Chapter Text
He hadn’t climbed a tree since he was ten years old.
Sitting horseback in the countryside, imagining what the field of yellow wildflowers they were trampling might have looked like from a little higher up, it felt like a real waste to not be up in one. But Murphy was far too busy for trees, and sometimes it seemed like they were taunting him. Everywhere he went, all around, full of flowers and fruit and little animals, and sometimes, Murphy had learned, people.
He narrowly dodged another stone. “Get him down!” he ordered again, as his guards Dax and Mbege jumped against and scrabbled onto the trunk of the tree, climbing only ever high enough to be kicked back down by a boot.
The man in the tree was stocky and heavily freckled either by melanin or dirt, which he and his clothes were streaked with. His curly hair boasted a fair amount of twigs and leaves, and he held onto the trunk like he might have fallen out of it, his stones piled up in the basket he'd made of his shirt.
At the base of the tree was a fire pit down to smoldering embers, a blanket, a bag, and a pile of shiny foil. Murphy wondered what he’d done to be banished from the Skypeople’s equally pitiful encampment, and stopped wondering just in time to duck underneath another gray blur.
Surely the man was out of rocks by now, Murphy thought, and was promptly struck between the eyes in answer. “Go float yourself,” spat the man in the tree, voice gruff and hateful.
Murphy’s vision swam as he rubbed at the quickly-forming bruise that, luckily, was only pebble-sized. “I have no idea what that means. Come down.”
“Why the hell would I come down?"
“Because it would save all of us a lot of time to kill you sooner rather than later, and I’m on a schedule. So come down.”
“No.” He threw another rock.
“Maybe you should throw them back,” said Hinko, one of the younger Commanders from inside the Flame. Not a bad idea, actually.
Murphy understood why the Skypeople might hate him enough to prolong their own deaths by trying to stone him instead. Landing in his territory in their little metal can and being picked off one-by-one by his warriors had probably implied that they weren’t going to be the best of friends.
He was headed to Tondc for that exact reason; to help nearby Trikru villages organize their attack on the invaders. Dax seemed to think it was beneath him to make an appearance for something so insignificant as wiping out the tiny village of trespassers, but Murphy needed a reason to get out of the house, so.
Another rock whizzed past, and Murphy thought maybe he would start with the bastard in the tree.
Mbege got ahold of the man’s ankle and yanked him down from the branch, tugging him by the waist as he held on for dear life and kicked furiously at the guard. Dax beat his hands off of the tree branch and wound them behind the man’s back, and Mbege drew his sword, holding it beneath the Skyperson’s chin. Then the two guards looked to Murphy, seeking permission to kill him.
“Heda?”
The Skyperson bared his teeth and thrashed against the guards as Murphy considered him.
“Tie him up," Murphy decided on a whim. "The more the merrier.”
“But, Heda—“ Dax began.
Murphy prickled, turning away and retrieving his reins. “He has intel. Do as I say.” His tone left no room for argument, and the Skyperson was quickly bound by a long rope and left stumbling along for the ride.
Hours later beyond the Trikru boundaries, Murphy became busy accepting hideous beaded bracelets from village children and being bombarded with demands from Anya. At some point the Skyperson was taken away by his guards, and Murphy soon forgot all about him, even as the bruise between his eyes ached in reminder.
The day melted quickly into night after a rather smooth war meeting and a hell of a lot of formalities: food, gifts, greetings, celebrations of Murphy’s existence that never stopped being awkward and leaving him both pleased and drained by the time night came.
Making their way toward a row of small wooden homes, so close to being able to collapse into a bed, Murphy clapped Mbege on the shoulder in thanks. He had had an equally long day keeping a vigilant eye on Murphy’s surroundings while Dax postured, and Murphy could see the beginnings of a boot print-shaped bruise on his forehead.
“We’ll head out at dawn,” he said. “Get some rest.”
Mbege ducked his head in agreement, taking a step towards the empty cottage he’d be sharing with Dax for the night. Then he paused, looking back over his shoulder. “I meant to tell you, Heda, they’re holding the Skyperson in one of their cells. Six doors down.”
“Thanks, Mbege,” Murphy nodded, dismissing him. But he wasn’t all that interested in being spat on or hit with rocks anymore than he was earlier that day, so he turned toward his hut for the night, eager to get some sleep.
His many new, ugly bracelets clacked as he fiddled with them, and crickets chirped ceaselessly in the dark, and the blacksmith hammered away at a late night project. None loud enough to mask a sudden scream, long and furious and pained.
Murphy turned at the second scream, and began walking toward the sound at the third. At the fourth, he broke into a run.
The sixth door down swung open under his hand and he gripped the edge of it, watching the Skyperson bleed from a gash underneath his eye and stripes along his bare arms, watched it bloom from underneath his shredded shirt where he sat slumped on the floor. The many scars underneath Murphy’s clothes and armor ached.
“Stop,” urged Bekka Pramheda.
“Stop,” Murphy ordered. “Get away from the prisoner!" Dax, kneeling with a knife in one hand and the Skyperson’s wrist in the other, looked up, confused.
“Heda, I thought you said we needed him for intel.”
Murphy stalked forward and kicked Dax’s wrist, sending the knife flying out of his hand. “I didn’t say to torture him. This is not how we do things.”
A Trikru warrior whose identity was hidden by a metal mask, the eyes and mouth lined with animal teeth, stepped forward from a metal table in the shadows. He was holding a contraption that Murphy didn’t want to look at for too long.
“If I may speak, Heda. This is how we’ve always done things.”
“That was then, with the last Commander. This is now, and as your current Commander I’m ordering you to pack up your little tools and get lost.”
“This is the only way to get information out of the enemy. He’s our chance to—”
Murphy turned to the torturer, his stare cold. “If we don't get information, then we don't get it. We outnumber them, we know where every hole and every crack in that pathetic wall of theirs is, and we have the land and weapons on our side. The Skypeople have nothing. This is a waste of your time and explaining myself is a waste of mine. Now, get. Out.”
The Trikru torturer seemed to stare Murphy down from behind his mask for a moment, and then, with a “Yes, Heda," silently began to put his tools away, into a chest tucked into the corner of the blood-stained floor.
“Dax, get him a healer.”
Dax stood, looking irritated, and Murphy shifted to let him out of the cell. The two men left quietly, heads bowed.
“Excellent display of power, but yet another stupid choice,” complimented Sheidheda.
The Skyperson was watching him, but as Murphy turned to look at him he quickly snapped his head away and glared at the floor.
“You’re welcome,” said Murphy. The Skyperson scoffed, returning no answer.
“Get some sleep," Murphy advised. "You got a long walk ahead of you in the morning.”
Murphy wouldn’t let someone be tortured, not even a Skyperson. If he left the man here, that’s exactly what would happen. But he couldn’t well release one of the enemy’s soldiers, either. If any of them could even be called that. So with them he came.
The man’s eyes widened a fraction at the floor, confused, but he didn’t ask where they were taking him.
Murphy whipped his cape behind him and turned out of the cell, locking it behind him. Just as he put his hand on the hut’s door, the Skyperson spoke, voice rougher than before.
“You’re underestimating them. The hundred.”
“A hundred, huh?” Murphy asked, looking over his shoulder and raising a brow as the Skyperson’s face blanched.
After Murphy left the jail and found himself with a pillow under his head and the smoothness of old scars under his wandering fingers, he hoped that, for once, he was doing the right thing. Even if he wasn't quite sure why he was doing it.