The generals of Kallus weren’t entirely impressed with Areti’s appearance in their tent. Whether it was because they were busy or because they were used to their usual messenger, it was hard to tell, but Areti handed out written orders and gave information as best he could. He had a duty to uphold and would do it no matter the response he got. 

With orders to return later from a grumbling general whose face was hidden by his dirty helmet, Areti wandered the barren ground of Kallus’s fields. The dead grass prickled where it poked through the holes in his sandals and walking upon it quickly grew unpleasant. 

He had been to Kallus once before the war, a family trip when he had still been in single figures, a little more than a decade ago. They’d set up a tent on the edge of a forest and had watched the sun rise over the invisible border between the countries, oblivious to the war that was soon to come. 

It had been stunning, the pure green of the grass and the fields of trees that stretched on as far as he could see. The smell of dirt and the rain that had recently passed through had stuck in his nose for months afterward, fresh and free. He had spent hours running through the forest, staring at all the little animals that skittered away from him with the unadulterated joy that only a child could have. 

There was very little of that lush landscape left in the Kallus Areti currently stared at. Between the hundreds of tents that had been set up was the dry and brown grass, flattened after thousands of armoured feet and horse hooves had run across it. The trees still stood in the distance, their numbers greatly diminished in an attempt to reduce hiding places for the enemy. 

If he breathed the wrong way, or took a breath too deep, the stench of rotting bodies filled his nostrils and threatened to make him gag. Gone was the scent of dirt and rain, of nature, replaced with that of war and death and destruction. Nothing remained of the memories he held except nostalgia and heartbreak.

Even if the war ended soon, the region was gone, it’s beauty destroyed. All that would be left was trampled grass and the bones of bodies that hadn’t been able to be buried or burned. No one would visit again. It would be forgotten to the long passage of time, a cautionary tale to those who dared wage war against whichever of their countries emerged the victor. 

After four years, after leaving his family before he had come of age, Areti could not tell who would win. The war felt like it would last forever and he would not be surprised if, for him, it did. If he didn’t see the end of it or the aftermath, there would be no shock, only relief and resignation as he was ferried to depths of his afterlife. 

That thought brought him out of his reverie. He had stopped in the middle of the busy camp, unfocused gaze on the distant empty fields that had so recently been used for battle. His shoulder ached with the weight of his messenger bag, begging him to give the soldiers around him some relief. There were hundreds of warriors and only a handful of letters, finding them would be near impossible. 

So instead, he had gotten most of the people of Pethra to write the recipient’s commanders on the envelope as well in the hopes that they could find the right people easier. From tent to tent he walked, calling out names and handing out letters in the same way he always did. With every commander he encountered, he asked for one particular name, tripping over a difficult-to-pronounce surname. None of them knew the name. 

The tents were faded and drooping, much like the warriors that lived within them. Pallets lined the ground of most, barely an inch of privacy between them. Some had makeshift tables, places for games and meals and strategy talks. It was both familiar and unfamiliar,  a place he was not entirely welcome in. For that, he was grateful. 

He walked into another, grass crunching under his sandals. It was near empty, three silent people sitting hunched over in different parts of the tent. They barely looked up, not even the commander when Areti handed over a small bundle of letters and spoke the name of Petros’s partner. 

The commander muttered in response and pointed out of the tent. Areti tried to ask for clarification but was given nothing except a listless expression. An expression he had seen on dozens of faces since walking into the camp. The commander would be of no more help to him. 

In the space outside the tent stood a single horse tied to a post and a figure brushing the mane of the sullen creature. Areti thought back to the description Petros had given him before he’d left, one he had recited in his mind during the week it took to travel to Kallus. 

“Ambrus?” he said and stopped a fair distance from the horse and the man, grip tight on the strap of his bag. 

The man turned, thick eyebrows furrowed in immediate suspicion. “Who’s asking?” he said in a voice so deep and smooth that Areti was momentarily stunned. 

Petros’s description had not done him justice. While simply saying that he had dark skin and hair, and a well toned body was apt, the man that stood before Areti was so much more than that. His muscles were obvious under the armour and chiton, thick biceps leading down to calloused hands that brushed the horse’s mane with a care Areti didn’t expect. His skin was darker than anything Areti had ever seen, a rarity in most cities, but beautiful. 

His face was young, close to Areti’s age, hairless but made of enough sharp lines to look distinctly masculine. Wide eyes, near black, stared at him with unrelenting curiosity and suspicion, framed by choppy locks of pitch black hair that fell to his ears. That was the only thing out of place with Petros’s description. The man he had heard so much about had messy waves that fell below his shoulders. 

Areti forced himself to speak. “I’m a friend of Petros. They sent me with a letter,” he explained, but didn’t step any closer. 

“You’re a messenger,” he said, dark eyes roaming over Areti’s armourless pale chiton, the bag, the sandals, the tiny sword that hung on his opposite hip, finally landing on the tiny red sash around his waist that denoted his status. “I wasn’t aware Petros had friends. I don’t think they’ve spoken of you.”

It only made sense that someone like Petros would have a lover in a man like Ambrus, serious and straight to the point. Still, the words punched him in the chest. For him to go to all this length, to go out of his way to find a man he did not know, he would hope that Petros would consider the two of them friends. 

“My name is Areti, descendent of Hermes, messenger of the army,” he explained and pulled out the letter he had kept in a special compartment with the war information he was usually given. 

Eyes widened, the suspicious expression softened into something far kinder, and Ambrus stepped away from the pale stallion. “I apologise, they have spoken of you,” he said and bit down on a full lip. “I am Ambrus, descendent of mortals, warrior in our great army.” There was a bite to his words, a held back anger that Areti found himself curious to hear more of. 

“Petros has only mentioned you once, last time I saw them. I believe they were attempting to keep you a secret,” Areti explained, a sheen of sweat forming on the exposed parts of his body. “I offered to bring this to you personally.”

“Now, why would you do that?” Ambrus asked, a smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth. 

Areti tried not to shy away. “They’re a friend,” he said.

Deep rumbling laughter filled the space between them, nothing more than a chuckle but still foreign in such a place. “How innocent,” Ambrus said, eyes alight with a strange sense of joy that made butterflies flutter in Areti’s stomach. “Gods, I forgot how much I missed that. Sit with me. I don’t often have a chance to meet a friend of my Petros.”

Sitting with Ambrus didn’t mean he had to press his bare legs against the prickly grass, it meant resting on a piece of spare canvas with his legs crossed together and a stiff breeze pushing at his shaggy mop of dark hair. Ambrus was far from quiet, humming as he tore open the envelope.

Areti gave him some modicum of privacy as he read the pages upon pages of looping handwriting. A few warriors glanced over at the pair as they passed, but didn’t question the laziness they were no doubt seeing, not when they were in so much of a rush themselves. Weeks had passed since the last awful battle from which Areti had read the list of the dead, but there was constant threat of another. 

Kallus wasn’t the main front, far from it, but a vital place to protect. If they didn’t keep tabs on it, the enemy would be within their land in the span of hours. The army always needed to wait by Kallus for the inevitable attempts at invasion. They had won again last time, but their numbers were dwindling and while the enemy was recuperating from their loss, it was only a matter of time before they tried again. 

The field, the one he could see between the hundreds of tents, had been the site of massacre all those weeks ago. Areti had seen many battles in his time and there was no getting used to them. Even though it had been weeks, he could easily imagine the bloodshed, the carnage, the death, that had spread across the land and stained the once beautiful grass red. His memories provided more than enough images for how it would have looked. 

A tap on his wrist pulled his attention to the man at his side. “Petros explained your generosity, my friend,” Ambrus said, waving a page of the letter. “Can’t say I understand it, you going to all this effort for a man you have never met before. Or, from what I can tell, even heard of until recently.”

The real answer had eluded Areti himself until halfway between Pethra and Kallus. “They’re a friend,” he said again and drummed his fingers against his knee, trying to figure out if he should speak on his discovery. “Last time I saw them, I read the names of the dead from the battle here. I had never seen them look so terrified. I think that was the only reason they dared to speak of you to me.”

“They always had been scared to utter my name, as if the very idea would kill us both,” Ambrus muttered, but there was a fond little smile on his face despite the sadness of his words. “Terrified, you say? I didn’t mean to worry them, but I suppose it can’t be helped. Not when we’re so far apart.”

“Why are you? Seperated, I mean. Petros has told me that you are a more than capable fighter, strong enough to beat them in spars,” Areti said. 

A bark of laughter startled those walking past them. It wasn’t sardonic, wasn’t filled with malice or pain, but with joy and nostalgia. It was a sound Areti hadn’t heard in a long time, pure laughter, and he gazed upon the source for as long he dared. The tipped back head, the bob of his throat, the way his lips had twisted into a toothy grin, all of it was mesmerising. 

“The one time they admit it and I’m not there to hear it,” Ambrus said, eyes narrowed with something akin to mischief. It softened a second later and Areti found himself longing to hear that laugh again. “Petros’s family is important, one side are descendants of Ares, the other of Athena. Supposedly. Petros has never been too sure, but they’re important and no one wants to lose the child of a noble family in a battle as bloody as those seen here. Is it not better for them if their child is seen as a hero for standing guard at the last line of defense?

“As for me, I am a good fighter, as you said, but with no family important enough to sway the army’s opinions on where I should go. And so, here I am, far from my love. I think… I think it has gotten to the point where I no longer remember the exact sound of their voice.”

Areti’s stomach clenched tightly, but he couldn’t name the feeling. “That’s… That’s why I’m doing this. Petros voiced similar concerns. I didn’t find it fair,” he explained and chuckled at his own naivety. They were at war. Nothing was fair. “The way they spoke about you… I decided that they should be able to have more contact with you than the rare letter. Seeing as I will be coming here more often, I volunteered myself for the job. It’s hard to find people who are happy lately, the occasional smile is payment enough for this.”

Ambrus stared at him for a long time, as if trying to figure out any ulterior motives. Areti had none. He was still trying to figure out his main motives, aside from Petros’s concern for their partner and Areti’s concern for his friend. What ulterior motive could he possibly have for wanting to see two people happy?

“Petros spoke of your kindness. I didn’t quite believe them, until now,” Ambrus muttered, something secretive in his smile. Areti’s cheeks heated under that gaze, but he couldn’t look away from it. 

“I didn’t realise they spoke of me so often,” he said. His heart was beating wildly, as if he were in the midst of battle, and not speaking to a mesmerising man about his equally mesmerising partner. 

Such thoughts were unbidden, and more than a little inappropriate, considering why he was there and who he was speaking to. Who was he to deny when someone was alluring to him? As long as he didn’t act on such things. He had done a thorough job of keeping his thoughts to himself for months, whenever he spoke to Petros, what was a few more?

Ambrus laughed once more, a chuckle like the first. It had been a long time since Areti had heard someone laugh as much as Ambrus did. Of course Petros had found a lover in someone like him, someone who could laugh in the face of war like he was sitting on the beach. He couldn’t help but wonder what they were like together, how their wit bounced off each other.

The laughter faded into silence, companionable even in the middle of a war camp. “They speak of you more than you would think,” Ambrus said and frowned down at the ground. “I suppose I should write something in return, now that I know it will be delivered relatively soon. Will you come back later tonight, Areti? I would like to share a drink with you, to celebrate your kindness.”

There was something else there, hidden deep below the words, that Areti couldn’t place. He was too busy reveling in the way his name sounded in Ambrus’s deep voice. He nodded before he could stop himself, but not a single part of him complained. 

“Of course,” he replied and pushed himself to stand. Other letters still waited in the bottom of his bag. “I’ll return when I’ve finished my duties. I look forward to it, Ambrus, it was lovely to meet you.”

“And you,” Ambrus replied, waving him away with a small smile. The horse, who had stood patiently while they talked, stamped his hoof against the grass. Areti could help but chuckle at the creature, and with one final look at Ambrus’s choppy hair and mischievous smile, disappeared between the tents once again.