Late Afternoon, April 10th, Anno Domini 1200The Keep of Falkenstrand
The simple act of standing was a trial. Alaric's legs trembled with a disconcerting lack of strength, and a wave of dizziness forced him to grip the edge of the rough-hewn bed frame. The body he inhabited, that of an eighteen-year-old, possessed a youth's inherent resilience, yet the recent trauma, the "fall" and subsequent bloodletting, had clearly taken its toll. He breathed deeply, fighting the lightheadedness, his modern mind cataloging the sensations with a detached curiosity even as his immediate concern was remaining upright.
Elara returned shortly after he had managed to sit on the edge of the bed, her footsteps soft in the corridor before a polite knock announced her. She brought with her a young lad, barely into his teens, carrying a basin of lukewarm water and clean linens.
"My lord, you are up. This is young Tom, he will assist you if you wish." Elara's gaze was solicitous.
Alaric nodded, his voice still carrying a residual hoarseness. "Thank you, Elara. Tom."
The boy, wide-eyed and clearly nervous in the presence of his newly awakened Baron, ducked his head in a quick bow. Alaric studied him for a moment: thin, clad in a simple tunic, but his hands and face were scrubbed clean. A small detail, but one Alaric noted. Hygiene, or the lack thereof, was a significant concern his future-self recognized from this era.
With Tom's hesitant assistance, Alaric managed a rudimentary wash. The cool water on his face and neck was invigorating. He then allowed the boy to help him into fresh clothing laid out by Elara: a linen undertunic, woolen braies, simple hose, and a heavier, dark grey overtunic of good quality wool, unadorned save for a leather belt. The clothes felt strange, restrictive in ways his former attire never had, yet they also offered a surprising degree of warmth against the keep's persistent chill.
As Tom fumbled with the laces of the overtunic, Alaric caught his reflection in a small, polished metal disc that served as a mirror, hanging from a peg on the wall. The face that stared back was unfamiliar. Pale, with high cheekbones and a determined, if currently thin, jawline. Dark hair, longer than he was used to, fell to his collar. But it was the eyes that held his attention. They were grey, like the field of the Falkenstrand banner, but within their depths, a new light was beginning to gleam, cold, sharp, and intensely focused. The boyish softness that might have once characterized Alaric von Falkenstrand was already eroding, replaced by an unnerving maturity. He looked like a predator assessing its new hunting ground.
"That will suffice, Tom," Alaric said, his voice firmer now. "You may go."
The boy, relieved, bowed again and practically fled the room. Elara lingered. "Lady Mathilda is in the solar, my lord. She awaits you."
Alaric drew another steadying breath. The solar. The private sitting room of the lord and lady of the keep. This was it. His first significant test. "Very well. Lead the way, Elara."
The walk from his chamber to the solar was short, but it gave Alaric his first proper look at the interior of his new domain. The corridors were narrow, constructed of the same rough stone as his room, the floors uneven flags. Torches in iron sconces cast flickering, smoky light, doing little to dispel the gloom. The air was cold, heavy with the smell of damp stone, woodsmoke, and unidentifiable medieval odors. It was a far cry from the climate-controlled environments of his past.
Elara led him to a sturdy oak door, more finely made than his own. She knocked, and a woman's voice, clear and strong despite a tremor of emotion, bid them enter.
Lady Mathilda von Falkenstrand rose as Alaric stepped into the solar. The room was larger than his bedchamber, with a proper fireplace where a small fire crackled, offering a measure of warmth. A glazed window, a true luxury, allowed more light than the arrow slits elsewhere, though the glass was thick and imperfect. Tapestries depicting faded hunting scenes and heroic figures hung on the walls, lending a touch of color and insulation.
His mother. She was tall for a woman of this era, slender, with the same dark hair as his own, though hers was streaked with silver at the temples and neatly bound beneath a dark veil and wimple. Her face was pale, her grey eyes, so like his, were reddened from weeping, yet they held an undeniable strength, a patrician dignity. She wore a gown of dark blue wool, simple but well-cut. Grief was etched into the lines around her mouth and eyes, but also an unwavering resolve.
"Alaric." Her voice was a breath, a prayer. She moved towards him, her hands outstretched, then hesitated, as if unsure.
He saw the conflict in her: the mother's instinct to embrace her son, warring with the shock of seeing him upright after days fearing his demise, and perhaps, something else, a subtle apprehension at the change she might already sense in him.
He closed the distance, taking her hands. They were cool, her grip surprisingly firm. "Mother," he said, the word feeling foreign on his tongue, yet he infused it with a measure of warmth drawn from the original Alaric's affection for her. He had to play this part carefully.
"My son, my son," she whispered, her eyes searching his face intently. "The Saints have been merciful. When Master Borin… I feared…" Her voice broke.
"I am here, Mother," Alaric said, keeping his gaze steady, meeting hers. He projected an aura of calm strength he did not entirely feel, but knew was necessary. "Tired, and my head still aches, but I am here."
She clung to his hands for a moment longer, then seemed to gather herself. "You look… different." Her scrutiny was sharp, analytical. "Paler, yes, and thinner. But there is something in your eyes…" Her voice faded, and a shadow of concern tightened her features.
"The fall was a harsh awakening, Mother," he replied smoothly, offering a partial truth. "Perhaps it has cleared some of the… youthful fog from my mind."
A faint, sad smile touched her lips. "Perhaps. Your father, may God grant him peace, always said you had a good head on your shoulders, if only you would apply it with more gravity." She gestured towards two heavy wooden chairs near the fire. "Sit, Alaric. You should not be standing for so long. Elara, some wine for the Baron. And for myself."
Elara, who had been standing quietly by the door, curtsied and departed.
Alaric settled into one of the chairs, the wood surprisingly comfortable, or perhaps his body was simply too weary to protest. His mother took the other, her posture erect, queenly even in her grief.
"Elara told you of your father?" she asked, her voice regaining its composure.
"She did. A hunting accident. A great tragedy for Falkenstrand." He kept his tone measured, respectful.
"Indeed." Lady Mathilda's gaze drifted to the fire. "He was a strong Baron. A just man. These are difficult times to be without such a leader. Lord Gerold of Steinthal has ever coveted our southern forests, and the whispers from Oakhaven speak of his men riding close to our borders, bolder than before."
This confirmed Elara's report. Steinthal was an immediate concern. "What is the strength of our household guard, Mother? And our sworn men-at-arms in the villages?"
Lady Mathilda looked at him, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. The previous Alaric had shown little interest in such matters, preferring hunting and hawking. "We have twenty men in the keep garrison, captained by Ser Kaelan. Loyal, but some are old. Beyond that… perhaps another thirty who could be called from Falkenau and the outlying hamlets, but they are mostly farmers and woodsmen, armed with little more than spears and bows they use for hunting."
Fifty men, at best. Many poorly equipped. Against a neighboring lord who likely commanded more. The situation was even more precarious than he had imagined.
"Ser Kaelan," Alaric said. "Is he capable?"
"He served your grandfather, and your father, faithfully. He is old, yes, his fighting days are mostly behind him, but he knows warfare, and his loyalty is unquestionable. He has been… distraught, since your father's death and your injury."
"I must speak with him," Alaric stated. This was a priority. He needed to understand his military capabilities, however meager.
Elara returned with a tray bearing a pottery jug and two silver goblets. She poured a deep red wine, its aroma rich and earthy. Alaric took a sip. It was robust, slightly acidic, and warmed him from the inside.
"The bandits on the King's Road," Alaric continued, recalling another piece of information. "A threat to trade, to our income from tolls, if any."
"We collect a small toll from merchants passing through the Falken Pass, yes," Mathilda confirmed. "It is a vital part of our coffers, small as they are. The banditry has worsened this past month. Some say it is simply opportunism. Others whisper that perhaps Steinthal lends them a hidden hand, to weaken us, to disrupt our lands before making a bolder move."
He recognized the pattern: sow chaos to soften a target before a more direct claim. An old, familiar strategy.
The implications struck Alaric with force. The picture forming in his mind was grim: too few men, their gear likely worn and inadequate; Steinthal lurking like a wolf at the borders; merchants too frightened to travel the pass; and coffers that were, he strongly suspected, far too light. Falkenstrand was not merely a barony; it was a tinderbox, vulnerable and exposed.
"And our provisions?" Alaric inquired, his thoughts turning to the most basic of needs. "Our reserves of food, of grain?"
A sigh escaped his mother, so profound it seemed to carry the weight of the past season. "The winter was long, Alaric. The spring planting is underway, but the stores are lower than I would like. We have enough for the keep for a few months, perhaps. If the harvest is poor, or if… trouble comes…"
Food security. Another critical vulnerability. His modern knowledge screamed warnings about the fragility of pre-industrial agriculture and supply chains.
"There is much to consider," Alaric said, his voice a low murmur, more to himself than to her. He looked at his mother, truly looked at her. He saw not just the grieving widow and the worried parent, but a woman of intelligence and resilience, who had been managing the household and, by extension, many of the barony's affairs, especially during her husband's decline and his own incapacitation.
"You have carried a heavy burden, Mother," he said, a genuine note of appreciation in his tone, though it was the appreciation of one strategist recognizing another's efforts under duress. "I am… grateful."
Lady Mathilda's expression softened, a hint of maternal warmth returning. "I did what was necessary, Alaric. For you. For Falkenstrand. But the burden of rule is now yours. It is a heavy mantle for such young shoulders." Her eyes searched his again. "You seem… more prepared for it than I dared hope."
"Perhaps my father's spirit, and the gravity of our situation, have lent me some measure of understanding," he replied, a carefully constructed phrase.
He spent another hour with his mother in the solar, listening more than speaking, drawing out details about the barony's finances, its few alliances with minor landholders further east, the mood of the smallfolk, and the key personalities within the keep. She spoke freely, clearly relieved to unburden herself, yet her sharp gaze rarely left him, constantly assessing this changed son of hers. He learned that the Barony's main income came from sheep, timber, and the aforementioned tolls. There was a small quarry that produced decent stone, mostly for local use. No significant mineral wealth had ever been discovered.
As evening began to draw in, casting long shadows across the solar, Alaric knew he needed to move, to see things for himself.
"Mother," he said, rising slowly, testing his strength. He felt steadier now. "I must see the keep. Speak with Ser Kaelan. Understand our defenses."
"Alaric, you are still weak…"
"I am the Baron, Mother," he stated, not unkindly, but with a firmness that brooked no argument. It was a tone the old Alaric had rarely used with such quiet authority. "It is my duty. I will not overexert myself, but I cannot remain idle."
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Very well. But take a cloak. The evening air is sharp." There was a new respect in her eyes, mixed with a lingering concern that was perhaps no longer just for his physical health. She was seeing the Baron emerge, and perhaps, the first hints of the man he was becoming.
He donned a simple woolen cloak Elara provided and, with a nod to his mother, left the solar. His first day as the conscious ruler of Falkenstrand was far from over. He needed to see his "army," his "fortress." He needed to lay the foundations for survival, and then, for something far greater. The path was fraught with peril, but for the first time since awakening in this primitive world, a cold, fierce exhilaration began to burn within him. This was his chance to build, to command, to shape destiny itself.