She starts with Fox. She finds a shovel in the warehouse of the mountain and starts digging between the yellow flowers, sun high in the sky and hot on her skin. She starts with Fox, and then Oliver, Lennox. The names get blurred in her head at some point, with the ones who died before, the ones she couldn't save. Wells. Charlotte. Myles. Fox. She blinks against the unforgiving sun, muscles sore and hands blistering, blinks and goes on, one grave after the other, over and over again.
She starts with Fox and continues with the children, their bodies so tiny, so fragile, bile rising in her throat at the sight of them, eyes burning with tears she refuses to shed. Love is weakness, some part of her brain says on repeat. Caring is weakness, too. Her lungs are full of air she can't breathe, blood turning ice in her veins, clouds in her brain. She fights against a sob, a scream, a cry. She fights her way through this. One grave after the other and repeat.
She refuses to stop counting.
She can't stop counting.
She remembers the Grounder she killed, the one who branded his kills on his skin. Wonders if it was really in pride after all, or something else. Wonder if he saw them too, when he closed his eyes, if his body matches his mind in the horrors of murder, if the scars made him feel better or worse.
She wonders too much, and keeps counting.
Jasper shows up on the second day – looks as surprised to see her as Clarke is to see him, before his eyes grow darker, angrier. At her, she knows. He says, "I'm here for Maya," and she hands him the shovel without a word. Watch as he digs a hole in the ground, as he carries his dead lover reverently. She turns around when he mumbles the words of farewell of the Ark, gives him the illusion of solitude and intimacy as he grieves over the Mountain girl.
When she turns around, he is gone.
She takes the shovel. Goes on.
The blisters pop as some point, blood mixing with dirt on her hands, beneath her nails. She ignores the pain, let it fuel her as she continues her endless task. A voice in her head, one she associates with brown eyes and a constellation of freckles, compares her to Atlas, to Sisyphus. The weight on her shoulder, the impossible task in front of her – maybe the Ground is punishing her the way the gods of old did. Maybe she's punishing herself. It doesn't really matter anymore.
The sun is high in the skin when she stops to lean on the shovel, taking large gulps of air, her lungs aching and burning, her muscles screaming. She pushes back lose strands of hair as they stick to her sweaty forehead, and barely reacts when she feels the pressure of a hand against her shoulder; even in anger, Jasper never quite managed to keep his mouth shut. She doesn't need to turn around to know who it is, but does it anyway.
His face close to her isn't a surprise. Octavia, Lincoln and Monty following close are.
Clarke sighs.
"Let us do this with you," Bellamy says, and there is no pity in his voice. Sadness, understanding, but no pity, and the ghost of his hand above her, so warm despite the ice in her veins.
It is on him, too, even if she carries most of the weight – on him and Monty, perhaps, sweet caring Monty who wouldn't hurt a fly. They were here; they helped, too. So she nods, stiffly, before she motions for him to follow her inside the mountain. The hallways are silent but for the echo of footsteps on concrete as they make their way to the warehouse, and she barely dares to look at him when she hand him some more shovels. Bellamy doesn't say a word, just take them from her before going back where he came from. She follows.
It is a slow process, even with four more people helping her. They dig and they burry and they eat in silence three times a day before going back to their task, falling asleep under the cover of trees when the sun is down. Rinse and repeat the following day, and the day after that.
It doesn't get blurry at any point. She doesn't allow it. Clarke stays focus in each and every movement she makes, each body she takes care of. Everything. Her mind is sharp and her eyes dry, and sleep eludes her more often than not. She is exhausted all over and, were it not for Lincoln almost forcing food down her throw, she probably would have passed out days ago.
(She doesn't say it out loud, but she is grateful.)
(Grateful for them, even if she hates the selfishness of such a thought. Grateful for the help they're providing, for the moral support, the load they're silently lifting off her shoulders with each body they help carrying, each grave they help digging.)
It takes time, patience, and a lot of strength, but they do it, eventually.
They stand side by side, and Clarke's stomach churns as she looks over the graveyard in front of her, going on and on forever. Her eyes sting again and she lets the tears fall at last, let them burn her cheeks and wet her lips. Bellamy's hand find hers and she holds on – a little too tightly, perhaps, but his hold is just as tight around her fingers, grounding her to the here and now.
"In peace, may you find the shore," Monty says after a full minute of silence. His voice is soft yet loud in the stillness of the mountain. "In love, may you find the next. Safe passage in your travel until your final journey to the sky."
It is fitting, she thinks, as she whispers a "May we meet again" along with the others. Fitting for them to reach the sky they've so dreamed of, the sky they never saw.
She wets her lips, refuses to think of wasted lives and wasted possibilities as she wipes the tears away from her face.
Bellamy squeezes her fingers, and only then she realises the others no longer are by their side – Monty having wandering a few feet away, Octavia and Lincoln nowhere to be seen. She looks up to him, lets herself get lost in the fire of his eyes.
"How many?" he asks.
Doesn't need to say more.
"347." No doubt, no pause. She knows. She's been counting – digging and counting and bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders. "347 here, Fox, Lennox, Oliver. Finn. Three hundred at the dropship. Anya's guard. Charlotte, Wells, Atom. I don't know how many at TonDC."
He doesn't react – Octavia must have told him, and it is a proof of his loyalty that he doesn't hate her for almost getting his sister killed. He would have needed less than that, a few weeks ago. Now he doesn't resent her for it, simply holds on to her hand, and Clarke isn't sure if she is grateful for it, for him, or not.
Bellamy nods, that solemn nod of his that makes him look older and wiser, before he graces her with the tiniest of smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but Clarke pretends she doesn't notice.
"You're not coming back yet, are you?"
He says yet like he knows she will come back eventually, something Clarke isn't even certain of. Perhaps he trusts her more than she does – knows her more than she does. Clarke wouldn't be surprised, at this point.
"Not yet."
"Whenever you're ready, then."
He squeezes her fingers again, a solid presence by her side, and the weight on her chest isn't as heavy as it used to be. She can breathe more easily now – not perfectly, not when she's looking at the graves in front of her, at the genocide she caused. But the weight is lighter on her chest.
It has to count for something.