She saved everyone in the building but found soon after that she had left herself behind.

She had left a piece of herself in that mountain, the piece that made her sparkle and shine.

It was the piece that held her together, the shred that conjoined her mind and soul and heart.

It was that forgotten piece that she couldn't get out of her head, it was what kept her up at night. It tortured her silently, slowly, throughout the night, picking and plucking at everything she thought of.

What, she thought, could this piece of me be? What is this fragile piece of my head that has left me, and if it is so important, how can I not know what has left me?

How do I regain it?

It was these questions, she realized later, that kept her going. Her thoughts of the forgotten were a lifeline, but not a strong enough one.

That piece left her hanging, and left her mind in shreds. She was running in circles without it, like a chicken without a head. Alive, but not living.

The others saw it, but again, what could anyone do? The mountain had torn away something her mind was so accustomed to, that it was struggling to go on without it.

No one knew how to help, no one knew how help her cope, and she was left with her questions and her mind.

She became a natural disaster. It was sudden and harsh, and there was no way to stop it.

The piece of her, ripped away at the most unfair time, caused her to spiral, down and further down, like Alice going down the rabbit hole.

And by the time she hit the bottom, there was no one there to help her regain her trust and happiness.

For this speck was a boy, and once he was gone there was no turning back. Her heart was his, and with his death he took it with him.

He was the glue holding her together, the head to her heart, her contrast, her survival.

Clarke had lost her hope, her humanity, her soldier.

So she marched on for him.