VIOLENT DELIGHTS¹ ━━ John Murphy

𝖝𝖎: Burnt Bridges Burning

𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖙 𝖇𝖗𝖎𝖉𝖌𝖊𝖘 𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌

GLASS HAS SPENT A LIFETIME burning bridges behind her. She's never been afraid of fire. And why should she be? How could she burn when she is the flames themselves? Frozen tendrils enshrouds for her cold, black heart. The fatal power is in her blood. She is a girl with matchstick bones and a wildfire for a soul, a god of flame and fury, fire in her eyes and blazing black coals in her hands. A huntress with ambitions sharper than her knives, a warrior. Leaving behind a path of ruination in her wake.

She has burnt so many bridges and let their embers light her way. Her parents, her real parents. Her twin brother. Countless slain warriors. The Queen. John Murphy, the star-boy. The star-boy who should be dead.

And yet she's standing here, looking right at him.

She feels light-headed from some combination of disbelief and shock. This is impossible. He should be dead.

And yet.

And yet.

He still hasn't said anything. He stares back up at her, sky-blue eyes ample with shock that she's sure mirrors her own. Blood trickles from his nose and streaks through the umber grime devouring his moon-pale skin, creeping off his chin, wetting his neck. Silent.

"You shouldn't be here," Glass says, because really, he shouldn't be. She turns to the door. "Come on."

     "Are you fucking kidding me?"

     Startled by his outburst, Glass whirls back around. John has staggered back to his feet, hands curling into weak fists. His brows have drawn darkly across his features and his moon-pale face is haloed with dark ruby.

     "This is hardly the time for your stupid little jokes, John — "

     His cheeks go hot with anger. "No. I don't get it!"

"Get what?" She asks, voice tinged with annoyance.

"Get — get you!" John manages to splutter. "Last time I saw you, you told me that I meant nothing to you... and now... and now what are you doing? Saving my life? I don't get it — what game are you playing at?"

     Glass watches him silently. Coldly. Frigid while he is scorching. Embers crackle like thunder in each of his syllables. His chest inflates violently as he shouts and shouts at her, his features maimed with rage. Something raw and primitive stalking back and forth in his wild eyes. He himself moves back and forth like a rabid panther, like something that might lash out at any moment. But Glass knows him better than that.

     "Are you done?" Glass asks at last, her voice a reverberation of ice slicing through his hot fury.

     "I... " he halts in his movements, briefly tensed like a snake poising to strike. Then he deflates and snaps, "You don't get to ask me that — "

     "Do you want to die?"

      He looks at her in disbelief. "What is that, a rhetorical question? No!"

     "Then follow me," she says, eyes hard as steel as she unsheathes Heartsworn and Heartseeker, starting for the door. "Skaikru isn't exactly popular right now."

     There's a flash of the old John as he grumbles, "Clarke or Bellamy?"

"Both." Glass manages a wicked little half smirk. "Clarke killed all three hundred and eighty people in Mount Weather, Bellamy slaughtered two hundred and ninety nine warriors as they slept. They're sort of going through a genocidal phase right now."