“Haven’t you had enough?”

“Enough? What do I look like, a damn babe?” He greedily chugged down the tankard of ale before slamming it and pushing for a fifth. “Well? Fill ‘er up!” He slurred, his face a red, grimy mess.

“Sorry. As your friend, I can’t watch you blow your liver.” The bartender took the tankard away from the drunk, washing it behind the counter.

“Blow me liver? Who cares if I blow me damn liver!?” He coughed hard, hiccuping and belching at the same time. “It’d be better if I did blow my stinking liver. My life ain’t got no value anyhow. Come back to a bloody town with nothin’ but the skin on me back! Damn it all!”

“Look. . .” He said, before stopping himself. “If you want to off yourself, be my guess, but don’t do it here. Some of us have a life they value, and I don’t want mine dragged down with you.”

The drunken man smiled, pushing back the barstool. “Ah! Good! I’ll go find somewhere else to drown me sorrows or whatever. . .” He slammed ten silver pieces on the bar. “A little somethin’ extra. Y’know. . for the missus. . .” He shouldered his pouch before heading off.

“You. . .be safe, friend. You hear? Clean yourself up.”

“Aye, whatever. . .”

* * *

As the lone, cold, half-drunk soldier walked through the empty streets of his hometown, his bags with his few belongings within, images of the year long campaign continuously ebbed at his every thought. War. . .war wasn’t like how they tell it in the story books - like how his mother used to tell him under the candlelight when he was a child. War was cold, undiscriminate, and didn’t care if you were a hero or baseborn. In war, no one had a face. You were simply a man that would rush into battle, die, and be replaced. You were a weapon. No longer a human, and with two-hundred thousand men strong upon the battlefield, what did the life of a single soldier really matter?

You were no better than the man you’d just slain. You might aswell have slain your reflection.

He pulled into his quarters - a dusty old alcove with a roof, a bed, and just enough food to keep him alive for the night. He got his pay, the pay an average pleb soldierboy would receive. Not much.

To his surprise, instead of the usual vacant sight of his cot, a figure stood at his front, their back turned. He instinctively clung to his sword, his only remaining friend. The only friend that he knew he could trust wouldn’t fail or abandon him, less it shattered.

“Oi! Who the hell goes there? Looking to loot the place or sumthin’? To bad their ain't nothin to nab--”

The figure turned around, and in the silver moonlight, he could make out their face. From the soft, lavender locks to the plump lips and stormy eyes, it only took him a second to register their appearance. To remember who stood before him.

“You. . .you. . .you’re alive. . .” She brought her hands to her mouth, her eyes growing wet.

He couldn’t quite form words. The woman he stared at. The woman he resolved himself to remove from his thoughts. The woman who caused him such pain, now right before him. Her sight was enough to sober him up, and fill his bones with emotions he thought he’d left back on the battlefield.

“Mor. . ..Morgana?”

“It’s been so long. I’d thought you. . .” She shook her head, a smile coming to her lips. “No. You’re alive. In the flesh. And. . .so am I.”

He took a step closer, as if he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing.

You swore her off. You swore you wouldn’t think of her. You swore you wouldn’t pine or feel or lust for her. You swore it, yet. . .why does your heart yearn so?

“Morgana. . .I. . .” He stopped, nearly making the same mistake he’d made so many years ago. “Why did you come back here?”

“To. . .to see you.” She squeezed her thumbs, looking downwards. “I. . .I became a knight!” She smiled, her cheeks florid in the nights brisk. “I did it, just like I said. I’ve my own squire, and pages a-and everything!”

The young soldier, for the first time in a long time, managed a genuine smile. “You did? That’s. . .that’s wonderful. I never doubted you, kid.” He looked passed her, her jewel encrusted scabbard glinting as his eyes passed over it and stopped at his old cot. A sudden shame filled his insides, along with an odd anger.

“How. . .how have you been?”

He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Oh. . .I’ve been there and back. But. . .I’m not important. You. . .you’re something now. A high born lass like you aught to be feasting in the great halls with the king and his fat guests. So why’d you come back?”

“To see you, darn it!?” She said with surprising force, “I’m not the type of person to toss away my friends like rubbish. If it wasn’t for your words, I’d be some man's--”

“Wife?” He thought about the word, fingering it around in his head as one would finger a counterfeit coin in their hands. “Foolish man, wasn’t he? That silly boy.”

This time, Morgana looked down, unable to meet the his eyes. “I. . .I didn’t. . .I only said what I did because--”

“No, don’t. Don’t explain it to me again. I already understand. I was holding you back, with my silly feelings and dreams and what not. But I get it now. My dream was foolish, something only an idiot baseborn lad would crock up, and as you can see. . .it only got me so far.” He smiled, looking up at his lost love. “But you, you were smarter than me. Now, you have an identity, and all I am is a lost, foolish man amidst a sea of ale and blood.”

She took a step towards him, but stopped in her tracks. She breathed into her hand with uncertainty, trying to understand and unscramble her own mixed feelings.

“I came to tell you that your struggle was not in vain.” She said. “Because of you and your swords, the Aurochs won’t dare attempt to reassemble again. I know not the smell of blood and death as you do, but I know one thing, it was worth it.”

He stood, his face blank as he registered her words. “Worth it, huh? To fight and kill for another's ambitions. . .worth it?” He breathed in, squeezing the strap over his shoulder. “Remember? When it was just you and I? I’d said. . .it wasn’t my desire to become great, or go down in the legends. All I wanted was to have something to hold dear. Someone I could fight for, and die for without regret.” He bit his lip, staring hard at the woman with wet eyes. “I had no one, Morgana! When I was out there, slaying and killing and gutting - I felt numb! I didn’t care if I returned from battle or not! I didn’t care if the day was lost! Because when the sun set and I’d fuck my sorrows away, I’d still be the same me! Just with a little blood on my hands and a whore in my cot. Everyday I returned from battle alive, I ended up wishing I was there, among the nameless dead on those sands. But time after time I returned, covered in more and more pointless blood. Because the only thing keeping me alive then - the only thing keeping me from sheathing my sword in my own neck was the hope that one day someone would come around and give my bloodshed meaning. . .but when I returned home, it’d remained just as I’d left it. I remained alone. . .”

The two stared at each other for a breathless moment, two worlds, two people, two dreams, but with the same roots. One a knight, and one a soldier. One a hero, and one, a weapon.

One a bright, distant star, and the other, a nameless, broken heart.

* * *
In this world, the kingdom of Duran’dul specifically, the people who have power have security. Highborn knights never have to see the battlefield like the common, baseborn soldier. The privileged live a safe life within city walls, and aren’t forced to war like the rest of the men and even women are.

The soldier boy lived a false fantasy as a child, expressing his love for a girl who would never live in his world. A high born girl turned knight, and a baseborn boy turned weapon.

His name is pointless to mention, and his dream ever the more. What does his past matter at all? It was all washed away when he’d stained it with blood, anyhow.