[There's no response. Bellamy doesn't hear him, or feel him. The memories don't even pause. He's too caught in them, and Murphy has to grit his teeth against the cold shards of that fear slicing into him, turn to get back on his cot before someone in the cell takes too much notice of his odd behaviour.]
(Stop. Listen to me.)
[Again, coloured dark and ragged with a frustration born from helplessness. He can't do anything. He can reach, try to grasp and pull Bellamy out, but if that was ever something that could be done through these connections then he clearly didn't know how. Pain lances across his forehead. He should stop, pull back and cut Bellamy off, but he'd said he wasn't going anywhere. He'd said he'd stay.]
(Bellamy.)
[There's the cold weight of a collar, the cutting bite of metal around wrists, and Murphy's pouring too much into trying to reach Bellamy to turn it, to try and hold anything back. The muted candlelight of Polis jars with the dim blue lights in Bellamy's memories, the tug of a chain instead of a pole, every line of Ontari's face, the knowledge of the black blood that had covered her, the pile of slaughtered nightbloods at her feet. It scatters, breaks into the bind at his wrists, when they kicked him to the ground and beat him before looping the rope around his neck; where the grounders let it rip into his skin as they set a blade to his fingernails, prying; where Titus leant back to deal another blow; Bellamy standing over him with boltcutters, hauling him to his feet, hand firm at his shoulder.
Murphy holds onto the last. Holds onto it and shoves it forward. There's no kindness in the memory, Murphy flinching back from the anger in Bellamy's face, but there's connection. Contact.]
no subject
( Stop. Listen to me. )
[Again, coloured dark and ragged with a frustration born from helplessness. He can't do anything. He can reach, try to grasp and pull Bellamy out, but if that was ever something that could be done through these connections then he clearly didn't know how. Pain lances across his forehead. He should stop, pull back and cut Bellamy off, but he'd said he wasn't going anywhere. He'd said he'd stay.]
( Bellamy. )
[There's the cold weight of a collar, the cutting bite of metal around wrists, and Murphy's pouring too much into trying to reach Bellamy to turn it, to try and hold anything back. The muted candlelight of Polis jars with the dim blue lights in Bellamy's memories, the tug of a chain instead of a pole, every line of Ontari's face, the knowledge of the black blood that had covered her, the pile of slaughtered nightbloods at her feet. It scatters, breaks into the bind at his wrists, when they kicked him to the ground and beat him before looping the rope around his neck; where the grounders let it rip into his skin as they set a blade to his fingernails, prying; where Titus leant back to deal another blow; Bellamy standing over him with boltcutters, hauling him to his feet, hand firm at his shoulder.
Murphy holds onto the last. Holds onto it and shoves it forward. There's no kindness in the memory, Murphy flinching back from the anger in Bellamy's face, but there's connection. Contact.]
( Bellamy. )