They left when the Carrier returned from Mount Weather, after the sun had settled over the hills.

Clarke didn't know for certain if Kane would grant her the items she needed with much enthusiasm, but she'd instructed the Carrier to tell him that he had to demonstrate some level of trust in both her and the grounders if he wished for this alliance to hold. She wasn't, however, willing to take any supplies that would affect the Sky people's aid in war if it came early, and Raven could spare her only two grenades and a bomb.

But It was enough. It had to be.

Clarke refused to wait until morning to leave, and regardless of the increased risk, they disbanded that evening. She'd drawn up a charcoal map of the Ice Nation's layout in the council room which was now rolled and tucked away in her satchel. Clarke kept it close to her as they passed from beneath the statue, his eyes staring accusingly in her direction.

Very little was said for the few hours available to them, and Clarke rehearsed her strategy as they went, ensuring she didn't leave any holes in the fabric of it. When night fell and they made camp, she retrieved the map, spreading it beneath the small fire they'd made. It flickered over her drawing, almost tauntingly.

She hadn't shared her strategy with either Lincoln or Tyrell prematurely, in fear of being overheard by someone in Tondc. But out here, alone and hidden by the sylvan setting, there was little chance of it getting out somehow.

She sat on her knees, and kept her voice low. "The Ice Nation has six entrances that I know of," She told them, gesturing to her drawing. "The first leads to the soldiers barracks and below that is the armory. Their quarters connects directly to the Queens chambers, which is past the second entrance."

Images sprang to her mind, of cold hallways and shady rooms, decorated in a plethora of torches that cast wicked shadows over floors.

She pushed them away. "The third entrance opens to a guard station, then underneath that is the prisoner cells and finally, the torture chambers." Clarke kept her tone even as she said, "Which is where Bellamy will be. The fourth entrance is storage and both the fifth and sixth entrances are dedicated to the accommodations and civilian chambers."

She lifted her gaze to Lincoln's. "You and Tyrell will be the ones to get Bellamy out. He's probably injured and I can't carry him with only one of you."

Lincoln met her eyes, the flames dancing in his own. "And that leaves you where?"

Clarke thrummed her finger over entry one. She'd thought this through; every detail. "I'm going to sneak into the first entrance and blow up their armory."

Uncertainty flickered across Lincoln's face, but she elaborated. "It'll be dentrimental to their war efforts and it will offer a distraction for you to reach Bellamy."

Slowly and with some small hesitance, Lincoln nodded.

Tyrell studied her drawing. "That accounts for one grenade, but what about the other one? And the bomb?" he asked.

"I'll use one to blow on the surface, to draw out the guards in order to slip through. They'll access the armory if they think there's a threat which minimizes the chances of them locking it back up, allowing me to get past without using the bomb to blow the door."

Lincoln scrutinized her closely. "Why not use the bomb to blow the armory itself?"

"Because the bomb is more powerful than the grenade. And that in a roomful of gunpowder could cause the tunnels to cave in."

He must've agreed because Lincoln dropped his eyes to the map. "So what will the bomb be used for?"

"Getting to Bellamy is only half the feat," Clarke said. "You still have to get him out. I'll detonate the bomb in the soldiers' barracks, to keep the attentioncentered there and hopefully take out a few of their Warriors and Scouts in the process."

Tyrell finally looked at her, his blue irises a stark contrast to Lincoln's brown ones. "And we will rejoin at what point in this?" he inquired.

Clarke kept her finger over the first entrance. "After I plant the bomb. Between that and the first grenade, it should give you enough time to get him out. But this is where I need you both to listen," he voice turned cold. "And follow my orders exactly."

Lincoln looked back up and she met both of their gazes sternly. "If that bomb goes off before we meet up, you have to leave me behind. If you make it to the surface and don't see me, you leave. Get as far away as possible. The Ice Scouts already have a day on us, which means they will have dedicated 24 hours to torturing Bellamy by the time you get to him. He'll be slow and you can't afford to wait for me."

Lincoln narrowed his eyes and though he didn't say it, Clarke felt his disapproval over the concept, but he didn't touch on it. Clarke trusted his judgment, and if he didn't see much of an alternative, especially within their limits, she was confident in her thoroughness.

"What if you don't make it back?" he asked instead.

Again, Clarke had already considered this possibility. "Then you inform Indra and Mount Weather that their armory has been blown and if Indra insists she cannot lead the Grounders to fight, that the Sky People may have a chance to win this without their help."

"This isn't a one-person job," she added, sharing a look between them. "I need you both. We only have one shot at this."

Clarke could see their understanding and a part of her ached at the prospect of putting them in this position, but it was a call she would take all accountability for.

"I have something," Tyrell said, and Clarke looked at him curiously as he pulled off his bag. He dug a hand inside it and retrieved something in a fist. He held it over the fire to be seen clearly.

"White Baneberry," Tyrell breathed, and they peered at the purple beads nestled there. Forlornness crept into Clarke's gut and she looked him in the eyes. A sadness resonated inside her, but Tyrell's expression gave away nothing.

"They're toxic, aren't they," she asked, but it wasn't really a question.

"Deadly for those that consume it." His voice grew suddenly cold. "If we're caught, we must protect our knowledge and make sure the Ice Nation gets its hands on none of it."

"Nature's cyanide pills," Clarke murmured, staring at the small plant that harbored something so deadly.

She wanted to deny the necessity of them, but she couldn't deny Tyrell's reasoning. Apparently, Lincoln couldn't either and both him and Clarke extended their hands.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," she said, as one was dropped into her palm.

*******

The farther they went, the colder the air grew. The prickling chill slowly turned into a bitter wind, that stung Bellamy's skin and made his eyes water.

The Ice Scouts were relentless in their trek, stopping for no more than a few hours when evening approached, and leaving even before the sun shown from over the mountains. It was evident that that were in a hurry and that put Bellamy on edge.

His leg felt stronger and that was an advantage they had provided him; with it weak, escape would've been a greater challenge. Now, it was a much more tangible possibility.

At the first sign of improvement, they had made him walk. It helped with the cold, but worsened his discomfort. He thought the higher they got, the Ice Scouts would give him something to keep warm, but they didn't. They remained eerily silent around him, the only one to speak being the man who had delivered the threats.

Bellamy had already decided that he would be the one to take that man's life.

It was a few hours before dawn and Bellamy wrapped his arms tighter around himself, seeing his breath cling desperately to the air. "Don't you think it would be inconvenient to patch me up if you plan on just letting me die of hypothermia?" he asked when the walking no longer sufficed in helping circulate blood. Tremors shook his body and he tightened his arms until it was making it difficult to breathe.

No one bothered answering him, which he wasn't exactly surprised by. But the bitterness of the cold was making him bitter himself. No, that wasn't good enough. Bellamy wasn't bitter. He was enraged, as he stood surrounded by a band of remorseless killers. These were people who found justice in slaughtering a peaceful tribe in the dead of night. Who were so painfully unconcerned with tormenting a girl, until her back was practically deformed. Who thrived on the pain their victims endured, and built their empire on the bones of those they murdered.

Bellamy wanted them all gone. Stripped of their power, their position, their lives.

But he couldn't act on that here. It would have to be on a battleground, if his plan managed to go according to plan. It took time, though, and patience. But it came closer the farther they trekked. The cold would mitigate his speed, and quite possibly kill him, but it was better to slip easily into death on a mountain instead of begging for it with each tear of a blade.

He hoped to avoid either of those scenarios as he repeated his idea like a mantra in his mind. Surviving was what he did. It ran like the blood in his veins. Pounded with every beat of his heart.

And it grew louder as they walked, until it was cold enough for him to fake signs of hypothermia.

Bellamy made his breathing shallow and purposefully stumbled over a stone. Then over a branch. He feigned disorientation, until finally, he dropped to his knees, willing his eyes to look glazed in the dawning light.

The Ice Scout that had been the only one to speak stood behind him, and Bellamy heard his footsteps pause.

"Get up," he snarled, probing him in the back with some kind of hilt.

Bellamy tried, and pretended to slip again.

A hand shot out and slapped him on the shoulder. Fingers wrapped around it and the nails bit into his flesh. It took more effort to shy away from the man, every instinct in him instead aching to deliver the same punishment he'd delivered to Clarke.

The Ice Scout leaned in, so close until his breath wafted against Bellamy's cheek, strong and acrid. "Put him on the horse," he barked.

Another Ice Scout appeared, clutching a rein in his fist and more hands gripped around Bellamy as he was weaved on the stallion, hide as black as night. It would blend in perfectly in the evening, but would be a stain on a white sheet during the day.

Bellamy didn't object and he pulled himself up, trying to appear weary and half-frozen. He amped up the tremors, until his entirety was vibrating. But he was warmer than he had been in hours, his heart thumping like a drum in his chest.

This was his only chance.

He waited, until the men began walking again. One Ice Scout still held the reins and led the horse over the rocky terrain, but Bellamy was already working to loosen them. He didn't have much experience riding; very little to none in fact. His ability came second-hand from what he'd noticed with the Grounders and his own close proximity of the animals.

But it was the fastest means of getting away from here, so he'd learn quickly.

Bellamy noted the ground, curving upwards and strewn with large stones. Trees jutted around them and he waited until they became thicker again. Harder to see him. Harder to ride in, but the horse had eyes.

The Ice Scout behind him bit out a command, but Bellamy couldn't hear it over the roar of blood in his ears. His fingers loosened the reins buckle unsteadily, but he didn't let go, until they reached the thicker part of the trees.

Then everything happened in slow motion.

He let go of the straps holding the stirrups together. He latched one hand onto the stallion's neck, feeling the muscles lined there, and reached the other to slap its rear.

It let out a whinny and moved, throwing Bellamy backwards, but he held on, hearing an uproar sound behind him. The horse was moving up and Bellamy struggled to redirect its path, steering it to the right. The horse grazed a trunk and it struck against Bellamy's leg but he didn't feel it. Everything inside him sparked with fire in the freezing wind and he shouted at the horse again.

It obeyed and forced its legs faster, until it was noting more than a mass of rippling power thundering beneath him. Wind lashed against his face, and blurred his vision.

Gunshots splintered from behind him and Bellamy pulled the horse into a different direction, nearly pitching himself off its back.

More fires sounded, until his eardrums were pulled apart and left a dull ringing in his ears. But he didn't stop. He forced the horse faster, and faster-

Suddenly, the beast reared its head back as another flurry of bullets sought them, picking up its front legs. Bellamy lost his grip and the world smeared away as he fell back, his body slamming into the ground.

For five painful moments he fought for breath. Then he struggled to his feet, ignoring the spinning of the trees and sky. The horse let out another whinny before it jetted, shoveling dirt as it went.

Desperation surged inside him and Bellamy started running, in no particular direction, just what he hoped led away from them.

But the beating sounds of hooves started from behind, and Bellamy had barely managed to turn his head when some unseen force collided with him, knocking him to the forest floor once again. He scrabbled forward, digging his nails into the ground for leverage.

But fingers ensnared him, grabbing him back in a rough motion. They yanked him to his feet and then a hand clamped around his throat.

His breathing evaporated. Bellamy opened his mouth, but no air came and he suddenly felt like a fish out of water, gawping for a breath that wasn't there.

Eyes met his, cold and stony, unfeeling and inhuman as they stared into his. Time ceased to exist and Bellamy clawed at his hand, raking his own down the man's shoulder.

Then his hold vanished and Bellamy sucked in a painful gasp, burning his throat as he did. But the Ice Scout wasn't finished. He snagged Bellamy's gear jacket and pushed him down. He lifted a foot.

And swung.

A burst of fire hit Bellamy in the ribs, soon followed by another. And another. Each one knocked the breath from him and kept it away as more came, until a crack sounded in his head. Black spots exploded over his vision and they collected like patchwork, expanding over his vision until the ground disappeared beneath him and a fragment of words sputtered like fire before being snuffed out.

Do not go gentle into that good night.