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CHAPTER VIII ✷ hell hath no fury
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WHEN NOVA OPENS HER EYES AGAIN, it takes a moment for the world to come back into focus.
But then it does ━ slowly, at first. Her head feels foggy, and when she tries to recall the events that led to her falling unconscious, the pieces begin to sluggishly fall into place. Running from the camp with Murphy, encountering the Grounders, Murphy sacrificing himself as bait so she could escape. At the reminder of this, she jolts upright and almost instantly regrets it. While her head doesn't have the same searing pain she endured the day prior (has it even been a day? An hour? More than a day?), she still sports an intense headache and the sudden movement nearly makes her want to vomit.
"Whoa, whoa━ Hey, it's okay."
The recognizable voice comes to her like a gentle miracle. Her attention narrows in on her surroundings first, finally letting it come into view. She's laying on a makeshift cot, uneven and lumpy in certain spots, staring at the red tarp material of a tent she's certain she's seen before. The warm buzz of friendly chatter she's grown all too familiar with, the sun sifting through the entrance flaps of the tent and falling onto her face in balmy tufts are all comforting signs. Then, her eyes settle on the figure sitting beside her. Clarke. She's kneeling next to the cot, holding a damp cloth that Nova can only assume she was just using on her, as her forehead feels damp and cool compared to the heat of the rest of her body. The blonde girl looks entirely relieved to see her sitting up, and reaches out to steady her.
"Clarke?"
"You're okay, Nova," she smiles. "You're safe. You're in the camp. You should lay back down. Here, let me help you━"
