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chapter nineteen!
BURNING BRIDGES
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IT'S RAVEN WHO attempts to help Ares before the virus can get into his system. Since they have no idea if the virus is spread through the skin's pores or through inhalation, she decides to sterilize his neck. She has him pull off his coat and hoodie until he's left in only his t-shirt, then dumps alcohol on the back of his neck and into the bits of blood that had gotten stuck in his curls.

"Your hair is getting too long," she says as he shivers from the cool temperature of the liquid, goosebumps rising on his skin. The sharp tang of alcohol fills the tent. "I can help you cut it."

"If it ends up looking anything like Collins' hair, no thanks," he teases, still hunched over so she can reach his neck. "You almost done?"

"Yeah," she answers. "Since we got it right away, that should hopefully help. I saw Clarke do that to Finn and he isn't showing any symptoms." She twists the lid back onto the thermos and hands him a rag to wipe his skin. As he does and stands up straight, he notices a frown pulling down her lips. "So someone just purposely coughed on you?"

"I'm not exactly anyone's camper of the year," Ares reminds her.

"Still. That's low. Especially since you're easily our best shot— you're our best defense against the Grounders if they do attack tomorrow."

He raises his scarred eyebrow with a small grin. "Is that a compliment?"

"Don't make me take it back."

Ares had put Myles on guard duty so he could help Raven craft bullets. Since they're preparing for an attack, they need all the ammunition they can get if they hope to win. Or to even hold the Grounders off for long.

He notices her staring at something and follows her gaze. Ares has rarely worn nothing but this shirt in front of her, so she has never seen the plethora of scars lacerating his bare arms. They're raised bumps of white skin that interrupt his natural tan — the prolonged exposure to the sun is steadily making it darken — and they're ugly. Some are jagged. Some curved. Ares remembers how he'd gotten every single one of them.

"My eyes are up here," he jokes. Raven quickly averts her gaze from his arms and busies herself with organizing the table inside the cramped tent, her cheeks slightly rosy. He smirks as he tugs his hoodie back on and shrugs his jacket over his shoulders just as Blake arrives.

"Got you some helpers," he announces, allowing Monty, Jasper, and Harper to enter the tent. He warily eyes Ares. "You got him sterilized?"

"As if the smell of alcohol wasn't enough to tell us that," Monty replies, nose scrunched at the sharp scent. "It's like he bathed in it."

The group gathers around the table, so close they're practically shoulder-to-shoulder in the tiny ammunitions tent — if it can even be called that. It's held up by some sticks wedged into the dirt and one of the parachute scraps had been thrown over them. As a result, the blue-and-white fabric rustles with the wind, forcing them to work in tight quarters.

"By the way, Ortega," Blake says as Monty hands him a finished gun. "Evan told me about what you did. You can't just go around stabbing people who don't do as you asked."

Ares rolls his eyes. "I didn't stab him. I lightly slashed his skin so he couldn't shoot me or anyone else in the head."

"Still. Don't do it again."

Ares grumbles some choice words under his breath that Blake doesn't hear. His fingertips are still smarting from the burns he'd received from the radio's wires earlier that day, but he ignores the pain and continues packing gunpowder into the bullet shell casings. It's monotonous work.

"There's five to a clip," Blake reminds them. "Let's go. We need to get these guns on the wall."

"Why just five?" Monty questions.

Raven answers, "We're running out of gunpowder."

Ares can't help but feel like this entire thing is futile. Five bullets to a clip aren't going to do them much good. And with kids who have barely managed to pass target practice against people who have trained to be killers all their lives? There's only one way this can go. They need something bigger.

They need a bomb. They have the hydrazine. But they can't just dip rocks in it and chuck them around— they need a plan.

As he thinks, clearing his throat, the conversation continues on among the teenagers.

"Oh, we are so dead," Harper groans in response to Raven's words.

"Don't worry," Jasper says with a smooth grin, tossing a wink at her. "I got your back."

Monty scoffs at his attitude. Ares feels inclined to agree— it's cringeworthy seeing Jasper act all high and mighty over something he didn't start. It's clear that Monty feels the same way. The boy is quiet, yet his anger is loud, pulling his mouth down into a frown and making his brows pinch as he works. His stiff movements convey more words than his mouth could.

Jasper turns toward his friend, all traces of amusement gone. "Got something to say?"

"Hey, guys," Raven says sharply. "Stay focused. We need as many rounds done by dawn as we can."

"It won't matter if there's no one left who can shoot," Collins says, appearing out of nowhere to burst into the tent. Ares is forced to take a step into Raven to make room for him. "What do we need to build a bomb?"

Ares stifles a groan. Of course someone would voice his idea before he has a concrete plan— and Peacemaker Collins, of all people.

"Depends on what you're trying to blow up," Raven replies, but Ares can tell she's intrigued.

Collins wets his lips, briefly surveying the close proximity between Ares and Raven before asking, "How about a bridge?"

"What are you talking about?" Blake inquires.

"Murphy says he crossed the bridge on his way back here from the Grounders' camp. Sound familiar?"

Ares' brows draw in close. Damn it. Collins wants to slow down the attack, and eradicating the bridge would be the perfect way to deter them. Why couldn't he think of that? It's like his brain is muddled, working slower than normal.

Blake nods, still not catching his drift. "Yeah. So what?"

"So, the virus is fast," Collins says. "He's already getting better. Blowing the bridge won't stop the attack, but the longer we can delay it, the more of us will be able to fight."

"Even if Murphy is telling the truth — and that's a big if — that bridge has survived a nuclear war and 97 years of weather."

Raven raises a confident brow, squaring her shoulders. "It won't survive me."

The thought comes to Ares unexpectedly like a sucker punch, barreling into him just as hard: he's never wanted to kiss someone more.

He clears his throat again, furrowing his brows when the slight itch doesn't go away. Monty glances at him in concern from his left. Ares drops the shell casing in his hand and pounds a fist onto his chest in an attempt to release the cough he so desperately needs.

Instead, he's met with Collins' horrified, widened eyes. "Ortega, your nose."

Ares feels something wet on his face and reaches up. A steady trickle of blood is leaking from one of his nostrils, staining his fingertips and slowly trickling down into the creases in his palm.

His mind shuts down.

Ares hears nothing but ringing in his ears as he stares at his hand in horror, watching the blood drip from his nose and onto his skin in a kind of sick fascination. Even as Monty and Jasper back away from him, he continues standing as still as a statue, frozen as if his feet are glued to the ground.

Someone ushers him out. He thinks it's Raven, the only person in that tent who could possibly understand why he's acting like this. Then, when he makes it outside and instinctively wipes beneath his nose, smearing more crimson onto his skin until it embeds in his pores, his vision blurs in and out. Colors are too sharply saturated. The usually muted hues of the woods have dialed up times ten, piercing his eyes like he's staring directly into the sun and causing him to groan.

"Ortega," someone's voice reverberates in his skull. It sounds like Blake. "Get to the dropship."

Ares' head spins, but it's not from the virus. The dirt and sky swirl together in a nauseating fashion until he collapses near the trunk of a tree, pulling his knees to his chest as the blood from his nose drips onto his jacket.

No, no. Not his clothes. He can't handle a crimson stain on him. Even when he'd fought Murphy and broken his nose, he'd managed to keep the red off of him due to Clarke's instructions. What had she said then? Plug it, tilt your head down, not up—

His thoughts scatter right when he has a solid grip on them. Someone heaves him to his feet, but he still can't see, so he's like a dead weight in their grip. His chest heaves with painfully shallow breaths that are too rapid for his brain to register. Panic. His body is flooding with it, his senses flying to high alert in an attempt to keep him alive. All it's doing is making him feel worse. His ribcage feels like it's being crushed, bones collapsing in on his heart that's still beating so fast—

"Ares!" Kiernan's voice calls from several feet away. His voice is nearly drowned out by the irregular thud, thud, thud of Ares' thundering heartbeat roaring in his ears.

"Adams, what are you doing?" Blake's voice asks. "You should be in the dropship."

"Blood's not mine. It's his."

Ares blinks hard. Two blurry figures come into view. One is definitely Kiernan, and he's holding up another, taller boy by throwing his arm around his shoulders to carry most of his weight. The person has bronze skin and dark hair, blood spurting from his mouth. Oliver— the boy who had flirted with Ares on Unity Day.

Kiernan's face is splattered with red like his freckles, and yet he shows no signs of panic. "Clarke thinks some people are immune. Judging by the fact that he's the fourth person to spit blood on me and I'm fine, I think I'm one of them. Need help?"

"Not yet," Blake replies. Ares' hearing turns fuzzy for a moment. "I've got him for now. Get Walsh to the dropship and then come back."

His vision is hazy again, so he can only guess that Kiernan had followed those orders. He hears Oliver's deep, ragged coughs grow fainter as they leave. It twists his stomach until his mouth goes dry. Acid burns the back of his throat. Then he drops to his knees and hurls blood onto the forest floor, splattering it over the dirt.

"It's getting faster," Blake says in a troubled tone. "Sterilization didn't work. Raven, we need to go to the crash site. Now. Before any of us get infected."

Raven's voice answers from behind him, "I'll get my spacesuit."

Ares' throat burns. The blood from his mouth has now splashed onto the backs of his hands, and if he wasn't too busy throwing his guts up, he may have already started screaming. His chest heaves with uneven pants, but he's barely able to take more than a few shallow breaths before he vomits again. It feels like someone is forcing gasoline up his esophagus. Instead of the external pain he's used to, this is more like being shredded from the inside as if someone had taken a chainsaw to his internal organs.

"I'm back!" Kiernan announces breathlessly. His footfalls are quick, signifying running. His arms wrap around Ares' middle and heave him up. Similarly to how he'd been carrying Oliver, he slings one of Ares' arms around his shoulders and helps him walk. Since his vision hasn't cleared yet, they stumble more often than not. The uneven ground doesn't help. The journey to the dropship seems to last forever, but then they're finally sweeping aside the tarp in front of the entrance and staggering inside.

Kiernan finds a clean cot and eases Ares onto it. "Lie on your side in case you get sick. You could choke if you don't. I'll find a bucket."

Ares seizes the boy's sleeve before he can stand. "My hands." His voice is hoarse already, eyes beginning to droop. Christ, this virus is working faster. "Blood — get it off my hands—"

Kiernan doesn't ask questions. He merely produces a cloth out of nowhere and dips it into some water, scrubbing Ares' hands for him. Normally, he would insist on doing everything by himself, but he figures he'll throw up again if he moves. So, instead, he turns his head to the side and notices Nate lying in the cot beside him, beanie nowhere to be found and blood smeared beneath his eyes.

"Sup?" Nate questions weakly.

Ares doesn't respond, instead turning to the opposite side to vomit over the edge of the cot. Kiernan wrinkles his nose in disgust but doesn't complain at the mess. Instead, he finishes wiping Ares' hands and leaves to grab the bucket he'd mentioned earlier.

It's astonishing how quickly Ares' symptoms had progressed. He'd been coughed on barely an hour ago. If Murphy had arrived last night, then it had taken at least seven hours for the first four people to show symptoms. But how many of them were exposed to them before they knew about the virus? How many of them had been infected for hours without knowing?

Ares' thundering heartbeat begins to slow as he calms down from his attack. His face is damp and sticky. He has no way of seeing his reflection, so he has no idea what his skin looks like, but if the others had been any indication, it's probably paler than usual.

Kiernan returns with the bucket and places it near Ares' head. After several minutes of nearly non-stop vomiting, which only consists of blood, the riot in his stomach seems to calm down. He feels nothing but fatigue. His eyelids are heavier than they've ever been and pulse with exhaustion, the blood covering his face starting to dry with time. He plops his head down on the thin pillow and then remembers Kiernan's warning.

He turns onto his side to prevent choking, noticing that Nate's eyes are closed. At first, he thinks his friend is sleeping, but then his cracked lips open and he begins speaking so quietly that Ares has to strain to hear him.

"How'd we get here, Res?" Nate asks. Ares is confused, wondering if he's that disoriented that he doesn't remember getting into the dropship, until he continues, "We were just two sons of bitches locked in a cell a month ago. A month, man. We were staring at the ceiling, counting down the days until your retrial on your eighteenth birthday, remember? Now we're so sick we can barely move, in the middle of a war, on a planet we thought was soaked with radiation."

A month? It hardly seems like it's only been that long, but he's right. Their first day on Earth was September thirteenth. Thirty days ago, they had indeed been thinking about what would happen on Ares' birthday. Would the retrial be a success? Or would he get launched into space with everyone still thinking he was a murderer? That thought had plagued him for weeks, granting him many sleepless nights where he was forced to listen to Nate's rambling.

Ares doesn't think he can speak right now without risking another fit, so he merely nods, the action seeming to zap him of his energy.

"We'll make it, though," Nate promises. "We always do. We didn't survive this long to be killed by some stomach bug, okay? So if you wanna die... don't."

Ares huffs a small laugh through his nose. Great advice, Nate.

His friend nestles deeper into the cot, arms crossed. The blood on his face is so faded that Ares assumes his vomit episode had ended hours ago. How long had he been in here? When did he get sick? Ares isn't sure, and it almost makes him feel guilty. He'd been so busy...

"Well, I'm going to sleep. You should try, too," Nate says. "Love you, Res. Don't die."

Ares freezes. He doesn't dare to breathe. For a moment, he wonders if he'd heard him wrong, but as he replays the sentence over and over in his mind, there's no doubt that Nate had said it. Love you, Res. So casual. Like it was a natural thing to say, like it hadn't knocked the wind out of Ares' chest and left him internally floundering like a fish out of water.

Love you, Res. Does Nate know that he's the first person to say that to him in ten years? Is he aware that the last time he'd heard someone tell them they loved him, it had been his mother, right before she left them? Can he sense that Ares' heart is imploding in on itself, concaving until it feels like he'll burst?

He's rendered speechless for several moments. By the time he regains his senses, Nate is already asleep.

Ares turns to his other side and tucks his face into his arms so nobody can see him cry.

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The virus is annoying. Ares wakes from his nap covered in sweat and shivering, every shape around him blurry. His eyelids feel glued shut. He has to fight to pry them open, then immediately squeezes them shut again once his swirling vision makes his stomach turn.

A familiar shape walks into his line of vision. It's Clarke — standing, now, and much more coherent than she'd been earlier. Though her face is still colorless and her blonde hair had fallen out of its pins, she seems better. She lays a gentle hand on his forehead and then immediately replaces it with a damp cloth.

"You're still burning up," she tells him, voice softer than he's ever heard her speak to him. Even when Blake had knocked him out and she'd revived him, she hadn't been this patient. "How are you feeling?"

Ares' entire mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. It's dry from heaving up so much blood, the coppery taste of it still lingering on his tongue. When he tries to move his cracked lips, he can manage nothing more than an agonized groan.

Clarke sighs. "Yeah, that's what I figured. Do you think you can hold water down?"

It pains him to do so, but he successfully makes a tiny nod that he's impressed Clarke even sees. She produces a small tin with water.

"Kiernan, help me sit him up," she orders. The boy comes up behind Ares, so he can't see him, but he feels Kiernan's hands on his shoulders and near the back of his head to hold him in place. Clarke brings the tin to his lips and slowly tilts it. The water is tasteless, but it helps, and he feels a million times better as they lie him back down.

As they ease him back onto his pillow, Ares' head turns enough to look at Nate's cot beside him. Or, rather, what had been Nate's cot — it's empty now, and for some reason, the sight of him gone with no explanation is enough to shock him so badly his entire body jerks.

Clarke jumps in response to his movement. Her eyes — still faintly rimmed with red — follow his gaze and rest on the empty bed. "Miller recovered while you were asleep. I asked him to leave to make room for the other people who are sick. He's fine."

Ares' body relaxes upon hearing this information. He wordlessly closes his eyes, hating everything about this illness. The fact that he's still cold under three layers, how he feels like his entire body is sticky, how his curls are plastered to his forehead, and how his skin is pale as death, even if he can only see his hands. His veins are more prominent than ever. He feels like a zombie who had just risen from the dead.

Kiernan leaves to tend to Oliver, who feebly requests water. Ares opens his eyes to see Clarke about to walk away as well, but he stops her by awkwardly jerking his body and making an odd grunting sound. She pauses and turns back to face him.

He wets his lips and forces words to come out of his hoarse throat, slowly but surely. "Thank... you."

Clarke's lips lift into the tiniest of grins before her face schools itself into neutrality again. "No problem. Keep resting."

Ares drifts in and out of consciousness over the next several hours, sometimes feeling worse and sometimes feeling a little bit better each time he wakes. The slumber is so deep it feels like dying each time he drifts off. Even so, he can't stop thinking about what Nate had said. Love you, Res. But Ares hadn't been able to say it back. Maybe, once upon a time, the words had come easily to him. Now, however, after so long, he wonders if he even knows what love is.

What does it mean to love? Does it mean butterflies in your stomach? Maybe it's being comfortable with someone who knows all of your flaws and still chooses to stick around. Maybe it's knowing that, without that person, you're incomplete — only half of yourself. Is it a constant, mind-numbing sensation? A pounding of the heart? Or is it just a chemical? A thing that humans choose to make stupid decisions in the name of?

Ares doesn't know if he loves his own father. Maybe he used to, but that feeling had been dulled by the years of neglect and the constant stench of alcohol that had lingered in their cramped living quarters. He remembers a time when he looked at Castor and didn't feel an all-consuming rage, but he can't remember what it felt like to love him.

Maybe love is heartbreak. It's the splintering sensation of seeing his mother with another man. It's the confusion when she'd left for a few days, then a few months, then the crippling pain of realizing she was never coming back. Maybe it's something he'd taken for granted. Maybe he doesn't realize he loves someone until they're gone.

He doesn't even know if his mouth can form the words I love you. It feels unnatural on his tongue even when he thinks about it, like speaking in a language he isn't familiar with. He runs the words over in his mind. Te quiero. Now he's just thinking of his mother. He can hear it in her voice.

Had she loved him? Or was that just a lie? Because surely, if she had loved him, she wouldn't have left. She had claimed to love his father, and look how that turned out.

Ares decides that he won't tell anyone until he figures it out. He's been a liar his whole life. One way or another, he's always concealing the truth, even from the things he says to the way that he walks, but he finds that this is different. This is the one thing he doesn't want to lie about.

By the trillionth time he's woken from his slumber, the deep ache in his bones has finally subsided. His skin still feels disgusting, but he's not producing any more sweat, and he can safely reach up and finger-comb his curls away from his face without cringing in disgust.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows and blinks in confusion. The dropship is dark— night must have fallen. Instead of the sunlight that had been leaking through the tarp that covers the entrance before, all of the lanterns have been turned on and dispersed throughout the ground floor. Shadows creep from all angles. As they spread around the sick people still lying on the various cots strewn around the floor and hammocks tied to poles, it makes the dropship seem eerie.

Some people seem to be taking longer to heal than others. Connor is still motionless, fresh blood surrounding his mouth as Murphy of all people eases him onto his side. Octavia is tending to her brother. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Blake looks like hell— his normally bronze skin is zapped of its color, crimson leaking from his nostrils and staining his teeth. She gently wipes his sweating brow with a cloth.

Kiernan appears an instant later, holding a tin cup of water directly in front of Ares' face. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah," Ares says, his voice raspy. He accepts the cup and downs the lukewarm liquid, cringing at the slightly metallic taste. It soothes his parched throat and eases the sting of speech like medicine over a cut.

Kiernan looks like he's been working in the dropship non-stop. The dark circles under his eyes have become even more prominent, spreading shadows onto his pale skin. His blond hair is tousled, hands stained pink from cleaning up other people's blood. Ares winces. Some of that had been his own.

"Got you cleaned up while you were sleeping," Kiernan tells him. "No blood. Bellamy told me you had some sort of fit when you saw it."

Ares glances toward their leader. He's clutching onto Octavia like a lifeline, his usually intimidating presence muted by the obvious signs of illness. He hadn't thought anyone would have noticed that his hysteria had been caused by the sight of blood on his hands. Most people would have dismissed it as symptoms of the virus, but evidently, Blake had seen past that. And had also told Kiernan so he could make sure Ares wouldn't relapse into another attack.

A tiny part of him feels grateful. Not that he'll ever tell Blake that.

Instead, he turns back to Kiernan and says, "Thanks."

The blond boy nods. His blue eyes lock onto something behind Ares, making him say, "Oliver's up. Gotta bring him something to drink, too."

Ares turns around to see the dark-haired boy struggling to sit up on his cot. His elbow covers his mouth as he coughs, hazel skin still damp with droplets of sweat. Kiernan rushes over to him with a new tin of water that Oliver downs in a single gulp. When he hands it back, his gaze locks onto Ares. His hand lifts in a small wave. Ares returns the gesture, then shakily gets to his feet.

He definitely still feels weak and his sense of balance remains a bit off-kilter, but he's able to walk toward the exit successfully. His fist rubs at his tired eyes as he goes. But then, a quiet call of, "Ortega," has him turning toward an unexpected source: Blake.

The leader is looking at him as Octavia continues to clean up his blood-splattered face. This is the most defeated Ares has ever seen him. His brown eyes are a bit misty as if they're flooding with tears— tears of fear, Ares realizes. All of Blake's walls are down. Now, instead of looking at the insufferable guy who had manipulated all of them into removing their wristbands for personal gain, he's staring down at a young man who's scared just like everyone else.

Blake wets his lips, his voice coming out rough as he struggles to say, "Jasper was going to fire the shot to set off the bomb. If you're feeling better... can you do it?"

Ares considers this. The Grounders are supposed to attack at first light. He isn't sure what time it is, now, but by the time he makes it to the bridge, he should make a full recovery. That means he'll be more than capable of taking the shot.

He nods. "I got it."

"Thanks."

Ares never thought he'd have such a short and civilized conversation with Blake. This day is too weird for him to handle, so he exits the dropship without another word and heads toward the water supply tent. He finds several younger kids in there washing the dishes — probably the cups used for bringing water to the infected — and all of them freeze upon seeing him. He rolls his eyes but mutely fills one of the containers with water, then splashes it on his face. The cool temperature shocks his nerves, giving him a burst of energy.

"Here," he says, shoving the container back into a kid's hand and leaving without another word. There's no time to waste. He needs his gun and the bomb.

It feels like a race against time as he retrieves his rifle from his tent and heads back out into the open air. Dusk has indeed fallen, dousing the camp in darkness and causing a few people to light campfires and torches. Even though the area is relatively quiet, there's no mistaking the fear lingering in the air. Shit. They won't stand a chance if he doesn't blow up that bridge. They're just a bunch of kids with mediocre weaponry skills. Without something to slow the Grounders down, they'll all die.

Ares would prefer not to be slaughtered tomorrow.

"Where's Jasper?" he asks Monroe, who's stationed near the camp's main gate.

The girl shrugs, one of her rust-colored braids falling over her shoulder. Sterling is the one who answers, "He and Finn left about twenty minutes ago. Raven walked out with a huge bag a few hours before that."

Ares' eyes nearly bug out of his head. "Did she say where she was going?"

"She's going to build the bomb," Monty's voice replies from behind him. "By herself."

Ares curses violently. He instantly takes off in a sprint out of camp, pushing the gate open without a backward glance at the Gunners stationed there. Sterling's call of, "Ortega, where are you going?" follows him, but he doesn't answer.

Shit. He can hardly see. Even though he's been in the forest over a handful of times in the dark, his space-born ass still isn't used to the countless trees that block his path. The last time he'd left camp to go to the bridge at night, it had been well past first light when they'd arrived. But he certainly hadn't sprinted all the way there, which is exactly what he's doing now.

He hasn't moved this fast since the Grounders had been hunting them as they'd searched for Octavia. His body isn't very accustomed to so much exercise, so he quickly develops a painful stitch in his side, hindering his breathing. The chill night air whistles in his ears. Heavy pants burst from his lips with every slam of his feet against the packed dirt. His mind whirls in an attempt to remember the route to the bridge. Everything looks the same at night, blending together in a tangled mess of shadows and scattered fragments of moonlight. His heartbeat is a heavy slam that struggles to keep up with his breakneck speed.

Ares hadn't even brought a torch. He squints in the pitch-darkness, narrowly avoiding collision with trees in his haste. His fingers scrape against the rough bark as he pushes himself around the towering beasts and stumbles on his feet. Weak. He's still so weak. He shouldn't feel this tired already, but even with all the rest he'd gotten today, he still feels at risk of collapsing. That stupid virus—

A startled cry bursts from his lips when the terrain abruptly drops into a ditch that he couldn't see in the darkness. His feet fly out from under him. He lands hard on the ground, legs crumpling from his weight and forcing him to roll several feet in the dirt. The end of his gun rams into his abdomen as he tumbles and nearly knocks the breath out of him. Instead of letting that slow him down, he uses the momentum to clamber back to his feet and keep running.

Now the ache in his body has returned. He must have rolled onto a few rocks or something, because there's a pulsing pain coming from various points on his back. There's sure to be bruises there tomorrow. But even as he stumbles and in spite of his injuries, he doesn't stop.

By the time he reaches the bridge, the first rays of sunlight are starting to peek through the tops of the trees. The upbeat rumbling of war drums booms in the distance. Ares realizes for the first time that he's terrified. If this doesn't work, if he fails and the Grounders cross this bridge, they'll be mowed down like little blades of grass.

He finds Collins and Jasper watching from high ground. He slows to a stop beside Jasper, the sound of his heavy pants causing them to turn around.

"What are you doing here?" Jasper asks.

Unfiltered as always.

"I'm here to take the shot," he replies breathlessly, nearly hunching over due to the fatigue crashing into him in waves. "Where's Raven?"

He sees her a moment later. There's a space where the cluster of trees is shorter, giving them the perfect vantage point to the bridge. Raven is there, but something is wrong. She has a tiny metal canister sitting on the bridge. She's army crawling toward her rifle, moving sluggishly with a kind of lethargy that only the virus could bring.

She's going to blow her damn face off.

He whirls toward Jasper. "You take it."

The younger boy goes bug-eyed, fear slapping him in the face and making his jaw go slack. "What?"

Collins' gaze is locked on Raven. It's like he wants to move but doesn't want to risk getting blown up if she manages to pull the trigger, and his hesitation is clear.

Ares doesn't hesitate.

He breaks out into a full-blown sprint once again, ignoring Jasper's panicked cry of, "Ortega, what—?" as he cracks into motion. He moves so quickly that the forest is a blur. Instead of slowing down to keep his balance when the ground gives way to a steep decline, he simply leans onto his side and slides down the slope.

The war drums are so loud. His wild heartbeat syncs to them, thrumming at his pulse point so violently it hurts. Adrenaline floods his veins until they feel alight with a million fires, enough to scorch the entire forest down to the ground and win the war for them.

He nearly trips over his own two feet as he finally races onto the bridge, exclaiming, "Raven!"

She's lying on her stomach and peering into the rear sight to get a better shot. The canister — presumably filled with the hydrazine and gunpowder — is only a few feet from the barrel of her gun.

He seizes her by the middle and lifts her into his arms bridal-style, ignoring the way her weight presses his rifle hard into his already-injured midsection. Her bag lies forgotten on the moss-covered bridge. Then he's running back the way he came, but his legs don't seem fast enough, and the drums are so loud—

"Ortega!" Collins calls. He's right by the treeline, having followed Ares down to the bridge without actually getting on it. "This way!"

He waves him to the left. Ares grits his teeth and struggles not to slip or drop Raven, who's so weak she can hardly loop her arms around his neck. The rallying war chants of the Grounders fills his ears. They must be near or on the bridge by now, and if they brought scouts, he's the perfect target for an arrow to the spine.

Collins helps him support Raven as they duck into a ditch and cover their heads. "Shoot! Jasper, shoot!"

Ares squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for the deafening boom, but doesn't dare let go of Raven to cover his ears. His rifle presses painfully against his hip as they wait. One second Two. He can't hear anything except the voices of the Grounders and their ever-louder drums.

If Jasper ruins this for all of them, Ares is going to strangle him. He's been talking himself up all day, and now that the opportunity to prove himself is here, he can't do it. The kid had been decent during target practice, but the pressure combined with adrenaline may be inhibiting his aim. What if Ares had ensured their demises by not taking the shot himself?

"Goddammit, Jasper," Ares mutters.

Collins shakes his shoulder-length hair out of his eyes. "I counted five bullets."

Ares' heart sinks. They're done for. After all this time, this is where they die.

Then comes the ping! of another bullet striking metal. His brow wrinkles— Jasper shouldn't have any more ammo. But then comes another gunshot, but still no explosion. Ares is half-tempted to climb back up the ditch and shoot the canister himself when the bomb goes off.

It's so loud that, at first, Ares doesn't hear anything at all. Then the acrid stench of smoke stings his nostrils. His ears ring, making his own breathing sound muffled as he lifts his head to gaze up at the plumes of smoke swirling into the clouds above.

Somehow, Jasper had done it.

Raven twitches in Ares' arms. He turns his attention back to her, noticing how the familiar gush of blood had begun at her nose as well. Her tanned skin has lost its color. The symptoms are familiar, but at least her vomiting episode has already ended, leaving her exhausted but with a calm stomach.

He feels Collins' stare on him and glances at the boy. The tracker's expression is unreadable as he looks at Raven in his arms, eyebrows pinched. Ares can't tell if that's guilt on his face or that he's mad Ares had seemed to care about her more in that moment. When Clarke had collapsed, Collins had risked illness to catch her without the blink of an eye. But when it had come to rescuing Raven, he'd hesitated.

Ares adjusts his grip and glares at Collins, speaking through the ringing in his ears, "You should figure out whatever the hell it is you want."

Then he stands, turns around, and starts carrying Raven back to camp.

____________

a/n:

nate and ares have my heart!!!!!!!

i'm really excited to incorporate oliver more into the story. i was just going to have him make a one-time appearance in chapter 15, but then i realized how much potential he has and i really want to use him! i even added his own section to the fireheart pinterest board. i have lots of plans for him that i can't wait for you to see!

also enjoy this meme i made:

+ if any of you have seen the newest episode of the 100 and want to talk about it, i'm officially caught up! i've been discussing a lot of theories, answering questions, posting edits, and making shitposts/memes on my tumblr if you want to check it out! my url is nathanmillers (nathanmillers.tumblr.com). feel free to send me an ask there and/or follow me if you have an account!

—kristyn

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