Taming Chaos // J.M // The 100

Chapter 19

There's something stepping on the twigs and leaves beside his head, kicking stray bits of sand into his hair. It's cold, wet, rough. Nudging at his hand until it lifts a centimetre of the ground.

His fingers twitch, a lazy attempt to to scare it away. He wanted more sleep, damn it. The only response Ethan receives is a quiet thud on dirt and a large huff of air.

Why is he on the dirt? Are the tents filled up for the night?

When had the sun gone down?

Ethan cries out, the rasped yell resounding through the trees.

He scrambles onto his hands, the mutated, two-headed deer flinching back and darting off into safety. He wants to be scared about how close it was to his face but there's a sledgehammer currently working its way at his skull and ricocheting down his nerves.

Ethan groans.

The noise echoes in his ears, causing a shiver to rack his sore body. When he curls into a ball it's because he wants to wait for the pain to settle, and the nausea to vacate his stomach but every second that passes is a second not remembering where he is after -

after what?

He pulls his hands experimentally away from his face. 

They're stained with a deep red.

His cheek feels dry and itchy, like it's peeling off with every twitch of his throbbing eyebrow.

How long have I been out here?

Ethan squints at the moon, grasping for the memories attempting to take a train ride to the nearest exit. 

Lincoln. It has something to do with Lincoln.

His eyes widen.

The grounder meeting; a chance for a truce; Bellamy following Finn; a gun in trained hands.

"That son of a bitch." Ethan whispers, palming a hand to his sore head.

It must have been hours since then, if the darkness of the sky has anything to say about it.

The desperate urge to know what happened is heavy on his chest.

Was there a truce? Did Bellamy even make it there? Was anybody hurt?

Ethan siezes the closest tree, fingers scrabbling against rough bark. There's a bitter need to know the answers to his questions, sooner rather than later.

He's smacked with a sick dizziness as soon as he happens upon two feet, but searches the area through squinted eyes. He knows the way to camp like the back of his hand, but not without knowing where he is in the first place. His internal compass is, unfortunately and without doubt, shattered.

Ethan twists, grasping at the fading tracking lessons Finn gave him the other day.

He remembers the easy bit, something about footsteps, and keeps his head down - once he's steady enough to walk - to search for indents in the dirt, shoving twigs away with his boot.

The trees are his best friends, there for him when he takes a swaying step, the world tilting the opposite way.

Thing is, Bellamy doesn't know - or didn't know - that Octavia was at the bridge. The moment he sees her, with Lincoln? Ethan doesn't need to think about how far he'd go to "protect" her.

The tracking isn't working. It's a skill he doesn't possess. Instead, Ethan tilts his head to the sky.

The sun had risen from the direction of their camp.

Ethan points at the sky, calculates the moons rise and where it falls, nods, and begins the short trek back to the dropship.

He hopes it's accurate, because he doesn't know how much longer he can thwart off his worries about grounders in the trees, or panthers hiding in the bushes, or things peering at him through the darkness.

Ethan glances behind him for the seventh time and when he turns back, he's falling. He shrieks before he plummets, knees hitting the ground first. Then he's tucking his arms into himself and landing at the bottom with a big oof.

"Fuck! Can't I just have one day where things go to plan?" He slams his forehead against the dirt, does it again, harder.

Frustration builds up in his eyes. "Fucking stupid piece of-"

The pain in his head flashes hard and hot, stifling the curse words he'd never used before.

There's a whimper. It's not his.

Ethan ignores it for the new aching in his limbs and shifts onto his knees, leaning back on his heels to yank rocks from his irritated skin.

There are tears threatening to paint over the blood and dirt caked on his cheeks and he presses his hands over his face to calm them, or at least try to because he feels sick and stupid and angry.

At first, it was anger towards Bellamy, towards his stupid ideals and ability to shut him up with a flick of the finger - but now he's starting to realise it's been his own fault this entire time.

The bitterness flares again because he can't get that noise out of his head.

But it's not in his head.

Ethan palms a hand over his ears, listens again. Hears a shuffle of leaves.

He pulls himself to his feet and turns in a slow circle, straining his ears.

Across from him there's a stretching distance of charred trees, a straight path towards where the dropship crash-landed.

He's almost home.

But that noise - a shuffling against dirt, followed by a choked whimper. It's coming from his right.

Ethan snaps a twig in half and waits.

He doesn't hear it again.

Connecting the dots, Ethan takes a step back. Retreating. It couldn't be - It couldn't be another grounder, could it? Sweat gathers at his forehead with the thought.

He thinks about the only grounder he's met, and purses his lips.

If Lincoln is good, there could be others.

Closing his eyes to gather the courage, Ethan bounces on the balls of his feet. Then, swallowing hard and taking a sharp step forward, "Hello?"

He hears breathing, a frantic and heavy response.

They're hiding behind the tree, with a direct view towards the dropship.

Is it one of the hundred?

Ethan places a hand against the tree, takes a step up and pulls around it slowly.

The boy flinches "Please-" struggling to pull back on a single elbow, his other arm flings up in front of his face to stop Ethan from getting closer.

Throat constricting, Ethan pulls his eyes up from boots to cargo pants, to a grey shirt and once more to his bloody hand because this kid is starting to look awfully similar to -

"Murphy?"