VIOLENT DELIGHTS¹ ━━ John Murphy

𝖎. Scarlet Stars

𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖑𝖊𝖙 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖘

THE STARS are bleeding.

Her expression is void. Emotionless. Frozen in the cold oblivion of ice. Frost creeps through her veins as she pushes herself from the quickly cooling blood. No words escape her. All around her is chaos screaming itself raw, but she is utterly silent as she pushes her gaze from his body to the stars.

The bleeding stars. Stained in ruby sin, stinking of a copper vice. The innocence shed upon her and her knife are like crimson wine.

Death is my birthright.

So she had spoken it, so it shall be.

His corpse is slumped against his restraints, wilted, shadowed with a beastly purple that hangs beneath his eyes. Violet with violence. Hollowed cheeks. Unmoving chest.

She looks away. She cannot look at him, she will not look at him. What is done is done.

Glass mustn't feel a thing.

The stain of her sins cannot be washed away by tears.

YOU ARE A GOD!

With great effort, she turns her wicked and hollow bones to face the chaos behind her. The storm. Clarke's body shivers violently as she weeps, crying out for the boy that she loved. Lexa's gaze is wholly unreadable, and to be honest, Glass couldn't really care what she thinks right now. What anyone thinks. For dozens of warriors stare at her now as if she's been knocked from her throne, scornful and condemning. They have been cheated out of their vengeance.

"You have no power here, girl," a low voice seethes. "Choose your next move wisely."

Something sharp bites into the small of her back. Glass goes stiff. Indra has her at spear point, and she need only wait for Lexa's word to free the world of the wicked.

Lips smeared with crimson lies, Glass does not bow and grovel for forgiveness. She will survive.

Finally, Lexa bows her own head. "It is done."

A growl from Indra. The spear tip bites deeper and Glass can just barely feel the trickle of blood. Then Lexa's eyes harden and Indra is forced to drop her spear.

Raven's screams have not died. They cut through the deadened air.

"Go into my tent," orders Lexa. "Clarke will go with you. Arrangements must be made for the mourners and the vengeful. Both of you can wait for me there. We have much to speak of, Glass kom Azgedakru."

Eyes seething, Glass curls her lip, saying nothing.

She takes one step. Then another. Somehow she finds herself in front of the Commander's tent. She feels stiff. Frozen in place. As if her limbs are unmovable - a girl wholly and utterly carved from the coldest ice in Ice Nation.

Already Clarke is in there. She has not stopped trembling. Holding her hands in front of her valve, they shake jerkily as she stares at them through her tears. Blood stains them. Figuratively. Her hands are clean when you compare them to the sticky palms of Glass, but innocence has curdled beneath Clarke's nails like ruby milk.

Sitting down, Glass nearly collapses into a wooden chair. She hadn't realised how tired she was until now. And she is tired. Weary to the bone.

"How are you OK?"

Clarke's voice is shivering and pained, a croak in a hurricane of misery. The tent is empty save for her and Glass, yet it feels like a fjord is between them.