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The door closes behind Titus and Clarke stands there, unmoving, unbelieving. Her eyes stay rooted on the dark black stain that has spread over Lexa’s furs. She doesn’t want to believe that her love has been ripped from her soul again.
Her breath comes in short gasps as her feet move slowly over to the bed. A sob escapes her throat as her hands touch the furs. She lays down andn clutches them to her chest, letting her sadness take over, letting her grief flow.
The place where her heart once was, a hole exists, and with each passing moment it fills with darkness
She is vaguely aware of Murphy trying his best to comfort her as he awkwardly pats her back and whispers the lies of sympathy. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Don’t worry. Clarke” At that she sits up.
“Don’t call me that.” she says and there is ice in her voice. Murphy’s hand falls down to his side and he watches as Clarke walks over to a closet and removes a red cloak from it.
He watches her run her hand along its silky folds and he pretends not to notice the tears that fall as she gazes at the scarlet fabric.
She wraps the cape around her arms and over her head before she goes over to a night stand near the bed. Her hands are shaking as she picks up a small circular object, a cog. Clarke strips off a piece of her shirt and threads it through a hole in the piece. Her hands numbly tie the string together around her neck.
Clarke takes a deep breath before reaching for the gun that titus had placed on the floor. She stares at the weapon in her hands and Murphy watches as the emotions flood across her face until she looks up with steel in her eyes and fire in her veins.
She fires at the lock on the door and it swings open. Two guards come rushing in with swords in hand. Clarke turns to them and with a voice as hard as stone rasps,
“Ai laik Wanheda. Sef op o wan op. I am the Commander of Death. Move or die.”