Ambrus didn’t want to listen to him when he said he was done talking about everything that had happened between the three of them. At least once a day, he would bring it up in some respect, demanding more answers or trying to explain his own actions. Neither of which Areti wanted to deal with. 

They were mere hours away from Pethra now. He could see the castle on the hills on the horizon, stone silent and waiting for them. Ambrus had let out a near hysterical laugh at the sight of it, muttering to himself about what he was going to do when he saw Petros. The moment Areti had looked at him, he’d gone silent, when it was the last thing he’d wanted. 

He might be angry with them both, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t happy that they were about to see each other again. He doubted that saying as much would go over well. In the end, it was better to walk in silence and ignore whatever questions Ambrus asked of him. 

“Areti, you don’t understand,” Ambrus had said into the darkness one night.

“I don’t want to,” Areti had replied and had forced himself to fall asleep before Ambrus could get another word in. It had not been an easy thing to do. 

The day before, the sun high in the sky and beating down upon them, Ambrus had broken down. It had been sudden. One moment, he’d been walking at Areti’s side in sullen silence, the next he was on his knees in the dirt, shuddering and sobbing. It wasn’t the first time Areti had seen it in the last few days. He wasn’t the only one who suffered from nightmares after all, but there had been something different about seeing it during the day. 

It didn’t matter how angry or heartbroken he was, Areti wasn’t going to leave him there to calm down by himself, especially not after he’d helped with his now constant nightmares. He’d crouched down at his side and wrapped his arms around him, allowing Ambrus to sag against his chest in a way that usually would have made him slightly uncomfortable. 

Twice before he had done this, in the dead of night where they could pretend that there was nothing wrong between them. Where it seemed like there was an actual cause for the sobs and shaking. Not that Areti could ever blame him for getting lost in his own mind, he had done that more often than not before the war. 

He’d done all he could, which meant holding Ambrus and making sure he took deep breaths. He was muttering under his breath so quietly that Areti couldn’t understand anything he was saying. But as he’d calmed, he’d gotten louder and Areti didn’t have to strain himself to hear any of it. 

Mutterings about the war, about Petros, about being a killer and the blood on his hands. It made Areti sick to his stomach, but it was all so similar to what he’d been thinking throughout the course of the week. Then came a sentence that made him freeze. 

“Why won’t you let me explain myself?”

It had taken a moment for him to realise that Ambrus wasn’t actually asking him, simply muttering to himself in his panic. Areti closed his eyes and ran his hands down Ambrus’s back in small circles, struggling to find the right words to say. He had an answer to the question, but it was one he would never share, especially not when Ambrus was suffering in such a way. 

He didn’t want to hear any excuses for Ambrus and Petros’s behaviour, didn’t want to know what it was about him that led them to believe he could be used in such a way. Didn’t want to know why they made the decisions they did. None of the answers would be good. They’d all make him feel so much worse than he already did. It was better to not know, despite how much he speculated. 

So he’d held him until he calmed down, hating how worried he was, hating how much he cared. They’d sat together for a while longer, neither of them speaking, until Ambrus stood and started trudging down the road again. They hadn’t spoken of the panic attack since, not even when Areti awoke in a cold sweat from another nightmare that very night. 

What he also didn’t mention was the fact that holding Ambrus in such a way made his arm burn for hours afterward. 

As he walked, mere hours from Pethra and proper medical attention, the pain only grew worse. It was infected, that much he knew with absolute certainty, despite his attentive care to the wound. He changed bandages and cleaned it daily, but nothing stopped the redness around the cut or the yellow that oozed from it. If they didn’t get to Pethra soon, it would either kill him or his arm would have to be amputated. 

The thought of it was terrifying. He had risked his life to save Ambrus, believing that any death received in the battle would be swift. The infection would take him slowly, painfully, if he didn’t get proper medical attention. And yet, he didn’t tell Ambrus. 

He had a semblance of a plan regarding it. Once they made it to Pethra and Ambrus had reunited with Petros, Areti would go off on his own to find care. If he lived, he would leave quietly, without a goodbye, and return only when needed. If he died, then Ambrus and Petros would never know. Ambrus would feel guilty, knowing that Areti had died to save him, and he didn’t want that to happen. 

Even after everything that had happened, after they used him, he still put their feelings first. He hadn’t learned anything from his experiences, it seemed. Saving Ambrus was one thing, looking after him during panic attacks and worrying about his feelings was something else entirely. He’d ended things with them, he wasn’t supposed to care anymore, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

To be so calm about dying, he knew it was the result of his infection and the long walk between Kallus and Pethra. He was tired, lethargic, every movement taking far more effort than it had ever needed before, mainly in order to make it seem like he was fine in front of Ambrus. 

He kept himself as busy as possible, focusing on walking, on making sure they had enough supplies to last the journey, on gathering water whenever they happened by a river, on anything that wasn’t the intense pain in his arm. Ambrus never asked after him, believing that his injuries were fine. At least that meant it was working. It just also meant that he couldn’t slip up. 

It was getting harder, his forehead dripping with sweat and his limbs heavy, but he had to make it. They weren’t far. A couple more hours and Ambrus and Petros would never know. He had to keep moving. 

If his name appeared on a list of the dead, who would read it out? Would anyone tell his family? Did he need to prepare anything for them? Did he have time for that?

With no sign of their enemy anywhere on their journey, it was safe to assume that Pethra had yet to fall. Areti had failed in his duty to bring information to the castle, but had to believe that someone else had made it, even if it was just a soldier. They would be on high alert, waiting for any sign of trouble. Would they even let an unknown soldier and a messenger in?

They had to. Pethra was a safe haven for anyone in the army who needed it, no matter what happened. Areti was getting himself worked up over nothing, a side effect of his exhaustion and the horrible nightmares. At least if he passed, he wouldn’t have to worry about them anymore. 

There had been an awful part of him the night before, in the slow moments after the nightmare faded, that his slow death was earned after what he’d done. He tried not to give that line of thought any more time.

Lost in thought, he stumbled on a loose rock. Dizziness overtook him, his vision becoming nothing more than swirls of dirt and grass. A groan escaped his lips, too loud in the silence of the countryside. He didn’t fall. For that much he was grateful. It was a near thing. He closed his eyes and crouched low, willing the dizzy spell away before he could be noticed. 

“Areti!”

There were hands on his shoulders and back immediately, pulling him up, pulling him close. He tried to move away, but his muscles shook with every movement, arms weak and screaming with pain. 

Ambrus let out a string of curses and pulled him to the side of the road, laying him down on the cool grass. “Areti, your arm. Oh, Gods,” he muttered, voice trembling. Shakily, Areti turned his head towards the bandages across his shoulder and bicep. They were stained yellow and red, the mess slowly spreading to cover the crisp white. 

The dizziness wasn’t fading. It lessened, but with every movement his vision swam again. Ambrus hauled him up by his other arm, half walking and half dragging him down the road. Areti tried to groan out something, but even as he spoke he wasn’t sure what the words were supposed to be. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ambrus growled, moving faster than Areti was able to keep up with. He tripped and stumbled, nausea rising in his stomach as he struggled to keep his feet underneath him. “Were you even cleaning it? Oh, Gods, Areti, stay with me. Please.”

“I cleaned it,” he muttered, voice thick and his tongue heavy. “Didn’t work.”

Ambrus let out a long string of curses and Areti, delirious as he was, giggled at each one. “Please, just stay with me. We’re almost there. I’ll find someone to help you. Why did you tell me?”

“Didn’t want you to worry. Focus on Petros. I’ll just… disappear.”

His mind didn’t quite register the torn noise Ambrus made, focusing only on the castle steadily moving closer to them. “You’d just die and… and not say anything?” Ambrus cried, jolting Areti until he looked up at him, but his face was blurry and it was impossible to see what he was thinking. 

Shaking his head was a mistake, but Ambrus never stopped pulling him along. “No, I don’t want to die,” he whispered, tears running slowly down his cheeks. “Don’t want you to pretend you care.”

Earlier, death had seemed simple and easy in comparison to the pain. Before that, he’d be terrified of it. Finally, that fear had come back tenfold. With it so close on the horizon, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. It was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to live to see Ambrus and Petros reunite, wanted to see his family again, and wanted to live a full life after the war. He wasn’t going to get that. 

“I do care!” Ambrus yelled, loud enough to make Areti’s ears ache. “Please, believe me. I care for you as I care for Petros. I’m not letting you die. Please, don’t die on me, Areti. Please.”

Words became hard after that. Areti was sure that he had said something, but it was impossible to tell if the words were at all clear. He could barely register what Ambrus was saying to him, the words floating around his ears as if he’d been submerged in water. His arm screamed and he was so hot, so tired. He wanted to sleep.

He couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but the grey bricks came closer and closer until they swallowed his vision. Ambrus was screaming, the words a jumbled mess in Areti’s mind, followed quickly by the creak and groan of a familiar set of gates. Somehow, he’d made it to Pethra, but he doubted he’d make it much further than that. 

He wanted to live. It wasn’t fair. 

If other hands grabbed at him, he didn’t feel it anymore than he would have felt the breeze. Black swam at the edges of his vision and he smiled ruefully at the blurs around him. All the effort he had gone to to make Ambrus and Petros happy and the one time he tried to do something for himself, it ended with him dying. 

Was this what people meant when they spoke of punishment from the Gods? They were fickle beings, punishing anyone who had barely even scorned them. Areti couldn’t tell what he had done to deserve their wrath. Aside from, of course, neglecting his duties in the face of love. That would be more than enough to gain any god’s rage, even for someone as insignificant as him. 

It wasn’t fair. The gods could be cruel. Why did they have to be cruel to him?

His gaze focused momentarily on the familiar courtyard of Pethra. At least he was dying somewhere familiar, somewhere that had once felt comfortable to him. If only he could have gone on his way without Ambrus or Petros knowing. Because Ambrus would tell them, instead of having the happy reunion he deserved to have. 

“Find them,” he whispered, peering up at Ambrus’s terrified face. 

“What? Who?” he asked and pulled Areti closer. 

“Petros. Find them. You deserve… to… to be with them.” The words took effort, so much effort, but he needed to get them about. 

It was, it seemed, the wrong thing to say. “No! What? I’m not leaving you, Areti, not until the doctors come,” he said. Cool fingers ran down his face and he sighed, leaning into the touch. It gave him some relief, a moment where he could pretend that everything was going to be fine. 

Maybe he would be, maybe he still had a chance, but there was a part of him that doubted it, that believed that he was living his final moments. At least, while the situation could have been better, he was spending them in the arms of someone he loved. 

In the haze that the courtyard had become, he barely saw the figure stride through the archway that led into the castle proper. It wasn’t until they stopped, completely frozen, and Ambrus’s arms tightened around him, that he realised who he was looking at. Petros. Their face was blurry, a mess of tanned skin and dark hair that seemed to shake with every breath Areti took. 

“No!”

He couldn’t tell which of them had yelled, but the blurry figure of Petros raced towards him. A small smile pulled at Areti’s mouth as the darkness overtook his vision. The last thing he saw was Petros’s face, mouth slack and eyes wide, screaming something he couldn’t hear. The last thing he felt was a second set of hands on him, cupping his face like he was something precious, like a final goodbye.