The war had been hard on Faolán. He'd lost friends, he'd lost faith, and some days he struggled with what he really believed. But through it all, he had survived. He was one of the lucky ones; so many of his companions didn't get back up at the battle's end, but clearly Ansgar was looking out for him. Ansgar had kept him safe, time and time again, even when he faced extra dangers over the years. Growing up had only increased those risks, for his his chest had grown and his hips had widened, a subject of distress for him, but his chest was still easily bound and his hips, at least, were still slim and boyish. That would have been harder to hide.
His monthly bleeding never got easier. At least on the battlefield no one noticed a little extra blood.
But somehow, he'd kept his secret a secret, though he still got teased for a pretty-boy that never even sprouted peach fuzz. He could deal with that, though, and the teasing had grown mostly good-natured after he proved his worth on the field, time and time again. It hadn't been easy, and accomplishing his dream was...not quite the dream he'd thought it would be. Soldiering wasn't glamorous. He'd nearly been killed, and had taken lives of his own. He'd seen things no one should.
And he kept soldiering on, knowing in his heart it was what he was born to do. For himself, for his country, for his family. It had been ages since he'd been back home, but he sent them money and felt better knowing they could live more comfortably--and knowing he was fighting to keep them safe.
It had been ages since he had last been in Uthlyn, and his regiment had only been there a day. It was to be a short reprieve, for them to rest, refuel, and keep their spirits up. Most of the soldiers went straight to the taverns and brothels to burn some stress, and Faolán--well, he needed a drink, too.
And so he headed to one of his favorites, stepping inside to be greeted by a barmaid and smiling at her in greeting. "Thanks! I'm just here for a drink," he said, pushing some strawberry blond hair from his eyes, before he headed for the bar--and blinked.
The one-armed man caught his eye for the obvious reasons, a mixture of shock and sympathy coiling within him--but as he drew closer, his heart beat a little faster, his chest tightening, because...no way...no freakin' way.
Breathless, unable to believe his eyes, Faolán slid into the seat next to his, leaned over to peer into the man's face, and felt his eyes grow saucer wide. Killian looked different, not just because of his arm--older, battle-weary, subdued, but God, that was him. It had to be.
"Killian? Is that...is that you? Please tell me that's you so I don't look crazy here." And he hoped he would recognize him, too, knowing he had changed a lot as well--older, stronger, a healed scar sliced across his cheek and nose, but still the same old Faolán.