He had not thought any of it through. He’d never fought outside of training and sparring, never seen a battle except from a distance, and he doubted his sword was sharp enough for what he might need to do. But if he made it to Pethra and discovered that Ambrus had died because he hadn’t gone to help, he would never forgive himself. 

In the face of battle, his anger didn’t matter. He had to find and save Ambrus, if only so he could grieve a relationship lost, not a life. Save Ambrus, bring him back to Pethra and Petros, pretend nothing had ever happened between them. All he had to do was actually find and save him, which wasn’t something he had given much thought as he dashed back towards the tents.

There was a chance that Ambrus had already escaped and Areti was putting himself in harm's way for no reason. There was a chance that he would never find him amidst the chaos, the most probable option. There was even a chance, as much as the thought made him nauseous, that Ambrus was already dead. 

He could be running to his own death for a man that didn’t care for him the way he wanted. Only he could be that idiotic, that sentimental, letting his feelings control him in such a way. He gripped his sword, but didn’t pull it from its sheath, watching the black smoke billow towards the pure blue of the sky.

Warriors rushed past him, running for the hills in a disorganised mess. Their enemy had been waiting for their retreat, possibly hidden in the sidelines or purely just better than them in the battle. It didn’t matter what the reasoning was, all Areti knew was that it was dishonourable, attacking a retreating army. 

His thoughts were a mess, focusing on unimportant things for a split second before they drifted again. Someone shouldered by him, covered in blood and panting loudly, but disappeared into the scrub before Areti could say anything. He stumbled, struggling to both stay on his feet and keep his mind focused on the one thing he needed to do. Stay alive, find Ambrus, run. 

The stream of warriors running for the hills grew worse the further into the camp he ran. Some stayed behind, barking orders at others with their swords held ready for battle. Areti dashed past them, ducking into the thin spaces between the tents and hoping naively that he wouldn’t have to use the sword at his hip. 

Ambrus’s name repeated itself over and over again in his mind, as if it were calling out to him, desperate and harried. He would have screamed it, but he’d never be heard over the yells and awful cacophony of noise around him. All that came from his mouth were loud pants, his chest burning with exertion. How could he ever hope to find him if he could barely speak?

He wasn’t going to give himself much time. Twenty minutes at maximum before he needed to save himself. If he couldn’t save Ambrus, then he could at least be the one to tell Petros the terrible news and break both their hearts once again. 

He turned a corner and stupidly, innocently, froze. He had never seen their enemy up close before. The armour wasn’t that different, red accents instead of blue, the armour slightly more golden. They looked like people, but some of the most terrifying people Areti had ever seen. They moved with precision, without care for what they were doing, and Areti wouldn’t have been surprised if there was laughter in their eyes. 

As he stood like the statues outside Pethra, he watched a warrior fall, a sword in their back and their faceless enemy standing proud above them. They were not the only ones. Everywhere Areti’s gaze landed, there was blood and death and pain. It was impossible to see the faces of those who died, but he wanted to believe that he had some way of telling if one of them was Ambrus. 

His muscles trembled with the urge to move, but something kept him rooted in place. Fires burned on the edge of the camp, slowly spreading, threatening to swallow everything whole. Mixed with the adrenaline and the summer heat, it made Areti sweat and pant, the smoke burning his lungs. He needed to move, needed to find somewhere safe from the razor sharp swords that could cut him down in an instant, but his body rejected his pleas. 

Then the helmeted face of a warrior turned towards him and even at a distance, Areti could clearly see the glare aimed at him. Curses ran through his mind, high-pitched and desperate. Finally, finally, he took a step forward, and darted away from the growing crowd of soldiers coming his way. One or two warriors, he could take on. Any more than that and he didn’t stand a chance. 

A noise tore from his throat as he ran. It could have been Ambrus’s name, or a desperate noise of panic. It could have been anything. Hearing it, hearing how terrified he sounded, spurred him on. He didn’t know where he was in relation to the main tent or Ambrus’s tent, all he knew was that he had to keep going. 

Every face that he passed, he quickly checked for any familiarity. Most were covered by helmets or blood, but surely if he passed Ambrus, the man would recognise him. Where was he? He couldn’t be dead, but he could have already escaped. How much time had passed? How long had he stood frozen, wasting precious seconds and almost getting himself killed?

His sword no longer sat in its sheath, but in his hand, glued to his sweating palm. He kept it ready, waiting, his mind falling back to the sparring and training he had done all those years ago. Everywhere he looked, he saw the face of the enemy that was never supposed to make it as far as they had, brutal and unstoppable, cutting down everything in their path. Areti was careful to avoid them, faster than he had ever been in his life. 

But it was impossible to avoid them forever. He whirled around a corner, desperately trying to find a single face in a swarm of armour and flame, and almost crashed into the wide body of another soldier. Curses echoed through his mind, taking in the slightly golden tinge of the armour in front of him. 

He didn’t think, allowing his body to move on instinct alone. His sword lifted, clashing with another, and he caught sight of the furious glare of his enemy under their helmet. Areti swallowed and stepped back, his mind strangely blank except for one thought. Getting to Ambrus. 

Relying on training he hadn’t used properly for a long time, he lunged forward. Between one blink and the next, his sword plunged into the body of the person in front of him, the slick sounds of flesh tearing making nausea rise in his stomach. 

For a moment, he was sure he had killed someone innocent, someone on his side, but then they fell and he saw the red accents on their armour. With his stomach filled with bile and relief, Areti stepped over the body and into the fray that awaited him. 

The battle had swallowed the camp, surrounded by the heat of the flames that slowly made their way towards them. Everywhere he looked, someone was bleeding or dying. Any one of those bodies could have been Ambrus’s and if he wasn’t careful, Areti would soon join them. 

He ducked and weaved, waiting for a sword to strike him at any moment. His body ached with scrapes and cuts he didn’t remember receiving, threatening to slow him down. A sword clashed against his and there were a few seconds where he was unsure of where he was or where he needed to swing his weapon. Then the pressure against his arms was gone, the soldier swallowed back into the sea of bodies. 

Areti took another step forward, feeling naked in the chaos, his chiton barely enough to protect him. As if the Gods had heard his thoughts, pain sliced through his arm. He spun, eyes watering, and swung before he could think. His arm burned at the movement, blood running down towards his fingers, but he couldn’t stop. A cry of pain escaped his lips as he sliced at the soldier in front of him. His sword was slippery in his hands, but he didn’t dare let go. 

It was hard to tell if the blow had even landed when all he could hear was yelling. He surged onwards, pulled his sword close to his body once more, and shoved his way through the squirming crowd. His time was well and truly up, but how was he supposed to get back out? His arm screamed with pain, reminding him of how stupid he had been. 

A sharp cry rang out nearby, somehow louder than all the rest. Mostly free of the push of bodies, Areti stumbled towards it and didn’t let himself freeze. Far from the group, starfished over the remains of a collapsed tent, was Ambrus. His helmet was gone, replaced with blood that matted his hair. His sword was still in his hand, stained red and lying uselessly on the canvas. 

Areti continued to run, taking in more and more details of Ambrus’s situation. He was panting, wide eyes locked on the soldier pointing a sword down at him. He was manic, desperate, moving gracelessly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Areti was aware that it was his fault. 

So, he did the only thing he could think of. He ran as fast as he could, watching the sword in the air fall down, down, down, towards the shocked expression on Ambrus’s face. Areti’s entire being shook. He couldn’t come that far, couldn’t be staring right at Ambrus, only to lose him. 

It was so fast, the plunge of a sword through flesh. Areti gasped in a deep breath, body pressed against the cool armour of the stranger in front of him, hands shaking around the hilt of his sword. He couldn’t see the blade anymore, but it was impossible to miss the blood that seeped down onto his fingers. Something landed on the ground with a thud, but Areti barely heard it over the sound of gurgling close to his ear. 

A second passed, as slow as an hour, before Areti wrenched his sword back and shoved the foreign soldier to the side. It felt so wrong, to be staring down at Ambrus with a bloody sword, but all he let himself feel was relief. One of them made a choked noise and then Ambrus was standing before him, eyes wide and blood running down the side of his face. 

“Areti?”

There wasn’t a moment to wait or explain himself. They were in the middle of a battle. Areti had found him, against all odds, but they still needed to move. Pethra was a week away and if they didn’t move quickly, they’d be behind enemy lines the entire time. If they ever made it. 

“We need to go,” he said and grabbed Ambrus’s free hand, not caring about the blood he was no doubt spreading. 

But Ambrus resisted his tugging. “What? No! The battle is still-”

“You have orders to retreat. If you stay, you’ll die. I won’t allow that,” he snapped, the anger from earlier returning in an instant. He wasn’t coming all that way just for Ambrus to reject him. “I defied my own orders to get you. I’m not leaving you behind. Now, come on!”

There was no resistance when he pulled a second time, dragging Ambrus through the tents and the thick cloud of smoke that had drifted over them in the short seconds of their conversation. Areti choked and coughed, eyes watering, but he pushed on, desperate to get away from the sounds of battle behind him.

The pair tripped and stumbled over collapsed tents and dead bodies, Areti’s gaze never once leaving the hills and trees in the distance. It was Ambrus who protected them as they ran, calling out to Areti or swinging his sword should an enemy soldier draw too near. With every step, it felt like freedom was moving further and further away, taunting him from the horizon. 

One moment, Areti’s vision was clogged with smoke. The next, it was clear. Ambrus’s hand was still in his, holding for dear life. Hysterical laughter bubbled from his throat, but he could barely hear it over everything else. The edge of the camp was coming up, they were joining the throngs of soldiers trying desperately to escape, scattering in all directions without any orders. 

They were so close. So close. Pethra was still a week away, as was Petros, but they were alive. He had found Ambrus, saved him, against all odds. He was too relieved to be angry or to consider what would happen on the way to Pethra, in too much pain to feel any real fear. With every second that passed, he waited for the burning pain of a sword through his chest. It never came. 

The hills outside the camp were steep and Areti’s legs screamed as he climbed. Ambrus took charge then, pulling them both up desperately and glancing over his shoulder in panic, as if he too expected Areti to die at any given moment.

It wasn’t until they reached the top of the hill that Areti finally turned back towards the camp. All he saw was fire and pitch dark smoke. The enemy would have already drawn back to escape the flames, but anyone still stuck among the tents would be dead in minutes if they hadn’t already passed. 

Areti blanched, nausea rising in his stomach, but Ambrus didn’t give him anymore time to stare. They raced away from the camp in near silence and disappeared into the trees in the direction Areti prayed would take them to Pethra.