There is something terrible in the air. It twists and turns, pulling and pushing. It roars. It has got a hold on Ares. It grips his wings and tears them back and forth, as if to rip them asunder. Break, maim, twist. He tries to fly but he cannot fly for when he tries to fly the currents take his wings and spin spin spin so he tries to fly but he cannot fly for when he tries to fly the currents take his wings and spin spin spin and he tries to fly but he cannot fly for when he tries to fly the currents take his wings and spin spin spin so he tries to fly but he cannot fly for when he tries to fly the currents take his wings and spin spin spin and he tries to—

And perhaps he is not alive anymore. He feels not his breath, for to feel his breathe is to feel his wings, and to feel his wings is to fly, and he cannot fly for when he tries to fly the currents take his wings—

Some sound erupts from his throat. It erupts over and over again until it is constant. Like it has always been here. He cannot feel a thing but the currents. Fliers are meant to know the air as surely as they know themselves. Fliers are meant to carry and control.

And the scream has his ears transfixed now, too.

He cannot do a thing for to do is to fly and to fly is to… to… there is nothing but the currents… the currents…

"It's Gregor!" sounds a voice above the currents and the screams.

And Ares can hear again.

"I've got you! Don't open your wings! Do not open your wings, Ares!"

Gregor's voice pierces clean through the clamor.

Ares' wings strain. Do not open… do not… He tries to clamp them down around his body. But the currents are raging, and every second an impulse will run through his body, screaming open your wings, opne your wings, it is only natural, open your wings! "Overlander…" he gasps, "I cannot— !"

"Yes, you can." Gregor's voice is almost swallowed by the wind. And yet it is clear. His resolve bears it through the currents. "Hold then closed. I'll fly for a change. Okay?"

Fliers are meant to carry. In a bond, fliers are meant to… to… Gregor will fly. He said so. "O — kay!" It is an effort to even say that one word. It is an effort to make any word but a scream. "Do not… leave me!"

"I won't leave you! I promise!"

And in the chaos, Ares finds himself afraid. He is afraid of the currents and the utter lack of control. Amidst the clamor, he anchors himself to Gregor's voice. When it diminishes, the world disappears and only the currents loom. This vile snare. It is like a whirlpool, a trap, a natural force which strips one of all control, all one knows.

"Close your wings, Ares! I'm here. It's Gregor, I've got you. We'll be there soon. I've got you. I won't leave you, I promise. I'm still here."

Gregor is here. Gregor is here. Ares is in his hands. He is not alone. There is more than the currents.

In dark, in flame, in war, in strife.

Gregor saves him.