#blackthumbed

     — Devlin's wrists were bound in front of him by a length of bright silver chain, and from that, where it dug painfully into his skin, wisps of smoke rose and the acrid smell of burning flesh permeated the small cell. It must have hurt like hell. 

If Clarke came closer to get a better look at him she would also notice the trails of blood seeping from his ear canals. His chest didn't rise and fall and no breath stirred the stray strands of long red hair hanging in front of his face that had managed to escape his ponytail.

He LOOKED dead— and in a way he was.

         His reaction time was too quick. The call to action too loud, too urgent and in the dark, with rain water beating down, he was too preoccupied with a chorus of hissing and snarling to recognize that there had been someone living in the mix. By the time he recognizes the mistake – it’s too late. The gunshot’s echo is long gone, the bodies of walkers scattered and dead. More may be drawn to the sound, but there’s still time to get out of there before they do.

      It’s the fact that one of the bodies wasn’t a walker to begin with that stalls him. This isn’t the first time he’s killed ( nor last ) – it’s just not what he meant to do. He didn’t set out to kill a living person. Holstering the gun, he backs up, sending a glance over his shoulder.

      ❝ It was an accident. I thought he was – ❞ his voice is heavy, a hand futilely trying to wipe the rain from his forehead. ❝ I think he was alive. ❞

     — Jules had assumed it was just another one of those twisted southern baptisms that frequently happened in the south that he had witnessed out in the swamps on more than one occasion that gave him the willies; but this— this was clearly something entirely different and that much was certain the longer he voyeured the ritual from his hiding place in the gnarled mass of tree roots by the bank, thinking any time now the man would release the girl and she'd surface— but then she started thrashing and clawing and struggling against the ‘preacher’ holding her beneath the murky water and at that point Julian knew that he had been right in his assumption that it was much more sinister. The merrow’s heart leaped into his throat, breath hitching painfully like an invisible punch to the gut and a hand flew up to clamp over his mouth as stormy blue eyes widened in shock. He had to do something to help her!

Quickly moving towards the bank, he instantly remembered his tail and fear for Clarke's life rose like bile at the back of his throat. He'd never get there in time! “Bloody fucking hell,” he cursed under his breath in panicked frustration while pulling himself up onto dry land where his clothes were stashed. Frantically grabbing at whatever article of fabric he found first to scrub vehemently at the water drenching his tail (which he was now scowling hatefully at), he silently begged it to disappear faster than usual— but his prayers went unanswered. There were more sounds coming from the other side of the large tree masking him from view and he was almost certain that he’d find a floating dead girl when he finally came to her aid. Julian hadn’t waited until every bit of his tail had dispersed into human limbs but he didn't care. Hurriedly, he pulled on his jeans and boots and while still a little wobbly from the pain shooting up each leg with every step he took, he got his feet under him and headed in the direction of the clearing where he had witnessed the incident— and found an unconscious girl collapsed in the mud, arriving just in time to catch who would later be identified as her parents driving away from their daughter whom they had left for dead.

        There’s a grin, expansive and luminescent, almost too big for face, symmetrical, practically perfect. “You are far too kind to me, Clarke. I have considered a lot of people to be my companion but you are by far my most favorite.” At this point and time, quite possibly overall. But that’s a bit of a bold statement to make.