Areti floated in a sea of black, weightless and exhausted. There was no pain, thankfully, but there wasn’t much of anything else either. All he was aware of was the fact that he was aware and that he was extremely tired. It was as if all of his trips over the course of the war had come back to him at once. 

If it was the afterlife, it was both exactly what he expected and nothing at all. He hadn’t once thought he’d be aware of himself, but the pure black wasn’t a surprise. How long was he to wait before the boatman took him down to the Underworld?

A flash of panic raced through him and the darkness moulded around him in response. Had anyone given him an obol? No, surely not. If they had, he wouldn’t be swimming in the dark, he’d already be down in the fields of Asphodel, living out eternity in peace and quiet. Was this what the shores of the Styx were like? An ever swirling mass of darkness that he would spend a long century staring at.

His memories were foggy, all of them. He knew his name, knew his gender and his home, knew he was dead, but anything else failed to come to the surface at first. He pushed on certain thoughts, like where his home was and who he had lived with. It took what felt like hours for him to remember that he had a family. Siblings, parents, trips to Kallus and the beach. The memories came to him slowly, pushing through the clouds in his mind. 

He knew then that he hadn’t been with his family when he died. Why? Where had he been? That answer took even longer to come and made him feel sick to his stomach when it did. War, he was at war, passing messages between camps and running like his life depended on it. Descendant of Hermes, running as if it was the only thing he was good at. Perhaps it was. 

He wasn’t just passing messages between camps, was he? There were other warriors who requested his services every once in a while. Messages to friends, to comrades, to loved ones. Loved ones… He couldn’t figure out what was so familiar about the words. 

It came to him all at once a second later, every message passed between Ambrus and Petros, every kiss and touch shared. His whole body ached. He had died in their arms, hadn’t he? The infection from his wound had taken him when they’d reached Pethra. Petros had been there, he’d seen them, right at the last minute. Ambrus had been holding him. How had they even made it to Pethra?

That was something he couldn’t remember, no matter how hard he tried. The memories wouldn’t come and he was forced to lie in the pitch black remembering his final moments, those pleasant kisses, the time with his family, over and over and over again. 

Somewhere in the distance was the sound of sobs. Another soul perhaps, lying on the shores of the Styx with him. He wanted to reach out and comfort them, a stranger, but didn’t know how to move through the darkness. Perhaps he would learn, given time. 

The sobs faded eventually, after what felt like boths minutes and days. He was left to float aimlessly, trying to remember everything that had happened after saving Ambrus and struggling. When he gave that up, he moved on to try to speak, but found that he couldn’t feel a mouth to speak with. 

Frustrated, he let the darkness wash over him. Even if no one had given him an obol to board the ferry of the dead, surely someone would tell his family. Ambrus or Petros, perhaps? He had mentioned his parents and siblings to them both on occasion. Perhaps they felt enough guilt over his death to tell them. Someone had to tell them. They couldn’t go the rest of their lives simply believing he was dead because he never came back from the war. They’d never have closure. 

“Petros, why didn’t you tell him?”

The voice floated through the black, making it ripple and shine as if there were a light somewhere. It was a voice that should not be there. Panic bubbled up within him, whatever he happened to be in those long moments. Ambrus shouldn’t be there. He couldn’t be dead. Not after everything Areti had done to get him back to Pethra and Petros. 

“I didn’t know how. I struggled to say it with you as well, did I not?”

No. No. They couldn’t be there with him. They were supposed to reunite, supposed to live happily without him. What had happened? Had Pethra fallen? It couldn’t have been possible, but he was hearing them so clearly, as if they were at his side. 

“I’m well aware. I thought you would have learned to say what you feel by now. Because of us, Areti’s dying.”

A scoff, angry and filled with irritation. “You didn’t say anything either.”

“I tried. He wouldn’t let me.” Ambrus’s voice was sad, tired, all the things it should not be. “Besides, we both agreed that you were to make your feelings known first. You’ve wanted him far longer than I have.”

The words faded after that, sounding thick and muffled by the fog. Areti focused on a single word, all others leaving his head almost as soon as he heard them. Dying. He was dying. He was not dead, not yet. He wasn’t sitting in the darkness on the shores of the Styx, but half asleep, groggy with infection. The sobbing had not come from another soul nearby, but from someone sitting at his bedside, weeping over him. He couldn’t think of who would do such a thing. 

Then came the realisation that he was alive, that he might survive the awful infection that had taken him over. He could fight it if he truly wanted to, instead of succumbing like his delirious mind had wanted him to. If he did, they would most likely send him home or keep him from his duties for a while. He could see his family again, for the first time in years. He could ask Ambrus and Petros what they meant by everything they were saying. 

Petros’s voice drifted towards him again, shaking and far from the usual rumbling comfort he had found it to be. “If he wakes up, we’ll tell him then.”

Tell him what? He felt like he was missing something, a foggy thought lost deep in his mind. Whatever it was, it was important and he needed to know. He couldn’t just lie there in the dark until he faded away. Yes, he was dying, but if he fought hard enough, he might still live. And if he did, then he was going to demand every answer he could get, because nothing either of them had said made sense to him. 

However, knowing that he needed to fight didn’t mean that he knew how to fight. The darkness was overwhelming, all encompassing in a way that felt impossible to get through. He couldn’t feel his body, but he couldn’t feel the pain either. All he could do was see, even if it was darkness. That had to be something he could work with. 

He couldn’t say how much time he spent trying to open eyelids he could not feel. It could have been minutes or hours or days. Sometimes, he heard voices. Usually, it was Ambrus or Petros, speaking in worried tones so quietly that Areti could only make a few words out. Other times, he didn’t hear or see anything and when he became aware of himself again, he knew he had been sleeping. 

Eventually, after more time than he knew how to count, he began to fill the heat of the darkness around him. He had to be in a room in Pethra somewhere, in the middle of the hot summer he’d hated travelling through. With it, came the dull pain of his arm, the first part of himself he’d been able to feel. Occasionally, the pain disappeared, usually when an unfamiliar voice spoke to him. Medicinal herbs, something to dull the pain and treat the infection. 

Before he knew it, more of his body became known to him. The dryness of his throat, the ache in his legs, the fact that he was lying down on something lumpy and uncomfortable against his back. He still couldn’t move, but he was getting there. He was waking up. He was alive.

It was with that thought that his eyes cracked open. Only a sliver of light met him, dark and slivery as the night, but still far too bright for eyes that hadn’t seen anything except black for what felt like years. Areti blinked until the light wasn’t too painful and his eyes filled with tears of relief. His arm ached and his body was heavy, but he was not on the shores of the Styx. 

The first thing he did when his eyesight cleared and he could look at any point of light without it burning was check his arm. Somehow, it was still attached. It wasn’t as if they could have amputated it properly; his wound had stretched up his shoulder as well. Even so, relief flowed through him and he melted into his blankets with a sigh. 

The second thing he did was check if there was anyone else in the room. There wasn’t. He was alone. After all the conversations and tears he had overheard, he had still woken up alone. He didn’t know why he had expected otherwise. They’d been there, he was sure of it. Or, his delirious mind was supplying him with wishful ideas that would never truly come to pass. 

It took a while for him to be able to push him into a sitting position, even longer to be able to stand without getting dizzy. Perhaps he should have stayed in bed and waited for someone to come by, but he was awake and alive and he wanted to feel the cool night air on his skin. 

He wore a loose chiton, nothing like the one he had travelled in. A flash of embarrassment coursed through him at the idea of someone undressing him, of someone knowing his secret, but he doubted anything would come of it. Granted, they may believe him to be a woman posing as a man, but with Kallus fallen, the army would need all the help it could get. 

Wrenching the door open, Areti came face to face with a tired looking woman. A doctor of some variety. She raised an eyebrow at him and with a gentle hand, pushed him back into the room. 

She didn’t speak much and never gave him her name, but she unwrapped the bandages and let him have a look at the damage. It was slowly healing, the wound no longer a motley of red and yellow, but still harsh to look at. Almost four days, he’d been out, according to the quiet doctor. She’d never truly been sure if he would make it until the afternoon before. 

“Am I able to go for a walk?” he asked, his voice raspy with disuse. 

The doctor narrowed her eyes at him for a long second. “Don’t go far,” she told him. “If you start feeling dizzy, sit until it passes and then come straight back here. Do you understand?”

He was genuinely surprised that she let him go, but dashed from the room as fast as he heavy legs could take him. There might have been a part of him that was looking for Ambrus and Petros but mainly, he wished to be up and moving once more. He wobbled occasionally, but there was no dizziness anymore. 

On the horizon, the sun was beginning to peek up from where it had rested. A few soldiers roamed the halls, all of them looking weary and tired. Areti should have asked for news of the war, but there would hopefully be time for that later. Pethra hadn’t fallen yet, they still had a chance.

He eventually stopped against an archway facing the rising sun. Within moments, the day would start and soldiers would be pouring through the walls, but Areti couldn’t care less. All he wanted to do was watch the sunrise, take it in like it was the first time he was seeing one. He had come so close to never seeing anything again. It would be a long time before he didn’t stop to stare at every little thing like it was new. 

Like one of Pethra’s many statues, he stood frozen as the warriors stumbled from their quarters and readied themselves for the day. No one seemed to notice him leaning against a cool pillar, watching the blinding sun rise. He waited until their footsteps and voices faded and the sun grew too hot to bear on his sensitive skin before he turned back the way he came. 

While there was no dizziness on his short walk, he quickly became overcome with exhaustion. He’d sleep again, but hopefully it wouldn’t be for so long. There were still people he needed to talk to, as terrifying as the prospect sounded. 

Voices drifted towards him as he wandered back towards his makeshift quarters, quiet and panicked. Areti hurried forward, his bare feet skidding to a stop as he rounded the corner. In the open doorway to his quarters stood Ambrus and Petros, whispering to each other while the former gestured wildly. How strange it was to see them together. 

How quickly his anger surfaced once again.