Faywyn.

STRANGE as it was, in a state betwixt consciousness and slumber, James recalled a verse he once read penned by an English bard long gone: "Busy old fool," it said, unruly sun, "Why dost thou thus, through windows, and through curtains call on us?" The morn's sun, as ever, was a pettish mistress. Her golden fingers reached for his sleeping form as a dusty beam, seeking to probe him from a restful slumber. Petulant.

The air hung heavy with the scent of myrrh, vinegar and honey. James felt the cool touch of a damp cloth glide across his chest, its sudden chill jolting him from his slumber. He gasped. Pain wracked his body, a throbbing ache coursing through his veins, gripping muscles and bones alike. Groaning, he reached for his head, fingers encountering the crisp edges of bandages swathed around his throbbing skull. With effort, his eyelids fluttered open, breaking the seal of sleep's embrace. Pupils contracting against the sudden brightness, James gazed at the ceiling, confusion etching his features.

What happened?

"My lord?" A voice trembled at his side.

Turning to the speaker, James met the gaze of a woman in her prime. She sat beside him, a wet cloth suspended in her hand. Realization dawned upon him in the next moment; he was unclothed, save for a modest covering over his loins.

The woman, likely a nurse or caretaker, James surmised, though her attire puzzled him. Clad in a cream-hued linen gown beneath a brown tunic, her mature figure was modestly veiled. Locks of dark brown hair, longer than his own, cascaded beneath a cream wimple. Silently, he regarded her, her initial worry giving way to joy.

"My Lord, you awaken!" the nurse exclaimed.

James surveyed the unfamiliar chamber, its décor modest yet comforting; ancient bookshelves flanked his bed, alongside a study table. Unlit candles adorned ornate stands, casting soft shadows. To his left, a polished copper pane reflected the room, framed by ivy and stone. Comfortable yet unfamiliar... before familiarity flooded back.

Confusion swirled within him.

James glanced down, noting clean bandages encircling his torso. Discarded gauze and salves lay nearby, evidence of recent care. Hissing as he shifted, he attempted to sit upright.

"Take heed, my lord," another voice cautioned from across the room, hoarse yet authoritative. "Rest, for your wounds are still raw." James turned to see a man rise from the shadows, dressed in dark attire that blended seamlessly with the shadows. Dark brown tunic and arming coat draped a figure with chiselled features, dark hair, and sloe-like eyes.

Suspicion flickered within James, his eyes narrowing warily; he did not recognise the man. Nor the nurse for that matter.

"My Lord… how fare you?" the stranger inquired, joining the nurse at his side.

"What happened to me?" James queried, struggling to parse his thoughts. Then it all came to him at once; a disorientating mess of memory and emotions:

A violent clash.

Confusion.

Spilt gold from a chest.

Betrayal.

A blinding fire, smoke billowing. Dead bodies with vaguely familiar faces.

Rage. Self Loathing.

A rather antiquated crossbow aimed at another figure,

Terror.

And James himself, tumbling down a flight of stairs amidst pain as a bolt found its mark in his lower torso.

Resignation intermixed with relief.

"Who are you!?" James demanded, heaving. The sound of his laboured breathing abruptly reached his ears. Startled, he let go of the bedsheets he had been gripping onto in shock.

"...ung lord! Young lord! Levi! What ails you?"

"Who are you?!" James asked again, reeling away from the stranger even as a bolt of pain lanced through his ribs.

The man faltered, his expression paling. His outstretched arm hung in mid-air before stiffly withdrawing. "Young lord, do you not recall me? It is I, Lancelot, your father's Viscount."

James paused, memories coalescing.

"Lancelot… Lancelot von Dragoon?" he ventured, a memory sliding into place.

"Aye," the man affirmed, relief colouring his features.

Turning to the nurse, James spoke, "Sarah?"

"Yes, My lord," she replied with a smile.

"Yet... who am I?" he murmured, uncertainty clouding his mind.

Silence gripped the room, unbroken even as the strangers exchanged worried glances.

"Levi, My Lord," Lancelot ventured, "You are Levi von Greifenburg. Earl of Faywyn, son of His Grace, Aden von Greifenburg, Duke of Faywyn and Governor-protector of Souville Province."

"No," James shook his head, confusion deepening. "No, I am not."

A memory surged within him, awakening realization.

"I am not dead?" he whispered, panic lacing his words.

"Am I?"