Fireheart | Raven Reyes [O.H.]

11 | ares, unleashed

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chapter eleven!
ARES, UNLEASHED
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( warning: somewhat graphic depictions of torture. the chapter title says it all. )

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THE AIR IS stifling in the dropship, every movement increasing the temperature of its southernmost level until Ares is certain he can feel the moisture in the air. He almost wonders if he could pull a droplet of water from the air around him. It's suffocating, threatening to drench his entire body in sweat as he sweeps his damp curls off of his forehead and exhales a slow breath through his chapped lips.

His head is pounding. He knows that ticking his hand against his jean-clad leg is only adding to the problem, but he can't stop the restless energy that's trapped inside of him like a wild animal thrashing in its cage. Ares props one elbow onto the metal desk in front of him and presses his forehead into his palm. Christ, it hurts. It's like some paranormal entity is taking a hammer to his skull over and over again, giving him no break between hits. He squeezes his eyes shut and wets his lips. It probably doesn't help that he's dehydrated– although it's still pouring buckets outside, he hasn't had anything to drink in hours. That's another reason why his mouth feels tight.

The storm continues to pummel them full-force. According to Abby, a hurricane is currently right on top of them, which is just peachy. It truly couldn't have picked a worse time to come knocking at their door. They've had minimal progress with Collins. Clarke is still giving her mother the full run-down of his condition from his breathing pace and texture of his skin to the color of his lips and fingertips.

"The blade is at a sharp upward angle between the sixth and seventh ribs," Clarke informs her mother.

"Okay, how deep?"

Clarke paces around to Collins' left side– also known as the one that the blade is still protruding from. She peers at it, squinting, but it doesn't seem to help her gauge its depth. "I can't tell how deep it goes."

"That's alright. Just don't remove the knife yet."

Raven hurries back and forth restlessly on the opposite side of Collins' unconscious form. Her tank top is soaked with sweat, especially where the fabric meets her collarbones, and her eyebrows are pinched with worry. Every passing second with him still in imminent peril looks like a second in hell for her.

Clarke, noticing her nerves, hands her a thermos of Monty's homemade Moonshine. "Here. Sterilize your hands."

Raven removes her fingerless gloves and tosses them carelessly onto the table Ares is sitting at, making him jump when they land with a soft plat against the metal. She unscrews the lid and takes a gulp of the alcohol. A grimace twists her features at its presumably burning taste, then she dumps some of it over her hands.