Messenger

Chapter One: The List of the Dead

The list of the dead covered three pieces of parchment. The longest he had ever had to deliver. Areti swallowed, ignoring the burn from the lump in his throat, and wandered up the stone steps towards the makeshift barracks. The pale pillars would have once heralded him as someone important, but now they sat as scared and wary as those they protected.

Along with the list were the other letters he had to deliver, war information and friendly notes between soldiers. For some of those letters, the owner was already dead and Areti was passing on their final words to someone grief-stricken and lonely. It was the worst part of his job.

Soldiers nodded to him, already well aware of why he was there. News of the battle would have passed from camp to camp, the whispers slowly making their way to where their general sat, waiting for official news from Areti. Would they be as heartbroken over the three pieces of paper that sat in Areti's messenger bag or would she be as uncaring as the soldier who had originally handed it to him?

The fortress of Pethra, barely large enough to fit the warriors crammed inside, stood tall over him as he passed through the wide open double doors. One of the final protections to the country proper, it was situated high on a hill and hard to get to, well protected from the neighbouring kingdoms that sought to infiltrate.

It was the single place Areti could find where he was safe. A life carrying messages from camp to camp wasn't a pleasant one, but it was better than running headlong into the enemy's sword. Especially for one such as him, a man blessed by the Gods with swiftness.

Warriors followed him from the fortress's inner courtyard under orders from their generals. An assembly, run by Areti himself, so that the people around him could learn which of their friends had passed in the battle to the south. That kind of pressure had once been too much for him, but after years of war, he had grown far too used to it.

The great hall was quiet when he entered, despite the soldiers sitting at the tables that lined the length of it. Once, it would have been lavishly decorated for feasts and celebrations, but the noble family that had lived there had long since evacuated when the army requested use of the building. Or, they were dead. Areti had no way of knowing for sure.

At the front of the room stood two generals, who regarded his dirt-stained uniform with a mix of disdain and sympathy. They gestured for him to come forward, to climb the two steps and join them before the crowd.

The list of the dead was heavy in his hands when he pulled it from his bag. He dared not read it out, not until he was given the go ahead and the lump in his throat was given permission to pass.

Areti looked out over the crowd, searching for the one familiar face he knew. It lay towards the back of the crowd, helmet gone and braided hair sitting out for the world to see. Petros met his gaze, and while they seldom smiled, they still usually looked upon Areti with what he could assume was friendliness.

That was not the expression he saw when he looked at his friend. All of it was unfamiliar, but he had seen it enough to recognise it as fear, as concern, as bone deep despair. Petros too, was waiting to hear a name and collapse to their knees with grief.

A hand on Areti's shoulder gave him the signal to speak. When he had first started the awful job, he would predate it with apologies and a vague introduction. After four years of fighting and hundreds of sheets of parchment, there was no reason to. Everyone knew what would come spewing from his lips.

Some of the names were familiar, generals and captains that had been overwhelmed in a battle he had only seen the aftermath of. He knew none of them personally. He was nothing more than a messenger, someone to relay to lengthy information of war, and then be on his way again.