hit me pretty hard. I have no idea where we are, the blindfold made sure of that, but I don't think we walked very far."

"Well at least they took the blindfolds off." Clarke said as she turned her attention to their surroundings, her eyes beginning to search through the dim lighting as she scanned the room. They sat on a dusty floor in a small empty room – a cell – with rough brick walls and no windows. The door in the far corner was closed, it was made of wood and had a rectangular hole roughly cut out of it to make a window. Through the gap they could see the profile of the grounder guarding the door, silhouetted by the flickering light of a flaming torch and behind him nothing but the deep impenetrable darkness of the night.

"It's dark." Clarke realised. Murphy sighed and nodded. They were supposed to be back at camp before nightfall. There was no way of knowing how much time had passed.

"Looks like we won't be making it back for dinner." Murphy said. His tone was flippant, but she could see the fear that he was trying to hide swirling in the depths of his eyes like roiling storm clouds. He moved beside her, his leg brushing against hers and Clarke shifted closer, pressing her shoulder to his leaning into his side.


It wasn't long before their captors appeared. Three large figures came barging into the cell and advanced towards them like monsters looming out of the darkness. Their sudden arrival detonated a blast of terror through Murphy and Clarke, they both tensed and instinctively moved closer together as they each pressed back against the wall, recoiling from the threat prowling towards them shrouded by the shadows of the night. Within seconds the men were upon them, lunging towards them out of the shadows and pulling the pair apart. Clarke was wrenched to her feet and tugged forcefully across the room.

"Hey!" Murphy yelled in protest as he tried to follow her, but the other two grounders crowded menacingly in on him, cornering him and cutting off his attempt to reach her.

"No!" A sharp cry ripped from Clarke's throat as she began to struggle, panic engulfing her. The sound of it caused the fear inside Murphy to flare.

"Clarke listen to me." Murphy said desperately. He too was struggling as the two grounders unbound his hands from behind him only to stretch his arms above his head and retie them. There was a wild look in his eyes that made Clarkes stomach turn. "Do whatever they want, whatever they ask. Do you hear me?" His voice rasped with fear and pain. Clarke's chest tightened. "Don't give them an excuse to hurt you. Ok? Just do it, whatever it is."

They dragged Murphy towards the centre of the room and tied his hands above his head to a chain hanging down from the roof. The last glimpse Clarke got of Murphy before she was dragged from the room chilled her to the bone: his face was pale and tight with fear, his eyes shining with dread and ghosts of some unknown horror. Clarke remembered the tormented sheen in his eyes weeks ago, as he lay on a cot in the drop ship and told her: 'They are vicious. Cruel.' Her blood ran cold. Fear and desperation twisted together in her stomach and turned to lead. The memories of that haunted look of naked terror slammed into her, wrenching an anguished sob out of her mouth.

With one final fierce shove Clarke fell through the doorway, stumbling under the momentum she tripped and crashed onto the ground with a bone jarring smack. Her bound hands prevented her from properly breaking her fall and her chin struck the ground with teeth clattering thud. She felt the stinging tear of flesh and the hot wetness of blood as the soft skin of her chin grated against the grit and dirt of the ground. The door slammed shut behind her.

Clarke breathed deeply and tried to focus as the grounder forcibly hauled her back up onto her feet. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut she banished that last image of Murphy from her thoughts and shoved determinedly against her panic, burying it under deep calming breaths. Clarke slid into leader mode: squaring her shoulders and locking all emotions down deep inside of her. As the grounder led her away she concentrated on soaking in every detail in the hope that she would learn something, anything that could later help them escape.

The guard at the door to the cell was fiddling distractedly with some tools. He didn't look up as she was led passed. Lying abandoned at his side Clarke spotted their pack and the two sacks of guns and ammunition, seemingly discarded and untouched. She eyed them greedily as they passed but forced herself to keep walking. Clarke counted their numbers: one leading her away, and one stationed just outside the door, with two now inside with Murphy. She took another measured breath.

She kept track of their route as they walked, and of how many people they passed – which was none. Her suspicions grew. Silence surrounded them and other than the small fire burning outside of the cell and the burning torch carried by her guard, the camp was shrouded in darkness. No cooking flames, no camp fires, nothing. Surprised, Clarke realised they were in a small village that appeared to have been abandoned, and recently. She had imagined they would be taken to a large camp, where the grounders would have gathered their warriors and be readying to attack. That's what the 100 had been fearing and anticipating for days, weeks even. So where was everyone? What was going on? Another calming breath.

Clarke was led into a small crumbling brick building. The grounder came to a halt in a narrow hallway and shoved Clarke through a doorway, then took up a position to guard the door, his large frame blocking the exit entirely. At the centre of the room stood Anya. Her back was to Clarke as she stood, as rigid as a statue, staring down at the three beds in front of her, each holding a body. Although they looked more like tables than beds, Clarke realised. And they weren't bodies, but people - patients.

"All injured by your bomb on the bridge." Anya spoke in a whisper that burned with a quiet fury that had Clarke tensing.

"Patients. This is about…You want me to treat patients?" Clarke asked stunned. "I thought…" she started to say, but trailed off when surprise gave way to confusion and suspicion. "This village is empty. Are all your people," the words stuck in the back of her throat, "are they attacking my people?"

"You think we captured you and brought you here as part of an attack?" Anya sneered, still not turning to look at Clarke.

"Didn't you?"

"This," Anya pointed to the three prone bodies "is because of your attack. As for the rest of the village, they have been summoned."

"Summoned? We've been expecting a war. We're waiting for you to attack." Clarkes words were sharp and heavy with accusation.

"The Commander will attack. Soon. But I've been…stalling." Anya finally turned away from the patients to look at Clarke for the first time. Her eyes were cold and her gaze was piercing. "This is my village. These are my people. I am responsible, you understand?" Her words were angry and biting as she spat them at Clarke. "I've been waiting for a chance ever since it happened, the bridge explosion, but you never left your camp, not until today."

"So you captured me, and are holding my friend hostage, so that I heal three of your people? Then what? You'll let us go home and then the commander will attack us?" Clarke questioned.

"Yes." Anya answered simply. The breath rushed out of Clarke in one sharp and painful exhale which left her chest empty except for the ache of fear and desperation pressing down on her heart.

"I'll do whatever I can to help them, if you let the man who was with me go. As a show of good faith." The words tumbled out of her in a rush, a hint of desperation bleeding into them. It was impulsive, but she could feel the panic rising as her control slipped. Anya's lips curved into a cold and menacing smile.

"Two of my people are keeping your friend company. And the Commander has summoned every clan for miles around. You will heal these three. And then tomorrow thousands of grounder warriors will go to battle, and your people will be destroyed." And with those words hanging heavy in the air, Anya left.

The seconds ticked by. And with every second Clarke's heart drummed hard and frantic in her chest. Thump-thump, thump-thump…

She could hear the roar of it in her ears. With every beat of her pulse, every second that ticked by, Clarke pictured Murphy; scared and alone and in pain. Because of her he was back with the tormentors that he feared, back with the monsters who had torn his flesh to ribbons that she had had to clean and stich-up and heal.

Thump-thump, thump-thump…

She could feel the thud of it in her chest. She struggled to breath, gasping for air. With every passing moment an attack was drawing closer. The commander. Thousands of warriors. Destroyed.

She felt the tension building in her. As the time stretched on she was pulled tighter and tighter like a piece of elastic, until she was taught and rigid and ready to snap.

Clarke bolted for the door.

But the grounder was there before she made it, blocking her exit. He barred his teeth at her in a menacing snarl and shoved her back. Clarke's panic reached a crescendo.

"I can't-" her words cracked with desperation. Anxiety chocking off the rest of her words. "There's nothing-" she wailed the words like a plea as desperation and panic morphed into fear and helplessness. Emotions bombarded her. Overwhelmed her. "I don't-" She broke off, breathing heavily and closed her eyes.

Think.

The urgent chokehold of her desperation loosened slightly.

She pulled in a deep breath, filling her lungs.

Think.

Clarke opened her eyes.

"I need instruments…tools, medicines?" She barked at the grounder.

"There." He growled, pointing at a small shelf in the far corner of the room. Clarke moved to the shelf quickly and inspected its contents. Then she got to work.


Minutes passed by as Clarke silently worked. She still felt the weight of each passing second like a painful squeeze to her heart, but she pressed down on her desperation suffocating it with a silent determination as she promised herself over and over again that she would get herself and Murphy out of this. The guard, she noticed from the corner of her eye, was gradually moving away from the door, inching forward as he watched her suspiciously, monitoring each of her movements carefully. She ignored him, carefully inspecting wounds and changing bandages. She checked for broken bones and fevers. Checked for pupil dilation and reflex responses. The youngest of the three was a boy barely over 10. He wouldn't wake up. She could tell. He was in a coma, or perhaps brain dead. She moved quickly onto the next patient, not allowing herself to stop and think. The guard would pick up on any reaction she made and any reaction could be detrimental to Murphy. She couldn't do anything for the child, but she could save Murphy.

As she reached out a hand to the tray of tools Clarke made sure the guard could clearly see the small sharp blade as she slowly and deliberately lifted it. He reacted instantly, lunging forward and grasping her by the wrist. They faced each other across the table, arms hovering over the body of the patient. Clarke looked him straight in the eye and spoke.

"Her stomach is rigid. That means there's internal bleeding. I need to make an incision to try and drain it." He hesitated, looking uncertain. "I need to roll her onto her side. Here, hold her here." She moved then, taking his hand and pulling it across the table to place it on the patient's side. The grounder released her wrist, stretching across now with both hands and bracing the patients side as Clarke pushed. He looked up at Clarke. She nodded at him.

"That's it. Hold her steady."

This was it, the chance she had been waiting for. In one quick and precise movement Clarke reached out and sliced through skin. One swipe and hot wet blood burst free. It splattered red all around them as it gushed with the steady pulses of a heartbeat, flowing out in a thick and steady stream. The smell of it scented the air. Clarkes hands were slick and slippery as she clutched the blade tightly. Watching. A low moan gurgled wetly in the grounders throat as he clutched at his neck. The whites of his eyes shown with fear as he stared at her with round eyes. He stumbled, his large frame careening forward into the table, hitting it with a thud before dropping to crumple lifeless on the ground.


"Please be ok. Please be ok. Please be ok." Clarke muttered the words under her breath over and over again like a prayer as she made her way back to Murphy. She had bolted from the room the moment the grounders body had hit the ground, and was frantically clinging to the numb calmness that had settled over her mind since then. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest as she tried to merge into the darkness and slink through the shadows like nothing more than a swift breeze.

Finally reaching the right building Clarke came to a halt at the corner and a bubble of anxiety swelled in her chest as she observed the grounder guarding the door. He was still fiddling with some tools and a greasy cloth, completely unaware of his surroundings. Their pack and the two sacks of guns laying waiting at his feet. This man could very well be all that stood between her and Murphy; all that stood between them and freedom. She tightened her grip on the blade in her hand, it was slick and sticky with blood and her fingers trembled as the adrenaline surged through her body.

Once more Clarke pulled up a wall inside her and forced all her emotions, all her doubts and uncertainties back behind it. Once more she buried the scared little girl deep inside of herself and slipped on the mask of a determined leader. She emerged from the shadows and once more she struck, attacking to take another human life.

Only this time she wasn't as confident in her actions. That split second gave the grounder time to react and although he was never going to be quick enough to avoid the deep slice she carved into his neck, he flailed in a way that the other hadn't. There was panic and pain. It was slow, and ugly, and repugnant. They were frozen together in that moment as it stretched out painfully around them. They waited for death to come, their arms locked together: her holding the knife imbedded into his artery and him grasping at her in confusion. Clarke couldn't do anything to avoid the blow to her face as he thrashed desperately. Her cheekbone throbbed, but she was momentarily detached from the pain. His eyes - brown and deep and soulful - held onto hers as the life seeped out of him, and she watched it slowly ebb away, saw the light of life slowly dim in his eyes. The scuffle slowed and they both toppled to the ground. By then he was dead. Clarke pulled herself out from under his weight on shaky arms and stumbled towards the door.


Clarke found Murphy tied up and beaten, but alone. Her relief was so immense that it brought her to a halt at the threshold as she stared at him. He didn't look as bad as last time, there were no signs of torture just some bruises, his hands were still bound above his head leaving him to hang limp and lifeless by his wrists, his head dropping to the side to rest on his shoulder. The sight had her flashing back to when the 100 hung him, and a rush of feelings hit her violently: disgust, guilt, rage, pity, they all churned angrily in her gut. Then he moved slightly, his head lifting towards the door, his eyes meet hers across the room and Clarke rushed towards him.


They ran from the village. Running until the winking glint of firelight had long since vanished into the distance. Running until the only sounds around them were their pounding steps and their thumping hearts. Running until their chests burned and their legs ached and they couldn't run any longer.

They stopped to catch their breaths and get their bearings, to figure out the direction back to camp. It hit Clarke then, what she had done. She had killed two people. They weren't her first kills, but they weren't like before; she couldn't say that either of tonight's kills were done in mercy or even in self-defence. Because they weren't, not really, she had murdered in cold blood. To save herself, to save Murphy, to save their camp; she told herself, but the voice in her head sounded feeble and undecided.

She bent over doubled, panting and suddenly dizzy. She leaned up against a tree, her hands bracing against the rough bark as she fought not to wretch, only for her head to spin violently again as she spotted the blood stains on her hands. Her chest tightened, her throat closed, she couldn't breathe. Clarke stared at her hands in horror and started frantically scrubbing at them, rubbing them together and chaffing them violently against the sleeves of her jacket.

"Hey!" Murphy's voice was low but urgent and his grip on her arms tightened as he shook her. Her eyes found his and he stared down at her sternly. "Stay with me Princess. You did what you had to do. They wouldn't have hesitated to kill us." She looked up at him, her eyes staying fixed on his as she let his words sink in. Clarke let herself take comfort from them, and from him, from the feel of his hands gripping her tightly, like he was literally holding her together.

As her breathing began to slow Murphy looked at her properly, taking in the details of her appearance. He frowned, his hands coming up to hold either side of her head gently as he studied her. The thumb of his left hand drew back a lock of her hair that was wet and stick with blood. His right hand hovered for a moment as his eyes trailed over her face; first his thumb ghosted over the graze on her chin, then it moved up to her cheekbone, tenderly circling the bruise forming there. She remembered the pain there as it returned with a throb, the numbness that had settled there now brushed aside by the sensation of Murphy's hand cupping her cheek.

Clarke's eyes were fixed on his lip which was burst open and swollen. She stared at the bruise and drying blood and almost sagged with relief that his injuries weren't more serious. She watched his lips part and then heard the soft gasp. She looked up to his eyes to find them looking intently back at her. Clarke realised then the intimacy of what she was doing: standing so close to him, hands clutching at the front of his jacket, staring at his lips. Her gaze dropped back to his lips and up again to his eyes as these thoughts sluggishly filtered through her mind. She saw the bob and slide of his throat as he swallowed.

Snap

It was a gently sound, muffled by the denseness of the forest, barely more than a rustling of branches. But it was enough to make them both go rigid. Murphy's hands dropped from Clarkes face, falling to her shoulders and squeezing tightly. They stood, bodies tense, eyes frantically searching.

"We have to move." Murphy whispered.

Clarke nodded. It wasn't safe. They had to get back to the camp. The grounders were coming.


Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think.