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.

Comments

[nonsibi]

Bellamy's mouth tightens. Behind them, in the trees, water spills suddenly off of where it was collecting in a leaf. The sound is brighter than the steadier spatter of the rainfall, bright enough to catch his attention. The noise of the Avvar has died off, which means they'll be here just as fast as they can be. If she won't cooperate, she doesn't leave him a lot of choice.

Abruptly, he seizes Lexa by the shoulder and pulls her back toward him again. Then he slams the butt of his dagger against her head. Once will be good enough. He knows where to strike, lucky for her.

When Lexa wakes up, she's tied to a tree. It's still raining, but the rain has slowed and turned softer, and the trees above are a dense enough canopy to slow the worst of it. There's a mountain horse some safe distance from her, tied to another tree. He's been given enough slack to nose at the ground, whereas Lexa's bonds are very tight.

And, in profile: Bellamy. He's got his foot braced on a rock and he's pouring water over the wound in his leg. The blood has slowed, at least, mostly dotted on the cloth he was using to apply pressure just a few minutes ago. Lexa's knife lays on the ground beside him, the blade washed clean and glinting in the rain.

If he's noticed that she's awake, he doesn't show it. Even in profile, his mouth is pulled grim and tight as he splashes more water over the wound.

[heda]

She doesn't do much to show that she is awake, anyway. It comes on her gradually enough not to jolt up in a way that might draw the eye, awareness seeping back in, pain filtering through unconsciousness and tugging her free of its hold. It takes her a moment to make it through the haze but she figures out what has happened quickly enough. She lets her head loll still, trying to sneak a glance up at the sky to determine how long she has been out.

Lexa tests his knots, too, subtle tugs on the ropes, shifts to find some space to move. Unfortunately, he's good at this part. She spends a little while longer sitting, playing dead, considering her options. Unarmed, unable to run, and tightly tied, her only shot is either to lure him near enough to knock him out and take his knife, or to convince him somehow to release her. Or she could wait until they're moving again, she remembers; he has a destination in mind. This seems like her best option, and so after a few minutes more to keep turning it over in her mind until she is confident, she feigns waking, jerking upright and looking around, eyes wide and then narrowing.

It affords her her first real look at where they are, and though it is difficult to tell one random clearing from another, she can orient their position by the mountains, and frowns. This is not the way to his people's camp. Skyhold, then? But to what end? She wants to know without having to ask.

"There is a plant around here that will prevent infection," she calls over to him after a moment to come up with a half-assed idea, "Untie me and I'll help you find it."

[nonsibi]

He shoots only a peripheral glance in her direction when she starts awake, enough to make sure his knots hold her. They will; they do. Knots are a steady easy thing.

Less easy will be keeping control. It's not that Bellamy thinks that Lexa will overpower him. Untied, she could kick his ass, if he gave her the chance, if he didn't stab her in the gut or go for his crossbow and put an arrow through her eye. Avvar are vicious, but he can be vicious, too. As long as she's tied up, as long as she cooperates--as long as he ignores her, which is what he should do, but her words get a huff of laughter out of him as he dribbles more water onto the wound in his leg.

"Like hell there is." The water stings. The crinkle at the corners of his eyes and mouth, that's as much pain as Bellamy shows, imperceptible from the distance she's at "I think I know enough about your idea of help not to take you up on that. I'm doing fine."

[heda]

"In weather like this that wound will rot in two days, maybe three at most," Lexa continues, ignoring his refusal and his snark. "Even if you manage to keep out the mud you will never keep it dry. But I suppose if you're lucky you will only lose the leg."

What she really wants is to get him to say "ha ha we won't be out in this rain for two days" so that she can have a better sense of where they're going. She is at most mildly concerned at his possibility of infection, and there really is a plant, if it comes to that. If he'd even trust her then. Clarke can hardly blame Lexa if he dies because he didn't bother to prevent infection. Right?

[nonsibi]

"Much as I'd think you'd like to see that--" He shoves the stopper back in the water skin and drops it on the ground. The slosh is mostly covered by the pissing rain, dripping and spattering and sloshing all on its own. And now Bellamy looks over at Lexa, flatly, as he swings his leg back down onto the ground. "We'll be out of this rain in less than three days. Sorry to disappoint you."

He heaves himself to his feet, teeth set against any grunts of pain. It hurts, of course, to put weight on it, to flex muscle enough to go over to Hector and dig in one of the horse's saddlebags. It's dark enough and she's tied up far away enough that she'll likely miss any wincing.

"Besides, I'd trust a mage over you any day," he calls to Lexa, with his back to her. "Now stop talking to me."