Messenger

Chapter Nine: The Last Word

Areti had no plan when he reached Kallus, running solely on a few hours of sleep and the adrenaline from his confrontation with Petros a week ago. It was a long time to stew on his words, but he hadn't been able to push them from his mind. There was more he had wished to say, but he had forgotten them all in the heat of the moment.

Not that he would say any of it to Ambrus. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of his conversation with Petros. That had been hard enough; to do it a second time would be near impossible. He had no doubt that Ambrus would request some kind of explanation from him, but with the anger that flooded his veins and controlled his every movement, it would be easy enough to deny him.

The way he stormed through the camp didn't look out of place. Others rushed around him, barely paying attention to where they were going or who they were passing. Something was going on, another battle on the horizon, most likely. It wouldn't be the first time he had arrived at a camp in the midst of a battle, but it did mean that he had considerably less time to do what he needed to.

His original plan had been to see the generals and then Ambrus, mainly to give him time to prepare himself. That wouldn't be possible anymore.

Areti changed direction midway to the general's tent and froze at the sight that lay before him. There was a battle raging, closer than he had ever seen before. Far beyond the camp were the blood-splattered fields of Kallus and the ant-like soldiers that scurried across them. It was hard to make out anymore than that, the organised chaos making it near impossible to tell who was winning.

Fear sunk through him, threatening to keep him frozen on the prickly grass. If Ambrus was out there... Areti shook his head. If Ambrus was out there already, then he would leave the letter and go. Maybe that was easier. And next time he came to Kallus, he would quickly check that he wasn't on the list of the dead. That was a promise he would keep, even if he couldn't keep any others.

As he drew closer to Ambrus's tent, the sounds of screams reached his ears. They were faint and indiscernible from each other, but still made Areti sick to his stomach. He knew what they were. War cries. The final sound made before death. Fear. Injury. He might have been trained for battle, but he was grateful to have never truly experienced it.

He couldn't tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing that Ambrus stood in the tent when he reached it. Like the rest of the camp, it was crowded and busy, every warrior desperate to get their armour on in record time.

Ambrus stood at the end of the tent, doing up the last of his buckles with a precision and determination Areti had never seen on him before. Even despite the battle raging nearby, Areti's stomach rumbled with the awful anxiety that had followed him from Pethra. He should be more concerned with the war, and not his personal problems. Ambrus and Petros had changed him far too much.

"Areti!"

He hadn't even noticed when Ambrus had turned towards him, too lost in his own thoughts. The air between them was thick and Ambrus's relieved smile made his nausea worsen tenfold. Then Ambrus looked away, jaw clenched and eyes surveying the rush of movement in the tent, and he bit out a sharp curse.

"As much as I would love to talk with you right now, I'm sure you noticed what's going on out there," he said, standing before Areti before he could do anything about it. "Are you... Will you stay? Until the battle's over? Then we can-"

"No," he said, voice flat and stomach churning.

"What?" Ambrus asked. To his surprise, Areti's hands didn't shake when he pulled out the letter, the one he had the most trouble not reading during his travels. But even with his feelings, he was a messenger. He was never one to betray anyone's privacy, no matter what they did to him.