Chapter 2

With a gasp, I shot up in bed. The bright light in the room sent daggers of pain deep into the back of my eyes, so I squeezed them tightly shut and tucked my head into the crook of my elbow. My heart was racing and a thin layer of sweat covered my whole body. Where the air in the room caressed bare skin -namely, my arms, neck, and shoulders- a clammy chill raised goosebumps. For several moments, I took deep, rapid breaths as I tried to settle the sudden bout of panic.

‘Was it… was it all a dream?’ I wondered.

Images of the accident replayed themselves in my head. I could see every crack and crevice in the trailer tire as it bore down on my passenger-side door. The image of it was burned into my memory, as clear and vivid as if I could physically see the scene. I shuddered; what happened after was…

‘No, don’t go there,’ I reminded myself, interrupting that train of thought. ‘Focus on something else.’

I recalled the out of body experience, the meeting with the Moon Goddess. Selatura, was it? Parts of it were… blurry, for lack of a better word. Like a half-remembered dream. Still, the words of our agreement played through my head as clear as day.

“Swear an oath on your mortal soul that you will carry on the Salvorin family legacy, that you will worship me as Artesia’s ancestors before her, that you will perform great deeds in my name, and that you will spread my religion as far and wide as you are able.”

‘Well, shit. It was real, wasn’t it?’ I asked myself.

Slowly, I lowered my arm. Light still flooded through my closed eyelids, but the driving pain was… less than it was before. Good news, as far as I was concerned. It was a bit like waking up with a hangover the morning after a night of heavy drinking. I didn’t get those very often, mind you; I didn’t drink often or very much, and on the rare occasions that I did, I always made sure to drink a few glasses of water before bed. Sure, it meant that I would always be forced out of bed early in the morning to use the bathroom, but it beat the headaches and nausea.

I opened my eyes a crack, squinting against the still too-bright light. It took a minute of squinting, blinking, and rubbing at my dry eyes to get them properly adjusted. Blearily, I looked around the room I found myself in.

Most of the light streamed in from an open window. The bright sun was rising just over a line of mountain peaks in the distance, just as it did every morning. Memories of waking up to this very scene most mornings played through my mind. I furrowed my brow; those memories weren’t mine.

‘Or are they?’ I wondered. Hadn’t I asked for Artesia’s memories? I had grown up far from any mountain ranges, so they couldn’t be mine. And yet, they felt so familiar, so… normal. ‘Since I’m in Artesia’s body now, does that make them my memories?’

Ignoring the identity crisis for a moment, I returned my attention to the room I found myself in. The window didn’t have any glass panes. A set of shutters were attached to the outside edge and opened out, while off-white curtains were drawn open on the inside. The walls of the room were made of light grey and tan stone held together by a dark grey mortar.

There was a tall wardrobe next to the window, made of a pale colored unvarnished wood that had been sanded to what looked like a smooth finish. Rounded edges and intricate scroll-work showed the care that had been put into crafting it, and the arched top reminded me of some older antiques I’d seen before… well, in my previous life.

The large four-poster bed matched the wardrobe in both color and style, as did the chest of drawers and the small desk set against the wall opposite the door. Most of the floorspace was covered by a red rug with gold pine trees set inside white circles. Not real gold, mind you, just a bright yellow dye that matched the tasseling along the edges of the rug.

The only real decorations in the room (aside from the furniture and the rug) were wrought iron candelabras set into the stone walls. There were several half-melted candles in each one, though none of them were currently lit. The whole room was rather… basic. The furniture was finely crafted and spoke of quality, but it was much more utilitarian than I was used to.

‘I guess that’s what I should expect for this place,’ I mentally complained with a frown, remembering that the world I had been sent to was not as technologically advanced as the one I was used to.

I felt an itch on my scalp, so I reached up and scratched it. My hair was matted and greasy, and it felt absolutely disgusting. I felt something moving under my finger, and I reflexively withdrew my hand.

‘What in the world…?’

I ran my fingers through my hair and searched around. Something wriggled again, and I pinched at it. It took a moment to work it free from my tangled locks, but eventually I was able to bring it into view. The small thing was dark brown and about the size of a sesame seed. Short legs flailed from a flattened oval body.

‘Oh eww!’ I instinctively crushed the louse by rubbing my fingers together and flicking it away.

With a bit of a grimace, I pulled one of the long locks around so I could see it. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I didn’t see any living lice crawling everywhere. Still, the thought of playing host to such parasites sent a shiver of disgust down my spine. The jet black strands were tangled together and it didn’t appear to curl much at all. Though, that could have been because of how dirty it was.

I let the hair drop and looked at my hand. The skin was light and pale, almost the color of pure cream. The fingers were long and slender, and the bone structure was rather… delicate. There wasn’t a hint of a scar or callus, or any indication in any way that the previous owner had done a hard day’s work in her life.

I frowned. Even as a child, I’d played outside often enough that I’d had little scars and calluses. This young woman, apparently, did not venture outside very often at all.

‘I suppose that’ll have to change,’ I resolved. A healthy body was as important as a healthy mind.

Pulling the blankets off of my legs, I continued inspecting my new body. It was slender and willowy, as far as I could tell, with little hints of pudge here and there, mainly around the stomach and thighs. I could see hints of dirt and grime on nearly every patch of skin I could see, and I felt oily all over. Even worse, I stank of sweat and body odor.

Wrinkling my nose, I resolved to have a bath as soon as possible. There was a large copper tub down near the kitchens that the servants would fill with warm water, soap shavings, and scented oils. They’d work the whole tub into a lather, and I could sit and soak in it until the water cooled, if I wanted to.

I frowned; those were Artesia’s memories again.

I leaned back against the pillows and contemplated the thought. Would I lose my sense of self? Would I stop being Levi, even if only in my head, and start being Artesia? Or would I always feel like an outsider in a body that wasn’t my own? Or would I become some mix of the two?

I didn’t know. And that, perhaps, was the most frightening prospect. The ignorance.

I wasn’t sure how long I stayed like that, merely contemplating my existence, but my fugue was interrupted by the heavy metal latch on the door. The rod was lifted out of the latch with a heavy clack sound, and the door swung open.

A young woman walked in, carrying an earthenware pitcher in one hand and a cup in a similar style in the other. Her honey brown eyes met mine and she stopped in place. She gasped and reflexively let go of what she was carrying. The pitcher smashed on the stone floor, sending clear water and pottery shards flying, soaking the lower hem of the white robes she was wearing.

“Lady Artesia!” she exclaimed. She wasn’t speaking English; between the rolled r, the occasional glottal stops, and the different tenses and gender conjugations, it was quite different from what I was used to. And yet, I could understand it perfectly. “You’re awake!”

The woman rushed across the room, ignoring the broken pieces of the pitcher that crunched under her foot as she did. I didn’t recognize the woman; there was no sense of familiarity, even from Artesia’s memories. But there was something about her eyes and light brown hair that felt… I don’t know, comforting. It was a difficult feeling to place.

“Healer Woad?!” I heard a voice from the hallway. A man wearing some sort of brigandine armor poked his head around the corner. “I heard a crash, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Sir Brant,” Healer Woad said over her shoulder. “I was just surprised is all. Would you send word to the Count that Artesia is awake?”

I leaned around the healer’s body so I could get a better view of the guard. I couldn’t see his face through his helmet, but it did rotate until it pointed in my general direction. The knight stood up straight and said, “Right away!”

He disappeared from the doorway, and the healer turned her attention back to me.

“How do you feel?” she asked, her voice gentle. She reached out with one hand and placed her palm across my forehead. “Any aches or pains? Any soreness or itching?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” I said. My voice was… ragged, and I grimaced a bit. It felt like it hadn’t been used in a while, and sounded sleep-fogged and half drowned in phlegm. On the plus side, I didn’t accidentally slip into English, and the language I was speaking -called Pommeran- sounded almost identical to Healer Woad’s, though with a slightly different inflection. Artesia’s memories seemed to indicate that the healer spoke with a peasant’s accent, while I did not.

“By Tycorin, that is a relief,” she said, sounding genuinely grateful. She looked down at me, her head tilted to one side and her brow scrunched up. “... you don’t recognize me, do you?”

Feeling embarrassed, I ducked my head, allowing my long hair to fall over my face, and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“I suppose that’s to be expected,” she sighed. “You were already delirious with fever when I first arrived here.”

I looked up, peeking between the strands of my hair, and studied her. Her skin was tanned and a touch weather-worn, as if she was used to being outside. Her light brown hair had streaks of dirty blonde running through it. It didn’t look like modern highlights or dyes, rather it looked like natural sun-bleaching. Her robes were entirely white save for a sort of vest or bodice made of a dark brown leather, and a red sash wrapped around her waist. A wooden pendant hung from her neck, the fine carving depicting a bleeding man.

She was quite pretty in a farmer’s daughter sort of way, I thought.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” she said, breaking into a gentle smile. “I’m Healer Visha Woad.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said as I reflexively held out my hand. Visha looked at it in confusion, and then back at me. “I… uh, wanted to thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my lady,” she said, somewhat hesitantly. Seeing that she was making no move to grab my hand, I withdrew it.

‘I guess they don’t do handshakes here,’ I thought.

I suppose it was to be expected. This was a different culture, on an entirely different world. Hell, they even spoke a different language! It was, perhaps, a touch of foolishness on my part to assume that handshakes were common here.

“Is there anything I can get you, my lady?” she asked.

“Water, please,” I said. After catching another whiff of my terrible body odor, I grimaced and said, “And a bath. I’d really like a bath.”

“Encina!” Healer Woad called over her shoulder.

“Yes, ma’am?” A middle-aged woman replied, poking her head through the doorway. She wore a tan dress with a dark green apron. Small stains and discoloration speckled both garments, but they didn’t look dirty, per se, merely old and well-used.

“Would you bring another cup and pitcher of water, please?” Healer Woad politely asked her. “And could you get a bath started for the young lady?”

“I will, ma’am.” Encina, the older lady, scurried off.

For a moment, the two of us sat in silence. My head itched again, so I scratched it, plucked off another louse, crushed it, and flicked it away.

“I don’t suppose you have a remedy for lice, do you?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not,” she shook her head. “My healing spells don’t get rid of them. There are some poultices that do work, but with the plague, we’re desperately short on herbs and medicines.”

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“Plague?!” I asked, surprised.

She looked at me, somewhat surprised. “Yes, plague. How did you think you fell ill?”

“... I don’t remember,” I (somewhat) lied. In Artesia’s memories she seemed fine until the sudden onset of fever.

“Well, you caught the same sickness as most of the city,” she went on. “Your father was so worried about your health that he hired me to treat you.”

“Is it…” I searched for the term I was looking for. I wanted to use the word ‘epidemic’, but there didn’t seem to be an equivalent in Pommeran. Instead, I asked, “Was it a particularly bad plague?”

“Yes, it was,” Healer Woad said, looking away. “Many people died of it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it is not your fault,” Healer Woad tried to reassure me with a weak smile. “Even the Gods cannot cure all ills.”

I plucked another louse from my hair and flicked it away. Being aware that there were tiny insects crawling through my hair gave me the chills. It was kind of like that old internet prank, where you tell people 'you are now aware you're breathing manually', and they become hyper aware of their breathing. Only, in this case, I was hyper aware if every single sensation on my scalp.

'Disgusting creatures,' I complained even as a shudder ran down my spine.

"What about home remedies?" I asked. "Do you know if any of those work at all?"

“My mother always swore on tallow,” she said, a faraway look in her eyes. “Rub it into the scalp and wrap your head before bed, then rinse with vinegar in the morning, and wash with soap and water. With a proper combing, it kept my brothers and sisters mostly free of lice.”

"... I'll have to see if the kitchens can spare any tallow and vinegar, then."

"You're awfully eager to get rid of them."

"They're pests," I said, frowning. "I'd much rather be rid of them than ignore them."

The healer gave me an odd look. She opened her mouth and took a breath, but before she could utter a word, the door burst open.

“Artesia!”

A long-haired man quickly strode into the room, his boots thumping against the floor. Artesia’s memories recognized him immediately, and a burst of love and affection welled up in my chest.

“Father,” I greeted him with a smile.

“My daughter,” he murmured more to himself than to anyone in the room as he drew level with the bedside. I saw the beginnings of tears welling in the corner of his eyes as he leaned over and pulled me into a tight hug. “You’re awake… by Selatura, you’re awake…”

It was… unsettling, to feel emotions that weren’t really your own. Artesia’s memories held many a fond moment between her and her father, and her affection for him ran deep and true. Still, the emotions felt… I don’t know, somewhat foreign to me. I did my best to return the man’s hug the way Artesia would have, but my mind was focused more on my own thoughts and feelings.

‘I suppose I still identify more with Levi’s memories than Artesia’s,’ I rationalized in my mind. ‘Still, I have a role to play. I swore on it…’

“Leave us,” the Count said softly.

“Of course, my lord,” Healer Woad said. Over the man’s shoulder, I saw her dip a curtsey before leaving the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

Once the door was closed, the Count released me and pulled a chair up beside the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees, folded his hands in front of him, and bowed his head.

For several long minutes, we sat in silence. I couldn’t see much of his face, so I couldn’t really gauge his mood. He seemed happy to see that I was awake, though. Ecstatic, almost.

“When you fell ill with the plague, I thought that all was lost,” he began. His voice quavered with the weight of his emotion. “If you had… had died, the family line would have ended with me.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. Reaching out, I placed my hand on his, gently squeezing them in silent reassurance.

“It’s not your fault.”

Something about what he said nagged at me. ‘Why would my death end the family line?’

“Father,” I began, my voice low and cautious. “Can you… can you no longer father children?”

The Count lifted his head and looked at me, his eyes sad and watery. “It’s… not that I can’t, it’s that I won’t. After your mother, I don’t think I could bring myself to love another woman...”

I furrowed my brow and looked away. ‘I probably shouldn’t ask. It seems like a sensitive subject, but…’

Turning back towards him, I met his gaze and asked, “Why?”

He stared at me for several moments before sighing and looking away. “Did I ever tell you how I met your mother?”

His words brought to mind a number of conversations in Artesia’s memories where he’d told her stories about his wife, but none of them were specifically about how they met.

“I… don’t think so?” I asked, more than stated.

“It was almost twelve years ago, during the last war with Wittan,” he began, his eyes unfocused and a sad smile on his face. “After King Brogue’s army routed the Wittans at the battle of Lothrin, I and my bannermen were sent to relieve the siege at Reeveport.”

“When their scouts discovered we were coming, the besiegers formed up to give us battle,” he continued, his gaze focusing back on me. “They numbered several thousand, and I and my levies merely half their number. Eventually, we formed up and prepared to attack them. Before the battle had begun, though, the defenders in Reeveport sallied out and threatened their flank.”

The Count shook his head and chuckled. “Those defenders looked a right mess. Half-starved, filthy, and wearing whatever makeshift armor they could patch together, they looked more like forest bandits than a proper army. Still, they fought with pride and ferocity that day. I’ll never forget their bravery, nor what the men chanted as they charged…”

“What were they saying?” I asked, leaning towards him.

“They chanted ‘Maven Pascha, Maven Pascha,’ over and over again. Your mother had put on a suit of armor, rallied the defenders, and led them into battle. That was the first time I ever heard your mother’s name… ”

“Is that when you met her?”

“No, not quite. After the battle was won and the besiegers dispersed, my men made camp just outside the city walls, while I and the other nobles were invited into the city for a celebration.” He gave a wry smile and shook his head. “It was hardly a royal feast; the siege had left the city dangerously low on foodstuff. In fact, if we hadn’t captured the enemy’s camp, we wouldn’t have had much of anything to feast on!”

“Did you meet her at the feast?”

“I did. She was… well, in all truthfulness, she wasn’t at her best,” he admitted. “During the siege, she had convinced her father, Lord Mayor Pascha, to open his personal larders and warehouses, and give that food to the starving citizens. She looked nearly as starved as everyone else in the city, and the dress she wore that was ill-fitting and quite dusty. Still, she was a polite and well-mannered hostess, and obviously beloved by the people.”

“She sounds like an amazing woman,” I said, my voice soft. “Is that when you decided to marry her?”

“Just the opposite, actually.” Seeing my confused expression, the Count laughed. “The Lord Mayor was so thankful that I’d broken the siege that he offered his daughter’s hand to me in marriage. I refused.”

“But… why?”

“I was young and foolish and determined to marry for love,” he admitted, looking a bit sheepish. “Your mother was the same in that regard. Later, she told me that she was both relieved that I had refused, yet incised that I had done so entirely without consideration. Apparently, she took it as a slight, and was quite cross with me for some time.”

“But, then how-” I began, but a knock at the door interrupted me before I could continue.

“Enter,” the Count said firmly, his voice projecting loudly through the room.

“The young lady asked for some water, my lord,” the woman, Encina, deferentially explained as she entered the room. “I have it here for her, and another cup for you, my lord.”

“Thank you, Encina, I’ll take them.”

“Of course, my lord.” She offered them with a curtsey.

The Count -I suppose I should start using his name, Valens- poured water from the pitcher into each of the cups and offered one to me. I had intended to only take a light sip, but the water tasted so good I ended up draining the whole thing.

Valens chuckled and took the cup from me, refilled it, and held it out for me. I took another sip, but the majority of my thirst had been quenched.

Valens looked over his shoulder and saw that Encina was still standing by the door. “Is there something else you need, Encina?”

“Only to inform you that the young lady’s bath will be ready on the hour, milord.”

“Thank you, I will see to it she does not let it go cold.” He gave her a warm smile. “Please, leave us. I wish to speak with my daughter alone.

“Of course, milord.”

She curtseyed again and swept out of the room. For several moments after the door closed, the two of us sat in silence, occasionally sipping from our glasses of water. Eventually, though, I broke the silence.

“If mother was so angry with you, then how did you end up marrying her?”

“That is a story for another time, I think,” he said, shaking his head.

“Mother was a strong woman, wasn’t she?” I asked, lost in thought. ‘If I play this right…’

“Aye, she was, and I loved her for it.”

“Do you think I could be as strong as her some day?” I asked. I tilted my head up and opened my eyes a little wider than normal. With the hopeful expression I plastered on my face, I gave Valens the best ‘cute and innocent’ facade I could possibly muster.

His eyes softened and he gave me a soft smile. “I’m sure you will be.”

“I want to be like her,” I told him with my best ‘cute and serious’ face. “I want to learn to use a sword and lead men into battle.”

Valens frowned, and for a moment I thought I had pushed a little too far. “Your mother never learned to use a sword.”

“Then… then when I do, I’ll be stronger than she was,” I stated with childlike certainty.

“The battlefield is no place for a young noblewoman,” he said, shaking his head.

“But Mother fought,” I pointed out.

“Yes, she did,” he acknowledged. “But, she caused quite the scandal by doing so.”

“Why?” I asked. “Is it… forbidden, for women to fight?”

“Well… no, not exactly.”

“Then why would it cause a scandal?”

Valens sighed and looked out the window. “I suppose it’s because the only tales of women warriors are of Kymringr shield-maidens and from the nomadic peoples beyond the Altain Kush. Both the Kymringr and the nomads are horrible, barbaric people. They raid and rape and kill with no remorse or mercy. They do not hold to the Godly Virtues of Honor, Mercy, or Charity. In essence, they were calling her a heathen barbarian trying to lead people astray.”

“Well… I don’t care what they say,” I huffed and crossed my arms, still playing up the cute and childish angle. “I’ll be a… a Lady Knight.”

“Oh, will you now?” he asked, a chuckle shaking his shoulders. “A Lady Knight?”

“Yes. I’ll be the best most… most…” I paused, looking for the right word. “Most knightly…?”

“Most chivalrous knight?”

“Right, the most chivalrous knight,” I nodded, carefully enunciating the unfamiliar Pommeran word. “And the most graceful lady.”

“How in the world can you be both at the same time?” he asked, still chuckling at my intentionally childish antics.

“Well, when I’m dressed as a Lady, I’ll be the most perfect Lady, and when I’m dressed as a Knight, I’ll be the most perfect Knight.”

“I see. A Lady Knight, huh…?” he trailed off, staring at nothing. “It’s going to be a lot of work, you know.”

“I’m not afraid of hard work.”

“You’ll have to work harder than you ever have before,” Valens explained, his voice turning serious. “A knight must dedicate a lot of time and effort into learning the ways of war. It won’t be easy, and it won’t be fun. In fact, it’ll hurt a lot. Furthermore, you still have much to learn about being a Lady as well. Doing both may be more than you can handle…”

“I can do it,” I said, my voice soft yet intense. “I’ll work hard, I promise.”

Valens sighed looked out the window again. “Your bath should be about ready. Why don’t you get cleaned up? When you’re finished, we can speak over some lunch.”

“Yes… father.”

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