Ares wishes he could have said something.
About Neveeve. About the plague. About everything.
But he could not. He did not know what had happened to him. It had been the dead of the night, and he had been eager to go home. He was always eager to go home. Any eye that glanced upon him felt like a knife infused with judgment. Look at the traitor, still living when he should be dead. Still living when all his friends might be dead. He had been flighty, and in his eagerness, his wing had clipped a glass canister. Then came the fleas. Neveeve's secrecy, her assurances that she would "make this right" and that if only he came back tomorrow, he would be all right.
Ares had been certain that he had made yet another mistake. He did not come. He flew to the Labyrinth, not sleeping for days. He flew and flew and flew, driven onward by the knowledge that he needed to make this right. That he had to find Aurora and Luxa. That they could not be dead. He had brawled with gnawers. Their blood had been mixed. He had grown weaker. He had hated himself. He had not found Luxa and Aurora. had thought, If I die here, it will only be as I deserve.
But he could not. For Gregor was still alive, and Gregor needed him. He had gone back to his lonesome cave. He had lied there. He had lied there for so long, he had barely noticed the purple pustules bursting from his skin.
Now, he still feels guilt. Had he only gone to Neveeve, had he only come to the hospital sooner, had he not lied in his cave until Howard and Andromeda had found him half-dead and gotten infected themselves, had he not gone to the Labyrinth,had he not this, had he not that, then perhaps all this death would not be on his conscience. Perhaps he might have revealed the truth about the plague. Perhaps he might have stopped it. But then, who would have believed him?
Despite that, he had wanted to. He had fought and fought and fought, doing his utmost to stay alive until Gregor came. He had seen Gregor outside the glass wall and lifted his claw as much as he could. I am still on your side. If I can protect no other, I will protect you, he had wanted to say.
Somebody knocks upon the glass. Ares turns his head.
Gregor and Luxa stand outside the wall. Their faces are tired and their clothes ragged.
They are here.
They are alive.
They do not look particularly good — Luxa looks almost ill and Gregor's face has a hardness it did not have before.
But they are here.
Ares flutters. He inches towards the glass, and even such a small action catches the breath in his chest.
Gregor mouths something. He points down the hall. Something about Aurora being alive, too. It must be that, or he would not be smiling, nor would Luxa.
They are both smiling.
And perhaps — perhaps Ares, for once, has done enough.