He's beyond help, even ignoring the red glow of his eyes or the stark red contrast of the veins in his exposed neck. Torsos aren't meant to bend that way. The stone he's lying across, where he fell from a height, is drenched red. She can hear his lungs rattle and bubble when he breathes. Whatever he's done, however many he's helped to kill, she shouldn't want him to suffer. Clarke has a knife in one hand, staff in the other, and an hour ago she didn't hesitate to kill one of his comrades. So she should cut his throat.
But she doesn't move, not until she hears snow crunching under feet nearby, and then it's a step back instead of forward, a sharp turn to look. If there's relief on her face, it's because the question of the Templar's throat can be momentarily set aside. Lines reappear between her eyebrows a second later.
"I'm sorry," she says, in a clipped tone that isn't sorry at all, and gestures to the red-stained field with her knife hand—"about your alliance."
closed, post-battle.
He's beyond help, even ignoring the red glow of his eyes or the stark red contrast of the veins in his exposed neck. Torsos aren't meant to bend that way. The stone he's lying across, where he fell from a height, is drenched red. She can hear his lungs rattle and bubble when he breathes. Whatever he's done, however many he's helped to kill, she shouldn't want him to suffer. Clarke has a knife in one hand, staff in the other, and an hour ago she didn't hesitate to kill one of his comrades. So she should cut his throat.
But she doesn't move, not until she hears snow crunching under feet nearby, and then it's a step back instead of forward, a sharp turn to look. If there's relief on her face, it's because the question of the Templar's throat can be momentarily set aside. Lines reappear between her eyebrows a second later.
"I'm sorry," she says, in a clipped tone that isn't sorry at all, and gestures to the red-stained field with her knife hand—"about your alliance."