GRIM REAPER¹, bellamy blake

047 ━━ the massacre

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EVER SINCE declaring her previous actions to Bellamy, Iona hasn't been able to focus.

The massacre was something that Iona had put off for years, trying to keep her mind off the treason she once committed. She knew it wasn't right at the time, even more so now, and deep down, she knew it made her no better than Finn.

At the time, however, blood did not come at such a high price.

Iona watches from the trees, panting heavily as her eyes set upon the man that had murdered his wife. He shook violently, anxiety creeping down his spine, as his eyes scoured every inch of the village.

It was as if he knew he was being watched, and when his gaze finally found her, her eyes appearing to be glowing darkly amongst the branches- as if she was an evil spirit sent down from the Gods above- he felt intimidation set in.

It did not take a genius to realize his guilty conscious as his feet hit the stone path, winding down and across the village until it reached the river.

He did not care where it led, however, merely running upon the trail and letting it take him away from the scene of the crime; away from her.

Iona was fast, though.

Her arms outstretched, grabbing branches and swinging herself across to the next tree, until she jumped down and ran through the forest. The brush would keep her hidden for now, but it would not conceal her intentions for long.

She ran, breathing heavy, nostrils flaring, before she took note of the man sitting at the edge of the riverbank. Perhaps he had given up; one could assume such from the way he was sitting, knees hiked up to his chest, chin resting upon his arms that were placed across both knees.

He heard her coming, and he could see her reflection in the water, but he made no attempt to flee anymore. He'd been running for weeks now, avoiding the consequences of his crimes for much longer than he deserved.

"I didn't mean to kill her," he confessed.

Iona stood behind him, katana drawn, the tip prodding at his left shoulder.

"She was always so stubborn; never listened to a word I said. I just... got so angry. I couldn't control myself anymore. She threatened to take the kids and I-I snapped."

Iona's face did not show any emotion- not that he could see it, anyways- but she felt angry. She could not forgive his actions. She knew his wife; she was a sweet old lady that would bake for the homeless and knit them clothes for the cold.

At night, Iona had caught her sneaking in a few of the children and letting them sleep in her basement, careful not to wake her husband who had always been against the idea of giving to the poor.

If anyone deserved to die, it was him, not her.

"Burn in hell," Iona said through grit teeth.

She shoved him down, forcing his cheek against the sand and rocks upon the edge of the water, and he squirmed slightly under her steel grip. At once, blood had been drawn, coloring the tan sand red, as crimson flooded down the clear river.

She didn't care to watch him die, instead leaving him to bleed out upon the shore, and her heart constricted painfully, her body full of adrenaline.

It coursed through her, urging her do something, to do more than she had, and before long, she was craving blood like a man starved. Iona was shaky, desperate to steal more lives in an attempt to stave off the feeling of red-hot anger.

She'd ignored the demanding cries of the guards as she stormed into homes, ripping men from their beds and forcing them to their knees.

Many could say Iona was targeting men alone- seeing as she left so many widowed women behind that day- but that wasn't exactly the case. Instead, she was tearing apart the families she knew were toxic, were abusive, or had infidelities. 

In her own twisted way, she was doing right by herself and the world- but then there came a point when that ended.

At one point, she was slaughtering the guards that made an attempt to stop her. She was ravaging the souls of women, rogue children, and the scared elderly that tried to run from her claws.

In her eyes, they appeared guilty, but after her haze had gone and she stared around at the vivid scene before her, she realized they were all innocent.

She was the monster.

It was there, in that village now soaked red, that Iona fell to her knees. Tears slid down her face, dragging down the dried blood that had manifested upon her tan cheeks, and her eyes became big and puffy.

Iona glanced around, watching a stabbed woman take their last, final breath of air, and she broke down fully.

It was not the screams of others that got Lexa's attention, but the screams of Iona.

Her own madness had taken over her, dragging her down into that silty grave that threatened to bury her alive, and that was how Lexa found her cousin.

Nails buried in her own skin, a knife in her thigh that she kept twisting and twisting until her cries became guttural, and the tearing of muscle was all that echoed around the empty and dead village.

Iona never entirely recovered from the incident.

Her title afterward- commander- had long since held a tarnished grime to it, not holding as much weight as it typically did.

Because in the end, Iona was no commander- not a leader, she was merely a wolf in sheep's clothing.

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