Clarke tromps through the brush, hands tight on her gun, following what looks like a deer path into the undergrowth. She doesn't care how much noise she's making and barely pays attention to where she's going. Why does he have to be so…frustrating?

How are they supposed to find the trail, let alone catch up to everyone if he delays them with a swim? She knows it's hot out, that she's tired and that the lake looked more than inviting. It would have been easy to follow Bellamy into the water. But that niggling sense of worry over reaching the Summer Grounds before the West River reached capacity held her back.

Besides, if they were both swimming who was going to keep watch? They might be within Trikru territory but they were closer to the border and with current tensions she didn't trust the other clans not to test boundaries.

Her pack's straps dig into her shoulder as she tries to scramble up an incline only to fall on her ass. Huffing she leans back against her overstuffed pack, sweat trailing down her neck and underneath her shirt. For a moment it's too hot to breath. She wipes her hands on her pants, sweat making her gun grip slick.

She slowly stands, the pain in her back like a ripple spreading to every muscle. Her knees protest as she clenches her jaw. The one benefit of tonight will be taking off her pack and collapsing into whatever unconsciousness she can achieve. The anxiety about arriving before River rise, worry over losing the group and keeping an eye out for Azgeda had frayed her nerves. She was trying not to jump at every sound as they picked their way through the forest but lack of sleep was pressing up against the edge of her sanity. Her jaw cracks a yawn as she pushes on further into the woods.

Finally focused back on her initial reason for leaving the lake, she follows the twisting trail looking for recent tracks. But it ends abruptly at a jagged rock face covered in lichen. She squints up at the top and because she values her own life, determines it's too high to climb. Instead she strikes off into the bush. Her boots tromp over detritus and under low-hanging branches. As she brushes past a bush peppered with thorns she ends up entangled, her hair snarled, her skin punctured.

As she spits out a plethora of swears, a startled flock of birds burst from a tree, winging away from her. She tries to pull herself free and ignores the pain as she tries to step away from the bush. Her teeth clench she tries to muscle through the fire on her scalp but finds herself well and truly stuck. Unable to drop her pack she shucks her gun instead and reaches up to feel around at the branch her hair is stuck on. Above her head she can't quite see what she's doing and stabs herself several times on the bush. The branch itself is too thick to break, leaving her to slowly break off each individual thorn. This prompts more blood and swearing but she uses the time and each thorn to name every bone in the body. It keeps her focused and her mind off the pain.

Her brow beads with sweat as she shifts her pack, her clothing near soaked through as she finally frees her hair. Under her breath she growls, grabs her gun and stalks off, this time taking more care to avoid thorn bushes. Now somewhat lost, she squints up at the canopy, unable to orient herself thanks to the foliage obscuring the sun. It had been the same ever since walking into the valley bottom three days ago.

As she scans the forest floor she spots a patch of fleawort and stops dead. For a long moment she stares at the bright yellow flowers before dumping off her pack. Bellamy would kill her if he knew what she was doing. Plants were the entire reason they'd fallen behind and lost the group.

"But he's not here and he's never going to find out."

She smirks and pulls out her knife. The fresh smell of green wafts over her as does a bright smile with every stem cut. Unintentionally she starts humming, long and low. It's not a song she knows, just a collection of random notes to keep her company while she tries to overstuff her pack. Again.

A green stain on the hands is the only evidence of her crime. The knife wipes clean on her pants and without a soul around there's no one to argue. The only problem is going to be hefting the thing back onto her shoulders. Fortunately there's a tree handy. She braces the pack against the trunk, pulls on the straps and staggers off as she readjusts to the weight.

Some minutes later she stumbles down a hill. On the bright side she's found another trail but it's tempered by the fact that she's now ankle deep in mud. With every step she sinks several inches into a drying morass of muck that paints her pant cuffs brown. The entire area has turned marshy with the smell of hot earth and decaying plant life. While it slows her down it also gives her hope for finding tracks. The tedium is often interrupted by birdsong and rustling leaves, just enough noise to make her jumpy.

As she squelches down the trail she keeps an eye out for any sign of the group. There! She plants her gun and slowly kneels. Calloused fingers brush the edge of the track. It hasn't softened with time, meaning whomever passed by did so recently. And while she can't be sure whose it is, she can narrow it down. Her eyes flit from tree to tree, looking for the mark they agreed on in case of separation. When she can't find it, worry creeps closer with the thought that the tracks belong to someone else. If Azgeda is here she won't stand much of a chance by herself.

Without any other sign she heads back to where the tracks came from, eager to either find a mark or head back to the lake. Her balance wobbles with every step, mud sucking at her heels. At one point she's forced to flail and drops her gun in the mud. The splatter kicks up into her face.

"Shit."

She snaps her head back, nearly falling as she blinks in pain, unable to see through the mud in her eyes. A quick wipe to the face only smears everything as she tears up, eyes stinging as she bends down to feel around for her gun. Snugly embedded in the trail, she pulls it free and cleans it off as best she can. Her sleeve serves as a towel as she drags it over her eyes before continuing.

There's no joy for several minutes but then she sees it. Crudely scratched onto a trunk is a "100", courtesy of Jasper via Octavia, an in joke that no other Grounder is likely to know or use. She can't help but smile in relief. They had passed this way after all! Now she only needs to get back to the lake, grab Bellamy and hope they can catch up before dark. If she's learned anything from Lincoln it's that safety in numbers grows in importance the further you are from home.

But which way was the lake? Clarke follows her own prints back to the edge of the trail, hands slipping on her muddy gun as she climbs back into the bush. Fortunately her messy foray through the woods left a trail of destruction. It takes some time though as her path is more meandering than direct. It's an agonizing walk, stuck following her own tracks when all she wants is to race back so they can leave.

After what feels like an eternity she bursts from the treeline, overheated, sweaty and covered in mud. Right now she just wants to catch up with the group and get out of this damn forest. She looks up and down the shoreline and scans the lake but Bellamy is nowhere in sight.

So instead she shucks her pack and walks to the water's edge. She stares at the far shore, willing him to appear. When he doesn't she crouches to dip her hands in the water. It's cold enough to sting as she washes the mud free, a cloud around her fingers. Next her face. The mess in her hair and on her clothes will have to stay.

There's no doubt Bellamy took a dip. She can even see his tracks leading up to the water. But where could he have gone? Is he napping somewhere in the shade? It seems more likely as his clothes and gun gone but without any tracks to indicate where she's stuck looking for him.

"Fuck."

Would he have left without her? He was worried enough when it was just the two of them stuck in the woods and now she's to believe he's left her all alone? No; if he was willing to follow her through the bush for three hours no way would he leave after she spent half an hour tromping around looking for a trail. Maybe he'd left to go look for her. She sighed and made a face. Now they were both lost AND separated.

Since he hasn't found her yet it seems best to wait. So she fights the urge to look for him. Instead she slumps onto a nearby log and stretches, trying to ignore the pinch in her back as she rolls her shoulders. Slowly she picks away at her bootlaces, working at a knot until she can yank them off along with her socks. Her toes finally free, she steps into the water and wiggles them. It's a welcome balm against the ache of the day.

Torn with indecision she weighs her options. Does she search for the group and bring someone back to fetch him or does she wait for him to inevitably come back, leaving the group to move further and further away? Jaha's migration plan really was the shits, with the proof evident here and now as she tries to decide on the least bad option. The choice is obvious really, she's not going to abandon Bellamy and leave him to wonder where she went. But how to find him?

She wades up and down the shore but as the light starts to fade into late afternoon she gets antsy. Surely if she just walks the shoreline she'll be able to spot him. Drying her feet with her socks, she jams them back into her boots and grabs the nearest stick she can find. A quick message scratched out on the hard sand should be enough if he shows up. And as her pack will only hinder any search she leaves it beside the log, trusting that in her absence it won't disappear.

"Unlike some people," she mutters.

With a deep sigh she starts to walk, following the shore as best she can, hopping over fallen logs and skirting small pools of water. She scans the woods and the opposite shore, looking for traces of him. The gloom of dusk gathers around her as tall trees stand like pillars of night against the sun.

In the distance she spots a dark mass on the beach. Unmoving and silent it could easily be harmless but in her experience it could also be a wild animal or Grounder trap. Nervous, she shoulders her gun and slowly creeps towards it. She eyes the steady rise and fall of its chest. Whatever it is, it's alive and soaking wet.

Without warning the creature lurches to its feet and turns, catching her eye. It jumps towards her, barking. Its teeth white and sharp as she stumbles back, falling on her ass in the sand. Her brain recognizes the animal as a dog and she tries to remain calm but her body won't obey as it barrels towards her. Muscle memory overrides fears as she raises her gun and pulls the trigger.

.oOo.

The cold grit of the shore is what he feels first as he wakes. Face down on the sand Bellamy blinks, his head spinning as if he were tumbling end over end all the while lying still. The world is sideways as he tries to keep from vomiting, his head feeling twice its normal size. He sits up and tries to turn everything the right way up again. It's much akin to his first hangover only so much worse. Back then he'd downed the swill David had snuck into the promotion party, wheezing at the kick as it went down.

Now he's convinced his eyeballs are going to burst and his brains are going to leak out his ears. Pushing himself to his feet he stumbles, legs wobbly as he tries to ignore the brackish taste in his mouth. As he turns he sees Clarke walking towards him. He stumbles, ears ringing as he moves to meet her.

"Clarke! You were right about the lake. Don't go swimming. It'll give you a hell of a headache."

But she doesn't respond. In fact her face is pale, her eyes wide. Why is her gun raised; why does she look so-