who the hell can remember which way the east wind blows

[nonsibi]

WHO: Bellamy and/vs Lexa
WHAT: there's a mudslide in the mountains. Lexa is in peril. Bellamy rescues her. this is actually what happens and there are no other motivating factors to either of their choices or this situation whatsoever.
WHEN: NOW (Bloomingtide).
WHERE: mountainous mudslide region
NOTES: people are angry and they're going to say mean things. also Lexa's got a broken leg and no one likes each other.

Back pressed flat against a tree, Bellamy unsheathes his dagger. Not his weapon of choice, but it's a more unobtrusive movement than going for his sword. He's careful about it anyways, going slow, lest the scrape of steel against leather should carry across the short distance between him and his target. The worst of the noise will be lost in the rain--up here, shitty weather is still holding out, and the constant rainfall has mobilized the rocky soil into thick and viscous mud. Bellamy is soaked well past the knee, and the sodden weight of his cloak's hood lays heavy against his head, doing little to protect him from the rain.

But he's better off than the Avvar, which is a thought he thinks with some satisfaction.

No time for gloating: he stills again at the sound of voices, hand closed tight around the handle of the dagger. Some of the noise is from above--far above, where the narrow path winds close to the rock. The drop down the cliff's face has been softened by the mud, making it treacherous by foot or horse. A thick mass of it has washed out the path entirely, carried rocks and larger boulders along with it. That mess is down here, under a sludge and ooze of mud still flowing down the side like a thickened waterfall.

The sound of voices is what brought him over here in the first place, with nobler intentions, at first. Hostility had set in as soon as he'd gotten near enough to assess the situation and everyone involved. To say that Bellamy doesn't like the Avvar would be to put his true feelings lightly. He hates the Avvar. After the shit that had been pulled on them, those feelings aren't likely to change. He doesn't trust them. He has no intention of helping this set, though they could sorely use the aid. Most of their number are clumped at the top of that cliff, while one--carried over the cliff's edge by the mud and rock--lies at the bottom, leg twisted at a grim angle. So, injured, but still likely to be hostile. And likely to be his insurance out of this, because the second they see him, they'll attack. That's just what they do.

He's not thinking of the Western Approach any longer. Eyes narrowed, Bellamy stares at the treeline opposite his hiding place. He listens to the guttural voices calling to each other and thinks of Montemps, of Clarke, of the sick grim certainty of the task that was left to them, their only option, choice narrowed down thanks to betrayal. The Avvar with the broken leg has dragged herself away from the worst of the mud. Her breath is thick with pain; he can hear it. His jaw tight, Bellamy counts down from five.

Then he pushes away from the tree, ducks low, and seizes hold of her, arm curled around her neck, high enough to force her chin back, his dagger at her throat.