A/N: I’m only putting an author’s note because this turned out better than expected and hurt me right in the honeynut feelios. Goddamn. And it’s so OOC, so I apologize.
(at least me it was)
“Why did you do it, Clarke?”
It was the fifth time he was asking that question, but Clarke couldn’t seem to find her voice. Every time she attempted to get something out, it came out as a squeak or a even a sob. Now even in her dreams she was crying. Dante strode around the his desk with his arms behind his back, passing over a dozen people before stopping by ones she recognized. To the right of him stood his son, Cage, looking as smug as ever with a tight-lipped smirk and his back straightened. Behind him were several of the guards, their uniforms stained with a reddish-brown color, each glaring at her.
To the left of Dante was Maya, though she wasn’t standing like the others. She was in Jasper’s arms who had tears sliding down his face, Maya gasping for air as her skin began to turn an awful shade of red and blood seeped from her opened wounds. The others surrounding them followed while Clarke was immobile on the chair before her, her heart beating rapidly in her chest.
“You were ruthless, Clarke.” Dante says as if giving a compliment. “And cunning, I’ll give you that.”
“But you’re a cold-blooded killer,” and Clarke was surprised to notice it came from Jasper, staring at her accusingly while Maya began to melt into of puddle of what appeared to be blood. The others, the Mountain Men – fathers, mothers, children – all chanted the word “killer” as they all began to melt into the same puddle, overflowing Dante’s windowed office, staining the paints on the walls and antique rugs.
“Let me go!” she finally screamed, trying to tear free but was bound to the chair despite no restraints being present. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks as she fruitlessly tugged and tugged until the blood puddles of the Mountain Men rose to her knees.
Dante leaned in close, a blossom of blood slowly soaking his shirt, as he whispered, “Blood must have blood.” And suddenly a wave of blood swallowed them both.
Clarke shot up with a scream and began to stand from the bed she had been sleeping on when a pair of hands placed themselves on her shoulders and gently ushered her down. With shaky breaths and vision slightly obscured by tears, she slowly took in her surroundings and immediately recognized the second floor of the lighthouse. She was no longer restrained to a chair, waiting to be drowned in the blood of her victims. And she also recognized Murphy, eyes strangely alert and concerned as he sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for her to say something.
As she opened her mouth to say she was alright, a violent sob tore from her, immediately prompting her to cover her mouth.
Murphy inched closer but she backed away, now sitting in the center of the bed, but he continued to speak as if it didn’t happen, “You’re screaming scared the shit out of me.” His voice was joking, though it was soft as well, comforting almost. “I thought you were getting murdered up here.”
She laughed but it turned into another sob, a quieter one that was easily muffled by her hand. And with words that didn’t seem like her own, she spoke through the sob and said, “I killed them. I-I killed them. All of them.”
Distantly, she remembered telling him with a hallow voice about what had transpired at Mt. Weather. Clarke was numb to it by that point – or so she had thought – but the shocked look Murphy made didn’t make her feel any better. He was shocked. The one who forced a child into committing suicide, killed two people from their camp, and almost killed more and he was shocked by her actions. But he didn’t press on after that, carrying on as if everything was alright, as if they weren’t stuck in the Dead Zone with their faith resting on the deluded Thelonious’s shoulders.
“You did what you had to do,” Murphy said with unusual softness as she silently sobbed with her head pressed into her knees. She was hardly aware of his movements, how he scooted closer to her and wrapped his arms around her, his chin now gently resting on her head as he rubbed her back with uncharacteristic tenderness.
Clarke didn’t push him away, though tempted, because the sobs were leaving her almost breathless and the faces of Dante, Maya, Cage, and the others surrounded the bed when she looked up. To shield herself from them, she buried her face in the crook of his neck and squeezed her eyes shut, doing little to stem the flow of tears but only seeing the blacks of her eyelids, unlike before.
And the last thing Murphy said, his fingers soothingly running through her blonde tendrils, was, “Everything is going to be okay.”