"Treason!" 

"Oh, how could you?"

Out of the loud voices in the tavern, theirs were the loudest.

"I swear you're gonna pay for this, Lowell", one of the men slurred. His beard glistened wet from spilled mead.
The addressed, a tall man in his late twenties with a mischievous glint in his vivid brown eyes, kept laughing. "Come on. Just grant me that. It's my last night with you scoundrels!"
"Alright, you cheating scumbag. But the next round is on you." The group burst into joyful bawling. Lowell turned in his seat to look for the barkeeper and shouted „another round!" across the room. Some other guests gave him and his drunken friends annoyed looks, but nothing could dampen his spirits that evening. When he turned to face his friends again, one snickered at him.
"Got a problem?", Lowell dared him.
"It's just- I can't imagine you livin' the fancy life. You're a spineless bastard, one of us-", Cyrus, a blonde crook, exclaims. He is still quite new, unfamiliar with the dynamics of the group and unaware that Lowell has picked a fight for a lesser attack on his honour.
Lowell growls at him. He's drunk and his fingertips tingle with the desire to draw his weapon to silence the man. Thinking that Cyrus isn't worth it, none of them are, he holds back.
"I'm nothing like you. My father has served, I'm going to serve. And I'll probably die serving, like he did, but I'll die an honourable death", he declares proudly, the table falling silent. Someone even chokes on his beer and spits it in a wide stream onto the sticky table. Lowell frowns as a few splashes stain his clothes.
"Boy, I've never thought about it that way. Dying for a good cause? That's nothing for me at least", the bearded one states, looking at Lowell with sudden wariness. They are scum, thieves and petty criminals, socially so far below Lowell, that he chuckles at the thought they really dared to consider him their equal.
„Where are you stationed?", Cyrus asks with barely concealed curiosity, leaning forward on his forearms, apparently not minding his sleeves soaking up spilled beer.
„B1. Under the bleeding rooks command." Surprised glances are exchanged.
"What is he like? Your commander?"
„Dunno, never met him. From what I've heard, he can't be older than twenty and he's the queen's favourite", Lowell answers with the hint of an undertone, then grabs for his beer glass and chugs it down in one row. He wallows in receiving the full attention of these lowlifes, their card game long forgotten.
„So the lad's a big deal? I'm not jealous of you getting to babysit a teen with a big ego, man", Cyrus asks snickering, but as slurred as his speech is, his dark eyes glisten in alert and keen interest. For a moment, Lowell considers whether he is less drunk than he pretends to be, but immediately dismisses the thought. There is for sure nothing to be gained for Cyrus.
„Oh shut up", he snaps at the man who kept distracting him from the sole purpose of this gathering- to enjoy his last evening in mindlessness.
„Anybody else wondering how one becomes the queen's favourite?", someone asks with a smug look. At this point, Lowell is so buzzed he can't quite differ their dirty faces.
„Surely he must know how to handle his weapon." Laughs erupt from the men. Someone whistles and Lowell grimaces, the sound too high and loud for his drugged skull.
"Man, what would I give to swap with him"
„From how you're talking, your wife, I suppose?"
„Don't gimme that look. My wife's fine, but she isn't a queen for sure."
Their amused voices and hearty laughs, with spittle flying around, blur into one loud jumble of sounds. Lowell turns his head and suddenly the sticky wooden surface of the table seems to be approaching him. Only when the man lowers his sweat-covered forehead with a groan does it dawn on him that he has slumped on it. Had he really drunk that much? A throbbing headache prevents him from thinking clearly.
Lying there, facing the room, he can observe the sparsely lit tavern with all its dubious guests. In the evenings, the pub is packed, and the hosts and the pretty temp girl have their hands full serving the tipsy crowd and swatting away wandering hands of particularly insolent drunkards.
He takes it upon himself to invite her to dinner when he is in the capital the next time, while watching her reddened cheeks and bouncing strawberry blonde curls with awe and remorse.
Suddenly, Lowell is overcome with rage at the thought of how he has spent the last years of his life. Why did his father have to be right about him being a freeloading good-for-nothing? Why couldn't Lowell pull himself together long enough to teach him better?
Glancing at the adorable girl in her simple, red dress and her strong arms carrying dozens of glasses on a tray, for the first time Lowell wonders if settling down is as difficult as he thought it to be.
Time flies as he lays in this dirty tavern, rethinking all his life choices, until a hand shakes him roughly by the shoulder. Squinting upwards, he perceives a man with tanned skin and dirty dark blond hair in a blur. It's Cyrus, who he can't stand, and he hoists Lowell up by putting one of his arms around his own shoulders. Actually, Lowell wouldn't mind punching the other guy, but with his blurred vision, he'd more likely hit the girl, and he couldn't risk upsetting the woman he wanted to marry someday before he knew her name. Therefore, he lets Cyrus drag him out of the pub without complaining.
The fresh night air is cold on his overheated, sweaty skin, but at the same time it feels like he can breathe freely for the first time that evening.
When his gaze meets Cyrus's, there is again a certain vigilance in his calculating eyes. For a brief moment, Lowell is frozen by fear, anticipating Cyrus to lunge at him, shove him, stab him, to do anything.
But the man just stands there and grins carelessly as he says: "Come on now, you honourable knight, I'll take you to your inn."
And the sudden feeling of panic dissipates as swiftly as it appeared, leaving Lowell to chuckle about his paranoia as he sets off, leaning on simple-minded, harmless Cyrus.