I woke up with my head still on John's chest. It was strange being so close with someone else when I'd spent my life building up walls. I lifted my head groggily. The blood on John's face had dried into a layer of brownish red. His lips curled into a half-smile. "Good morning. Slept well?"

"Mm, very well," I said. "You're comfortable to sleep on."

"Also comfortable to sleep with," he said with a sly grin.

I rolled my eyes and lay back down on his chest, his heartbeat pulsing at a steady thrum under my cheek. "I'm so tired," I said with a groan.

At that moment, he tensed up, suddenly alert. "Wait," he said. "Did you hear that?"

"Wh—" I cut myself off as a small group of warriors came around the corner, weapons drawn. I perked up and sat up quickly. They stormed the cell and before I knew it there were hands grabbing at me, half-carrying half-dragging me away from John.

John's eyes darted to the warriors around him. "What the hell?" he demanded as they roughly hauled him to the wall. They lifted his arms and chained them to the ceiling as he swore at them. I got forced to my knees by one of the men as I hissed curses in Trigedasleng.

As much as I tried to hide it, fear coursed through me. John's eyes were wide open and alarmed as the men huddled around him, but still left a space so that I could witness the torture about to go on. The man who held me had an iron grip around me. They had brought stronger, more talented warriors this time, probably because of the incident from last time.

As the man in front of John half turned, my breath caught in my throat. Because it was my dad. It was the first time I'd seen him since I cut off his hand. I did feel a pang of guilt about that, but every time I felt it arising, I'd remind myself that the bastard deserved it and I was simply giving him what he had coming. It sort of worked.

His blue eyes were gleaming, just like the knife at his belt. As he turned back to John, I realised that perhaps I did kill my father. There could be no greater humiliation than being one of the greatest swordsmen in the clan and then being a clumsy one-handed father whose only daughter was a traitor. If one good thing came out of this, it was that I would finally win.

Because even if I got executed because of this, I would die a martyr to my own cause. I would forever torture that man. Every person in the clan would know him as the man with a traitor daughter and he'd never be able to shake the stigma.

And that'd mean I won.

"How many people are in your camp?" a woman with almond eyes and thick black hair demanded. John subtly looked over at me before fixing his cold stare on the woman. He said nothing.

She slammed her fist into his jaw and he let out a slight groan. But he didn't speak. "How many people are in your camp?" she demanded again.

His face was blank, emotionless as he lifted it. There wasn't even a hint of fear on his face. He was defiant, his face set in a blasé stare.

She slammed her fist again and again into his face. He grunted and groaned, but didn't dare cry out. When she stopped and he lifted his head, his lip was split and under the blood, his jaw was developing bruises.

John looked in pain, but he tried to hide it. She asked the question again, her black eyes alight with fury. And then she pulled out the knife. She cut his shirt off, his flesh shining with sweat. As easily as carving meat, she sliced into his abdomen, blood pouring out of the wound. And for the first time, John screamed.

I felt a lump in my throat and inclined my head, John's screaming echoing through the cells as he got butchered by his torturers.

"No. Make her watch," someone said. All my senses were deadened, swallowed up by the screaming coming from John. The man holding me back put a hand under my chin with an iron grip on my face. He kept my face in place to watch the torturing. I clawed at his arm before giving up, my hand going limo on his arm as I looked at John.

There were pools of red everywhere, more vibrant when spilling into the brown and grey room. The blood smelled — a faint metallic stench that clung to the air.

John was limp, his body shaking. The only thing keeping him upright was the chains around his wrists. His eyes were half-closed and his mouth was sputtering blood. My eyed were widened; I wanted to look away, but couldn't.

"What weapons do your people have?" she demanded.

No answer. More blood. She slashed everywhere: his body had been a blank canvas and she had painted it red with corruption.

"Who are your leaders?" She gripped the knife in such a way that she was intending to drive it into him, stabbing him with great depth.

I shook the man's hand off my face. "Stop!" I yelled. "Don't hurt him! I brought him into the camp. Let him go. Torture me."

John's eyes were watery as he offered a weak, sad smile. I wondered why he always smiled when he was sad. Was it to stop himself crying? To seem strong?

My father turned slowly, the chain-mail on his clothes jingling as he took slow steps towards me. His eyes were slitted, his lips pressed into a firm line. "You have disgraced this clan, Laurence." And with a sharp jerk of the arm, he slapped me with the flat of his hand so hard that I tasted blood in my mouth.

I lifted my head up, keeping my jaw set and my head high as I spoke. "I have disgraced this clan since the day I was born," I said. "And, frankly, I don't give a shit." I spat right in his face, narrowing my eyes at him.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand. "You'll pay the price for the things you've done, Laurence," he said.

I swallowed hard. "I'm not going to die, father," I said. "And I'll burn this village to the ground to survive if I have to."

The man who restrained me for all this time shoved me back down and they unchain John before they all leave, shutting the door behind them with a massive slam.

I sat up, my cheek still burning. I studied John, haphazardly propped up against the wall. He was covered in blood and bruises as he sat limply against the wall.

I crawled across to him. "Let me see the cuts," I said before studying his wounds.

He lifted his head, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "Laurence, I'm sorry," he said as I grabbed his discarded shirt from the floor.

"You know," I said, trying to change the subject. "At least they left us something to use as bandages. They're not all bad."

I gritted my teeth and tore a strip of fabric from the shirt. "Stop," he said. "Stop trying to change the subject. I'm sorry, Laurence."

I sighed, lifting John's arms up and wrapping the bandage around a cut on his torso. He winced as I tied it up tightly. "It's not your fault, Murphy," I insisted.

He bit his lip, looking as though he was trying to choose the words carefully. "I know," he said. "But you deserve an apology. You don't deserve this." He put two fingers under my chin and lifted my face. "Thank you for saving my life, Laurence."

I swallowed hard. "And thank you for teaching me that being alive isn't the same thing as living," I said softly. "Thank you for being there, John."

He huffed out a slight chuckle. "That's the first time you've called me by my actual name."

I cocked my head to the side. "Do you keep a record, John? I think your obsession is getting a bit creepy now."

He smiled in that irrevocably melancholy way. "I don't want to die, Ren," he said.

My lips curled into a hopelessly sad smile of my own. Because as I spoke the words, I realised they were the truth. "Our sins are finally catching up with us," I said. "Memento mori, John Murphy. Remember you will die."

"Yeah," he said, pulling me to him. "Yeah, I suppose we all die. But I don't plan on dying just because a cocky bastard and a highborn bitch banished me from their camp. We're going to escape, Laurence. I promise we will."

I sighed. "You can run and run and run until you've ran to the ends of the earth trying to avoid your past. But at one point you have to stop. At one point you have to face all the consequences."

"A few weeks ago, I thought I wouldn't be alive to see the first person set foot on Earth again," he said. "And here I am, lying in a cell with a Grounder and ready to die. Anything's possible, Laurence. We are getting out of here even if we have to leave a trail of dead bodies in our wake."

Ω Ω Ω

They came in earlier than usual.

My eyes were still shut and my head was still on John's head. I didn't think either of us thought much of sleeping next to each other, other than having someone to hold during the night. Either way, it didn't go any further than that.

The thing was, I wasn't sure if I wanted to go any further than that. I knew John was attractive — more than attractive, actually. He had that sort of face that you wouldn't forget, the type of face that the people a thousand years ago probably would have carved into a statue or something. Even with dirt and blood smothering his features, he was still beautiful. Even though his face seemed to be a mismatch of sharp angles and proportions, the unusualness was comely, and I found it hard to look away.

Then there was the whole thing with the sarcastic asshole quality. He was good company to me, and he seemed to trust me enough to tell me his tragic backstory. But then again, there was probably some ancient saying about assholes getting together and how it would result in lots of grief and blah, blah, blah. I was never one to go for orthodoxy, anyway.

I was attracted to him, but, even if I hate to admit it, he sent nervous butterflies through my stomach when he came close to me and I would probably be too nervous to ask him to be anything more than friends.

It was like he was unattainable. I wasn't sure whether it was because of his Sky Person status, or whether he just seemed too uninterested in anyone else. Either way, it sucked.

The warriors jolted me out of my slumber abruptly, dragging me to my spectating position on the floor just like yesterday. They propped John up again like a puppet on strings. In sauntered my father, his hand on the sword at his hip. His face looked about ten years older than when I had last seen him. The whites of his eyes were tinged with red, wrinkles branching their way out from them. He had bags as though he hadn't slept at all last night and his mouth seemed to be plastered into a scowl. Good, I thought. He may think he's won the game, but when I find a way out of here, I'm going to be living as a free woman, while he'll still be losing sleep over his missing hand and absent daughter.

It's funny how we really don't appreciate things until they're gone. You only miss the scorching heat of summer when winter is coming, you only wish that you hadn't eaten your dinner so fast once you're plate's empty. I hoped that maybe my father would see that, once I was gone, I had a damn lot of potential for being a great daughter and warrior, if only he'd have given me his support.

He glared at me briefly before turning his attention to John. Huh, I thought to myself. So he's going to be the dick in charge of torturing John today. Figures.

I guess when you spend your life being a professional prick, torturing teenagers comes naturally.

"Keep her head up," he said to the guard restraining me. "Make sure she sees every bit of it."

"Hey, asshole," I said. "I'd like some snacks for the entertainment." It earned me a punch in the face from one of the warriors, but it was totally worth it.

As I spat a bloody glob of saliva down, I heard the commencing of the interrogation. "How many people are in your camp?" he demanded. John used the same strategy as last time, remaining tight-lipped. My father wasted no time. He pulled out his sword, its edge gleaming in the slivers of sunlight coming through the cracks in the thatched ceiling.

And drove it straight into John.

Now, I knew that the position he stabbed him wasn't fatal — they'd need to keep him alive long enough for the full questioning. Also, after so much hunting and healing, I had pretty good knowledge of the anatomy of the body.

Even so, it was enough to make my stomach turn. It meant that they were sparing no measures today.

"How many?"

Silence.

He twisted the sword's hilt and I felt myself go queasy at the sound of flesh twisting and breaking around. Blood started streaming from the wound. John let out a cry, and I knew from the pain on his face that he didn't have much more fight left in him. "Okay," he breathed. "Okay, okay. I'll tell you how many. Just take — the — fucking — sword — out!" The last part of his sentence was grunted through heavy breaths.

My father smiled menacingly before tugging the sword out. "So?"

"Okay," John said, tipping his head back in exhaustion. "I'd say we've lost about ten. We've got ninety, I think. It's ninety." He spoke so fast that he had to take a deep breath at the end of his words.

"What about weapons? What do you use as weapons?"

"I don't know, alright?" John growled.

My father looked amused. "You don't really expect me to believe that." He stabbed John again, blood spurting out of the wound. John made a choking noise, blood sputtering from his mouth. The sword was tugged out and driven in again, John whimpering.

"Please," he stuttered. "I don't know."

My father sighed and clumsily sheathed his sword again. For a second I was confused as to what he was doing, but then he drew back his arm and sent his fist flying right into the wound. Even more blood soaked John's flesh and he let out a long, bloodcurdling scream.

"Guns," he choked out. "They have guns. Makeshift spears, knives."

"Any explosives?"

"No explosives. They're all dumbasses."

"Leaders?"

It was then that I realised what a mess I had made when I faked John's identity. He groaned. "Clarke. She's a blonde girl. Walks like she's top shit. You'll know she's the leader once you see her."

"Only one?"

John let out a deep breath. "Yes. Just the girl."

"How did you survive on the ground?"

John coughed, blood on his lips. "We had rations. We tried it out with no rules but it didn't work. We didn't have connection to the Ark so we couldn't ask them for help. They have snipers. Gunners, they call them. They're the only one with guns. I was a Gunner."

"How many Gunners?"

"Around ten, I think."

"Healers? Hunters? Anyone else of importance?"

John was breathing hard, wincing with every raise of his chest. "Uh, Clarke's a healer, there's a boy called — argh." He looks down at his wound. "I need something for this."

In one swift motion, his interrogator backhanded him across the face. "Keep talking."

John groaned. "Okay, okay. Finn is a tracker. I think I've covered everyone that's useful in that shithole."

"How skilled are the Sky People at fighting?"

John tipped his head back, the sweat on his face gleaming. "Oh, god. There's about twenty who are actually good at fighting. Keep in mind, we have cold blooded murderers at our camp, but then we also have people who got arrested for smoked weed or something. But if there's one thing that I know, is that they have strategy. So you thick-headed assholes should probably start thinking."

That earned him another slap, but he looked like he had no regrets about his remark.

"How about defences? How easy is it to get past?"

"They're probably going to have Gunners posted along the walls. The others will be armed with spears and knives."

At that moment, another warrior entered the cell. He took a nervous glance around before stepping towards my father. He whispered something in his ear. My father nodded before looking around and shouting his orders in Trigedasleng. "This questioning is finished," he said. "Give him the virus. Take Laurence to another cell." And with a final stare sweeping over the band of warriors, he said, "The war has begun."

Ω Ω Ω

Hello my loves! I hope you enjoyed that little bit of Laurohn action ;). As always, feedback and storyline ideas are greatly appreciated. Much love, Georgina xx