Immediately, that joy was gone, replaced with the closed off expression Areti had come to expect. He didn’t take the words back, saw no point once they were out in the air. Petros clutched the letter tight to their chestplate, as if they somehow believed he would take it from them. 

They narrowed their eyes and for a moment, the two inches they had on Areti became intimidating. “He’s the one who holds my heart,” they said and met his gaze in a way that begged him to say something awful. It softened when they were met with silence. “Areti… You can’t say a word.”

If only they knew the kind of name they spoke. Some knew, some questioned the femininity of the name, but not that of its owner’s face or body. Areti used the same excuse every time: a mistake made at birth that he had grown comfortable enough to keep. It was close enough to the truth. If they knew the reality, Areti wasn’t sure if he would still be the best messenger in the army, a descendent of the Gods. 

“I have no reason to,” he said, with as much honesty as he could muster. It wasn’t particularly dangerous to have such ties within the army. It was fairly common, if those sobbing around him told him anything, but generally frowned upon. The warriors of Pethra were highly sought after, held in top regard, and had more expectations of them. To be caught consorting with a soldier from a seemingly inferior camp… Petros had good reason to be concerned. 

His friend’s expression was still guarded, but their eyes softened after a moment and their grip no longer threatened to tear a whole in the thin parchment. “Thank you,” they whispered. 

“Will you tell me about him?” Areti asked and cocked his head to the side. “I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned him to me, in all our months of talking.”

A test of trust and friendship, coupled with curiosity. Petros spoke of him so gently, as if they were holding him in their arms right that very minute. Areti longed to know more, to find something that could make him smile in the aftermath of passing out messages. 

“Not here,” Petros said, gaze reaching out over Areti’s shoulder to those who still lingered in the hall. “Walk with me. It feels wrong to speak of such things in a place like this.”

The generals were talking to each other as the pair strode from the hall. Areti would have to return later in the night to gather information from them, and set off in the morning for whichever camp he had to deliver it to. For a little while, he could relax and pretend that there wasn’t a war raging to the south. 

Pethra’s halls were quiet even with warriors walking among them. Arches provided a view of the rolling hills it was situated on and the path Areti had taken to get there, long and winding. The sky was a brilliant blue. If he had been at home, on the coast, he would have played with his siblings at the beach for hours. 

Petros made a noise in the back of their throat when Areti looked up at them expectantly. “The last time I saw Ambrus was before I met you,” they said, whispering it into the silence the grey stones provided. “He was sent to Kallus without me, a less coveted warrior than I. The first letter you gave me was from him. All the letters you’ve given me were from him.”

“I rarely give you letters,” Areti said. And even more rarely took them from his friend. 

“He doesn’t often have time to write them,” Petros explained with a sombre nod. “Besides, it is hard to find a messenger so willing to carry the notes of strangers.”

Areti was a rarity in war and was well aware of it. He had been told countless times how generous he was for taking any note he was handed, when most other messengers would ignore it. There was plenty of room in his satchel bag. Who was he to deny the only communication and happiness some soldiers had?

There was very little room to think about his next words, but when they came out, they felt like the most obvious things in the world. “I would be happy to take them for you, if you wanted to write something back.”

Petros stopped, blinking down at him with a furrowed brow. “You would do that?” they asked and then shook their head. “You don’t often go to Kallus. I wouldn’t want to make you go so far out of your way, not when you have more important responsibilities.”

“Actually,” Areti said, grinning impishly at his friend. Something changed in Petros’s eyes, unreadable and fleeting. “I have been reassigned. Kallus needs a new messenger. I’ll still have other duties but for now, that is my main responsibility.

“As for doing this for you, well, I’d like to say we’re friends. I saw how worried you were back in the hall. You said you haven’t seen him in a long time and I… I don’t think it would be fair for you to not have something of his, even if it is just a letter.”

Petros swallowed and didn’t meet his gaze, staring instead at the landscape behind him. “I’m unsure of what his laugh sounds like now, or what the exact shade of his hair is,” they whispered and there was so much longing in their voice that Areti’s stomach ached. “All I have are the letters. Most of the time, they’re nothing more than little sentences to let me know he isn’t dead.”

“So let me help. I can take verbal messages as well if he doesn’t have the time to write. I have a good enough memory to do it. It’s not far for the two of you to be so separate. If I had known earlier, I would have offered my help months ago.” He was rambling, but something in his chest cried out for him to help Petros. 

War brought only pain and fear and sadness. It forced him to stand before crowds of people and read out the names of the dead to the point where they no longer seemed like real people. If he could bring two people some sense of happiness, then maybe he could give himself a sense of much needed reprieve. 

“If you are so determined then… dine with me tonight, my friend,” Petros said and started down the Pethra’s long hallways again. “I will write Ambrus a letter to explain our deal and if you would like, I can tell you about him.”

How long had it been since Petros had been able to speak of his lover? Of course, Areti would indulge him. He said as much, and followed his friend to the tiny sleeping quarters he owned, mind swirling with questions about a man he had never heard of. A man he’d had no idea even existed. As he walked, he found it hard to quell the strange lick of disappointment in his stomach.