❝ Hell isn't where you go when you die.
It's what you become when everything you love has been taken away. ❞
[ sequel to 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 ]
[ the 100 / season two ]
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Grounders;
𝐓he morning sun engulfs every inch of bark on the mighty trees. It dances through the crisp air, creating a thin, yet prominent layer of mist among it.
The features of Clove Everhart scrunch up in a frown. Two deep lines form between her eyebrows, like wrinkles. Only they don't belong. They're temporarily displaying her difficulty, her resistance to the bright sunlight daring to disturb her rest.
Then, she frowns for another reason.
Her body is kept warm by soft, furry sheets tingling her seemingly bare arms. It flows around her, above her, underneath her, keeping her captured yet comfortable.
She flutters her eyes open, dozily blinking away the blurred tiredness.
And then comes a hushed groan, "...the hell?"
Lifting her head, she dozily peers at the unfamiliar surroundings. Blonde locks flow beside her, messily declaring her awakening. The loose stands powder the blanket of animal fur, creating a dirty blonde against a rooted brown.
She sits up, allowing the blanket to expose her skin. Goosebumps cover her bare arms; she's been left in only her underwear, covered by a loose shirt.
Her face pales. The potentialities are endless.
Determined to figure out current her situation, the short girl crawls out of the cot. A sudden whimper sounds, eyes squeezing shut as white pain surges up her leg. From the tip of her toes to the hammering of her chest.
She breathes sharply, letting herself tumble back to the softness of the fur. Her eyes follow the sight of a beige bandage decently wrapped around her thigh. Her fingertips trace the rough fabric, toying with the loose end.
Her gaze then captures the sight of a chair, and on its spine dangles a familiar pair of cargo pants. Ignoring the annoying pain, she raises to her bare feet and hastens over to the furniture.
She proceeds by taking a seat, finding it more accessible to be sitting when the injured leg is in focus. Tugging the pants up, she winches as the fabric shifts against the bandage.
Once completed, she pauses, taking a few deep breaths. As if to compose herself.
A pair of socks complementing her combat boots peers up at her. She doesn't waste any time clothing her cold feet, finishing up with her leather boots.
Straightening her back, she peeks down at her attire. It's the most reliable for now, she concludes. An oversized t-shirt and blonde hair more tangled than her experiences on Earth.
