[ what've you been doing for three weeks, clarke? the words sting; she's been trying, trying so hard, and she's come up with nothing. clarke can't fix this. she can't fix anything, not without hurting too many people along the way. all she's done since leaving camp is run from her mistakes. every bad feeling that she's repressed for the last three weeks is bubbling at the surface, threatening to burst out of her. they're like white-hot magma, and she fears they'll leave burns that won't ever heal. ]

The Mountain Men are dead.

[ it comes out of her mouth unbidden, blurted quickly before she can stop it. anya's reprimanding makes anger rise in her chest, a tight, awful sensation; she wants to prove i did something. i tried, but she regrets it right after it's said. it's not a subject she wishes to discuss. ]

I irradiated Mount Weather. [ i, not we. no one is to blame for what happened except her. she alone carries the burden of taking so many lives. ] I was taken when I left camp afterwards.

[ her face is grim, her voice husky through gritted teeth. she ran because she wanted to forget what she did. now it's all catching up to her. bitterly, she adds, ] Your people got out before mine did.