Work Text:
Dedication had sharpened the piece of metal as much as the action of scraping it against a rock had. Murphy was at it almost half a day and the results had been slow to show. But the upper part of the scrap metal was slimmer now, tapering off into a sharp point. He turned it in his hands, dropping the rock back into the dirt. Bright yellow paint coloured the handle and Murphy thought it appropriate how the strip of metal was folded and curved into uneven halves. The curve was big enough for his hand to slip into and allow him to hold the makeshift knife steadier, firmer.
It was always with him in the pocket of his jacket, or in his hand. Murphy practiced throwing the knife at trees under Bellamy’s guidance, he used it when they were hunting or afterwards when they were butchering their kills. He always made sure to keep it sharp and clean though. The rock he’d been using to craft it sat beside his furs in his tent. Maintaining the edge and point was the task that he made sure was completed before he slept.
The familiar feel of his weapon soon became a comfort and a safety net in their strange new home. It was a constant and more important to Murphy than others would be able to understand. What was so special about a crudely made knife? It wasn’t something that he could verbalise. It was something he felt.
Losing the knife for even a night made Murphy uneasy. He didn’t sleep as well without the knife beside his improvised bedroll. There was some small part of him that was relieved when Clarke stormed up to him with it in her hands. But the situation quickly turned bitter, and any sense of comfort was twisted into the odd feeling of betrayal.
Murphy knew that he wasn’t the murderer. He tried to tell them that. But it was his knife that was used against him, to accuse him of killing Wells. It was the knife that gave them a reason to gag him, loop the noose around his neck and prompted Bellamy into knocking the crate from beneath his feet. It was the knife’s part in the whole situation that left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was supposed to keep him safe.
But even after he was exiled, Murphy was ready to risk sneaking back in through the gates just to take it back. He knew the guard rotations, it was easy to move past the wall unnoticed. It took some time to find where Clarke had dropped it though, but eventually he did. Murphy fled as soon as it was back in his pocket again.
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The worst part about the grounders torture was the way they used his knife against him. Its blade was used to mar his skin, to draw his blood. And then they melted it down in a fire before him, disgusted and offended by the ‘sky metal’.