Joyce, now inhabiting the body of a seemingly fallen knight, felt a surge of disorientation and disbelief as she stood in the makeshift medical tent. The weight of the armor on her broad shoulders felt foreign, the scent of blood and sweat in the air assaulting her senses. Her hands, once delicate and nimble, now clenched into fists that could crush steel. She ran her fingers through the long brown-blond hair that cascaded down her now masculine back, a stark contrast to the short, practical cut she was accustomed to.
The haze and daze she felt upon standing all but faded. She covered her mouth and proceeded to stroke the shadow of a beard she now had, muttering, “Just one caveat, huh?”
Her now deep voice startled her further. Parched, Joyce took the pitcher from its bowl, the dew on the glass beckoning her further. She poured herself a glass, but before she could take a sip several images flashed in her mind, followed by a pang of pain.
Joyce grunted, holding her head, ‘What is this?’
The nonstop flurry of images flashed by so fast it was like watching a movie play out before her eyes. A young, brown-haired boy scraped his knee whilst playing and was comforted by his mother. That same boy, slightly older, was plowing the fields when some soldiers stormed his village looking for recruits. War was imminent.
Puzzled, she thought, ‘Why the heck am I watching some old dude’s memories?’
It only hit Joyce how evident what she watched was, when after a few frames she saw that same boy, then a young man, bare naked and atop an ogreish-looking, older woman. Warts on her face and crooked, yellow teeth were the visage Joyce saw. And then her hands went in to caress the woman’s saggy buxom.
Watching in such horror that it made her nauseous, but unable to mentally close her eyes, Joyce further thought, ‘Wait, I don’t want to see him doing some old lady!’
“Heck no,” she voiced hard, her face contorting from the disgusting display she was forced to witness. No details were spared in the vision; the scene lasted longer as if taunting Joyce and reveling in whatever pride the young man had over having done the deed.
A few more scenes flashed by before the pain subsided, the shock of it all causing Joyce to drop the cup of water. It shattered, and as it did, she also shook the visions away. She panted and looked in the mirror once more. A bead of sweat dripped from her voluminous brow.
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The face that stared at her in the mirror confirmed her realization, ‘That was... this man’s memories.’ The images that had flashed so briefly were seared into her mind, as if they had always been hers.
‘But that means... this isn’t my home. And this place, the battles fought, the way of life... it’s wildly different,” she surmised.
As she tried to come to terms with her new reality, a man entered the tent. He had been drawn in by the unusual sound of glass breaking and froze on the spot.
His voice pierced through the chaotic din outside the tent, "Sigurd? You’re alive?" The words pulled Joyce's attention to the medic standing at the entrance, a look of disbelief mingled with hope in his eyes.
The medic’s question brought Joyce back into focus. All the things she hadn’t seen whilst distracted by the vision caught up to her. The grim and dank nature of the beds around her painted a telling picture. Bodies lay strewn on medical beds, but they were in a critical state, unflinching.
Struggling to grasp the situation, Joyce managed a hoarse, "I am?" Her own voice sounded foreign, deeper, and rougher than she remembered.
In the brief second, she had turned to take her environment in, more of Sigurd’s memories flooded her brain. Suddenly, Joyce understood where she was, but more importantly, the man facing her was familiar, was known to her.
The medic's relief was palpable as he explained, "We thought you died. You were badly wounded and, no matter what the healer did, you didn't recover consciousness."
Still flabbergasted by his mate’s recovery, the medic stepped closer. He pulled out a tiny wand and tapped it twice in quick succession against his wrist. From its tip, a pale, bright light appeared. The medic placed one hand on Sigurd’s face and with the shone the wand close to his face.
“You were out for several minutes,” he said, scanning Sigurd’s eyes. “So we brought you here, to the ‘mourned’ tent.”
The weight of Sigurd's presumed death pressed down on Joyce, a heavy mantle of sorrow and confusion. She was a stranger in a familiar yet alien body, navigating a world of war and magic that defied everything she had ever known. She wanted to tremble but contained herself at the last second.
After the medic finished his quick scan, he surmised, “You look... good. Almost like a man reborn, not a visible wound on you. How is this possible?”
“It must’ve been a... miracle of the Gods’, I think,” Sigurd said in a deadpan tone, nodding in acknowledgment.
The medic stifled a chuckle, “Oh, if you’ve got your sense of humor then you’re fine.”
His reaction caused Joyce to pause. However, before she could process what had just happened, the shaking caused by a nearby explosion cut their conversation short.
“I hate to do this after you’ve recovered, but this skirmish sees no end in sight,” the medic said, dragging Sigurd along. The initial jubilation at Sigurd's resurrection was short-lived; the urgency of the ongoing conflict demanded his immediate return to the battlefield. “We need you out there!”
“Wait Rick, I,” Sigurd voiced, but his protest was hastily stamped out.
“I’m sorry, but we need all the hands we can get,” Rick cut him off, handing Sigurd his scabbards.