It doesn't take Monty long to ask, they've made it less than a quarter of the way up the mountain, and Clarke isn't really surprised. His question is her question after all, the one that's burning her mind with every step, enough of a distraction that she's barely even noticing the cuts.

"Do you think she was telling the truth?" he asks. "The Grounder?"

He doesn't use her name (Elena) and that doesn't surprise Clarke much either. She gets it. It's easier that way. No name. Just 'the Grounder' . Another faceless cog in a very large machine, one that keeps trying to chew them up but only ever manages to choke on them and spit them back out, never quite finished but always just a bit more used and a touch more broken than when it started.

She stops in front of a particularly large clump of roots in their path and keeps reminding herself that the mountain is nothing but more ground, that it's nothing more than that. It's more ground that's not the ground, though she has to admit there's more the to the mountain than even she can completely ignore, but it's still just ground, only rougher and harder. There's logs and branches and roots and rocks and though she knows they weren't arranged by human hands, that doesn't change that it feels like they were, like they were laid there as barricades and blocks and natural fences and gates and all they had to do was obey and everything would've been OK.

And that's just so much revisionist history bullshit she can't even stand it.

"The truth?" she asks. "About what?"

Like she doesn't know exactly what. The 'what' that's been hanging over them since Elena appeared and only got about a hundred times bigger when she said it and probably a thousand times bigger than that after Clarke put a bullet in her throat.

"About Lexa," Monty says and this time Clarke is surprised, shocked that he used her name, thrown off by the air of familiarity in his tone, the way he says it like he's got any idea who she is, like he knows anything about her more than what he heard in stories from Bellamy and Kane and the others. "Do you think she really wants you dead? Do you think the Grounder was on the level or..."

Clarke stares up ahead, judging the distance from where they are to where they have to be and studying all the places in between. All the places where the other Elenas, the other Grounders are skulking and lurking and slowly closing in on them. All the places where her enemy that was once a friend hides and waits, eager to do Heda's bidding, whatever that might be.

"Or," she says softly, stepping carefully over the roots, making sure not to touch them, lest she find herself as bound to the ground as they are.

"Or what?" Monty calls after her, but Clarke doesn't answer or even so much as shrug and this time it's Monty that gets it. If there's one lesson they've both learned from the mountain and the ground?

There's always an or.

It doesn't take Monty much longer to ask her other question and if he keeps that up, if he keeps saying what she's thinking before she even knows she's thinking it, Clarke's going to have to consider leaving him behind.

She doesn't need anyone else in her head.

"You think they'll really stay out?" he asks. "If they're even really out there?"

Clarke has little doubt that they're out there. She doesn't know how much of what Elena said was true - and she's doing her level best to not wonder about it because that leads nowhere she wants to go - but she's sure the Grounders are here.

It's the why, she's not too sure of.

She considers Monty's question, pausing just long enough to shrug and then she's moving again, ducking branches and stepping over roots and moving as quickly as the terrain will allow, headed for the top and the station and the one chance they might have out here.

Will they stay out? Will the Grounders really stay on this side of the door and refuse to enter Mount Weather?

It's a thought. A theory. She thinks it might hold true. The Grounders are superstitious and religious and mystical by nature. The thought of what happened up there, of what the Mountain Men did, of the spirits and souls that were trapped and then slowly drained, drop by drop, the taking of life that was used to give life and justified by supposedly civilized men who were true fucking savages?

Yeah. It might keep them out. It might be enough to buy her and Monty some time, at the least.

But time, Clarke knows, runs out eventually. It might take a day or a week or ninety-seven years but eventually it always runs out.

Sometimes even without a helping hand on the lever.

It takes them forty-five minutes to reach the mid-point and Clarke's turn to ask the question.

Every step brings another wave of pain, another shooting star of burn and it's not just the cuts, it's the weeks of walking and it's the ground and the roots and the rocks and it's the sight of Elena slumped against the tree and it's the feel of the gun in her hand and she thought she'd be over that after Dante. It's all of it and it's the preoccupations of her mind, the way it keeps running through scenarios and possibilities and she can't focus on the mundane things like where her feet are and where she's going and after the third time she trips and stumbles and has to catch herself with her hands, Monty grabs her arm.

"We can stop," he says. "Just for a minute."

She glares at him but he doesn't back down, not even a step - he's seen worse - and she's grateful that he says it and even more grateful he doesn't make up some kind of excuse, some bullshit about him needing the break. She doesn't need to be placated and that's not Monty's game anyway. He's honest even when it sucks, even when you don't want to hear it and that's how Clarke knows he's lying when she asks.

"How's Jasper?"

"He's fine," Monty answers quickly, too quickly, too practiced, like he's been saying it over and over and over again and Clarke suspects he has. "Well… maybe not… fine. Better, maybe. A little. He's speaking again. Not to me, but…"

Clarke wants to tell him that Jasper will get over it. That he'll do what they all do - what they've all done over and over again since they came to the ground - and find a way to make peace with… and if not peace, then at least a way to live with it.

She wants to tell him that.

"We need to keep moving," she says. "I didn't die on this fucking mountain the first time. No plans to start now."

It doesn't take them as long as they thought (hoped) to reach the top of the mountain and neither of them is remotely ready. The winds have picked up the sky is dark in the distance and there's Grounders out there, somewhere in the trees, just waiting to kill them, but neither of them can do it.

They can't go in.

They just… can't.

So they don't. They find trees and lean against them and look everywhere but at the door, at the bunker, at… it. Monty's got one eye on the horizon, watching for the literal storm and doing his level best to ignore the metaphorical one they're trapped in anc Clarke's got one eye on the woods, waiting for the inevitable and they're both wondering how they ever thought this was a good idea.

And then they remember.

They didn't.

Neither of them ever once thought this was a good plan. It was, like every other fucking plan they've ever had, just a plan. An idea. Something that would get them through the immediate, through the crisis right in front of them and something that would, maybe, give them a fighting chance of getting through the crisis right behind that one and the one behind that and then the next and the next and the next.

That's every plan down here, every plan on the ground. They're not so much plans as they are stopgaps, a never ending cycle of tape and glue and sweat and blood and holding everything together until there's nothing left to hold and then finding the next thing. They're not plans, they're Dropships, they're running, they're hiding, they're burning and alliances and Camp Jahas and sacrifices and saviors.

There's no planning on the ground and Clarke and Monty know that better than most. There's only doing what you have to and then hoping you get a chance to fix it later and that the fix won't make everything else worse.

Clarke follows Monty's lead and slides to the ground, her back pressed against the biggest tree she can find and she even lets her eyes close, just for a moment. She doesn't sleep, she can't even remember the last time she really did that, but it's a moment or two of peace, of being able to pretend that there's not an opportunistic Grounder ready to pounce, that she hasn't left everyone and everything behind, that she's not sitting outside the last place on Earth she wants to be that just happens to be her best chance to live.

Closing her eyes is a risk and she knows it. But this is the ground. Down here breathing is a fucking risk and she's tired and she's there and if fate's going to kill her because she shuts her eyes for thirty seconds then fuck fate. But then she hears a noise, a sound that breaks through the relative silence of the wind and the trees - a low grunt that might be that opportunistic Grounder charging but is Monty trying to work out a kink in his neck - and Clarke's eyes pop open, one hand going for her knife, the other for the gun and she sees it - a whole lot of nothing - and it's almost enough to make her laugh.

She doesn't want to die, which is lucky for her because it seems her mind and her instincts and fucking fate just won't let her.

Monty's watching her from across the way and even when she had her eyes closed, she could feel his on her, could feel them on the cuts, the ones on her arms that she bared halfway up the mountain, the sweat rolling across her skin sliding across them, bringing with it a new burn and a new sting. Clarke saw the look on Monty's face when he saw them and there was something there, something she hadn't quite known what to do with.

She'd expected revulsion or confusion or even anger. If it had been Bellamy and not Monty, it would have been different (and not just in that Bellamy would never have gotten caught.) He would have called her on it, he would have demanded an explanation and then, no matter what it was, he would have told her it was all so much bullshit.

If you need forgiveness, I'll give that to you.

There was none of that with Monty. There was a moment, a flicker of something close to shock on his face but it was gone almost before Clarke even saw it. And then there was… something.

Understanding.

It couldn't have been that though and not because Monty couldn't understand but Clarke couldn't take it if he did. Monty had been through hell, they all had, and she knew enough of what had happened in the mountain to know he'd had it as bad as any of them. But she just couldn't accept him… understanding… not that.

She could barely understand. And she was the one doing it.

"Kill marks," Monty says and Clarke startles at the sound, staring at him in confusion. "Octavia had some," he says in answer to the question she didn't ask. "She said it was a Grounder thing, but hers were on her shoulder."

The wind blows harder and Clarke winces at the feel of it across the most recent cuts along her arm. "They're not…" She shakes her head, not sure at all how to tell him what they aren't because that would mean telling him what they are and she just doesn't know. "They're not kill marks," she says. "I'm not Octavia."

Monty nods as if that makes all the sense in the world. "I'm not sure Octavia is Octavia anymore," he says. "She's more Grounder than…" He shrugs. "Than whatever the hell we are now."

Another gust of wind rolls through, rattling the trees. "We need to get inside," Clarke says. "That storm will be here soon and if there are Grounders out there…"

If.

If.

Clarke's so fucking sick of if.

She stares down at her arm, at the marks there, the cuts healed and healing and raw and new and that's what they are. A bunch of if. If they hadn't come here, if she hadn't burned 300 Grounders, if she hadn't left Finn and Bellamy to die, if she hadn't killed Finn, even out of mercy.

If and if and if and if they don't get inside then the storm or the Grounders will come for them and if they survive that, it'll just be another mark, another cut and there's not room enough on her shoulders or her back of her body. It's not big enough and neither is her mind or her heart and her soul… if she's even still got that… is so far past the point of being marked…

Clarke stands and move across the clearing, the knife still in her hand and she wants to cut, she wants to add to the trail on her arm - one for Elena but they're not kill marks, no - but she can't, not with Monty there, not with his eyes on her.

His understanding eyes.

She heads for the woods, mumbling something about checking out a noise or some other such bullshit but Monty stops her, reaching out and catching her arm as she passes. Clarke looks down at him (at, not on, never that) and watches in shock as he reaches up and takes the knife from her hand.

He stares at it for a long moment, turning the blade over in his hand before gripping the hilt tightly. "Where?" he asks and Clarke shakes her head at him in confusion. "Where's good?" he asks, "where won't…" He trails off and ducks his head as she understands.

Where won't it hurt as much.

She panics and goes to take the knife but she's too late as he mutters a 'fuck it' and then draws the blade across the his palm, a short horizontal cut right at the base, across the bottom of his life line and he winces, hissing through clenched teeth as the blood bubbles up between the skin and brings the pain with it.

But that's it. He doesn't cry out, he doesn't curse and there's no tears in his eyes and he wipes knife across the leg of his pants, both sides twice - always thorough - and hands it back to Clarke. "No point," he says. "There was no point if it didn't hurt, right?"

It's all she can do to nod and that terrifies her more than anything, more than the sight of Dante dying at her hand, more than the memory of watching Lexa and her army - their last fucking chance - walk away, more than the sight of her mother on that table in the mountain or the nothing she felt when she killed Elena or the way her stomach clenches tighter with every step they take toward the door.

There's no point. No point if it doesn't hut.

That's what they've become.

And Clarke doesn't know what the fuck to do with that.

"You didn't have to."

It's been five or maybe ten or maybe forty minutes since Monty's first cut (and Clarke tries so hard to not think of how easily she thinks of it as the first) and despite the storm coming closer and the wind picking up, neither of them has moved.

She can't speak for Monty, but Clarke would almost welcome another Grounder. Another enemy, another target, another excuse to stay right where they are or maybe, finally, a reason to go in.

"You didn't have to," she says again. "The cut, I mean. You didn't… you haven't…"

You haven't killed. They're not kill marks but you didn't have to make one cause you haven't killed and that makes about as much sense as anything else down here.

"There was a guard," Monty says softly. "In there," he nods at the bunker and Clarke knows where this story's going. "They came to take us, to force us into being donors and Jasper… he had this plan." He shakes his head at the notion of Jasper with a plan or maybe at the idea that anyone (other than him) would actually follow it.

Crazy leaders and crazy plans and the ground makes both of them seem so fucking logical.

"It worked," Monty says and there's only a little surprise in his voice. "It bought us and you and Bellamy time and it probably saved our lives.' He squeezes his hand into a fist, the motion pushing another tiny rivulet of blood to the surface. "I killed one of them," he says. "One of the guards."

"He would have -"

"I know," Monty says, cutting her off. "I know it was him or me or us. I don't regret it, it had to be done, it was all part of the plan. But you said I hadn't and I have but… but this," he holds up his hand. "This isn't for him."

Clarke waits, giving him time and watching as he tips his head back against the tree and lets out a long shuddering breath.

"Her name was Mrs. Ryan and she hid us," he says. "Twelve of us. She protected us from Cage and his father and they came for her…"

Clarke knew, from what Bellamy had said, that some of the residents of Mount Weather had helped them, had shuffled them around, keeping them one step ahead of Cage and Emerson and off those fucking tables and away from the needles.

She knew Maya. And now she had another name, another name to go with a body but at least it wasn't one on Level Five and fuck… when did little details like that become good things?

"I couldn't have stopped them," Monty says and Clarke doesn't chime in, doesn't agree with him because he already knows he's right and that's so not the fucking point. "She died to protect us," he says. "And I let her. I let her die so I could warn the others that Cage knew about the Grounder army. I made sure her sacrifice wasn't in vain, that she died for something more than twelve delinquents hiding away in her home."

Sometimes, Clarke knows, that's all you can do. And someday, she hopes, that won't be true.

Monty looks at his hand, at the thin trail of blood dripping down to his wrist. "And then Lexa left. She took that army from inside and she took her soldiers and she walked away and left us there to die." He holds up his hand again. "This isn't for that guard or for Mrs. Ryan who, as it turns out, did die for nothing. Nothing but giving me a chance to find a way to kill everyone she ever knew, everyone she ever loved. If Cage and his men had never known she helped us, if they'd never found out about her, she'd still be just as dead and you know why?"

"Monty…"

She wants him to stop. But he can't and she knows it and maybe later that'll be just one more reason for one more cut.

Not maybe.

"She'd be just as dead because Lexa… the mighty Commander… made the hard choice," Monty says. "She picked her people over our and left us there to die so that her people could live, whether it was for a day or a week or a month. And I want to hate her for that Clarke, I want to find her and I want to kill her."

Clarke gets that. She really does.

Monty stands, leaning against the tree with his good hand. "I want to watch her die in front of me because she's why Mrs. Ryan is dead and she's why you're out here and she's why Jasper won't fucking look at me… can't look at me… not without seeing the face of some girl he knew for a fucking minute but loved anyway."

He walks toward the door and Clarke stands behind him.

"This isn't for Mrs. Ryan and it isn't for some nameless fucking guard and it isn't for Maya," Monty says. "And it's not for Lexa because she made the hard choice, because she chose her people over ours. We… you and me and Bellamy… we did the same damn thing. And I want Lexa dead, I want Heda's head on a fucking pile but I can't want that because I'm her and you're her and Bellamy is her."

He squeezes his hand into a fist at his side, staring at the door and the wind chooses that moment to settle and it's so quiet, Clarke can hear him breathe.

"This," Monty says, nodding down at his hand. "This is for us. Because we're just as dead as the rest of them. Maybe not today, maybe not in a week or a month or a year. But blood…"

His fist falls open at his side and he walks straight to the door and through it and never once looks back and he never finishes, he never says the words, but Clarke gets it anyway.

Blood must have blood.

And sooner or later, on the ground?

It always does.