[The British Isles, Northumbria, fyford , April of 793]
The morning sun hung low over the village of Fulford, warming the damp that clung to the fields. Mass had ended, and the peasants had gone back to their plows and market stalls, leaving the church quiet again. Only one stranger remained inside. He sat at a rough wooden table, eating from a bowl of thin gruel the priest had offered.
Churches in these parts often gave a little food to travelers or pilgrims, nothing fine, but enough to fill the stomach and keep a man moving on his way.
The priest sat beside William at the table, sharing what little food was left from the morning meal. He was surprised to see a man like him asking for bread in a village church. At first glance , with that ornate armor and the heavy Warhammer resting against the bench , he had thought a Frankish lord had lost his way and come seeking shelter.
But when he looked closer, he knew better. No Frank he'd ever seen had hair so white it caught the light like silver, nor eyes so deep a shade of violet.
What surprised the priest even more was how well the stranger spoke his tongue. His words were clear and steady, At first, the priest was cautious ,he tested him with the Lord's Prayer, then made him kiss the cross, just to be sure. When the man did both without hesitation, his heart eased a little.
Ecbert sighed, his voice low with scholarly persistence. "I have recorded every king and his kin. From the Scots in their northern halls to the Caliphs in their palaces of Cordoba... I can trace every ruler, every treaty, and every victory and defeat that has shaped this world. It is written down, and thus it is known to me."
William wiped his mouth with the corner of his sleeve and set down the wooden spoon. "I'm from a land very, very far away," he said. "You wouldn't know it, even if I told you."
The questions had grown tiresome; everyone he met, from Aldred the peasant to this learned Father, asked the same thing.
Still, he knew the fault was mostly his own. He could have just claimed to be simply born this way and be done with the talk. But he didn't. He couldn't.
He liked the way people stared, the way they wondered at the silver cascade of his hair and the deep violet of his eyes. It satisfied a deep, personal indulgence. In the mundane real world, he'd never connect himself to the Valyrian Freehold of fantasy lore, He could never have the silver hair or the purple eyes, But here, in Neural Odyssey, everything is possible if you worked hard enough for it.
Ecbert frowned, rubbing his bearded chin. "Nonsense, my son. The Lord's world has limits, and every land is ruled by some king, and every king is known to Rome. Surely someone must know so that maybe we can add it to our books and maps. It will be a monumental discovery if me and you were the first to bridge our civilizations."
William gave a small smile. "Maybe so, Father. But the world is wider than any of us can imagine. There are lands beyond the maps of Rome, and people who've never heard its name. My home lies somewhere out there. That's all I can really say."
Father Ecbert sighed. It was clear the stranger did not wish to speak further, and there was little more he could do. As long as the man knew the Lord's Prayer and had kissed the cross, that was enough to pus his heart at ease.
"Then I wish you good fortune on your journey, my son," he said gently. "May the light of our Lord guide your steps and keep you from harm."
William stood, wiping his hands on the hem of his cloak. "Thank you, Father," he said, his voice steady but low. "For the meal , and for listening."
Father Ecbert rose as well, his joints creaking softly beneath his robes. "A priest's duty is to feed both the hungry belly and the hungry soul," he replied with a faint smile. "You've had a long road behind you, and likely a longer one ahead."
They walked together toward the church doors. The old wood creaked as Ecbert pushed them open, letting in the bright spring air. Outside, the square was already alive again—women hanging washed linens, a few boys chasing a chicken across the mud.
As William stepped down the stone steps, Father Ecbert reached into his satchel and drew out a small cloth bundle. He pressed it into William's hand. "Bread," he said simply. "And a little salted pork. It's not much, but it'll keep you until the next village."
William looked down at the parcel, then back at the priest. "That's more than enough, Father. Truly."
Ecbert gave a nod. "Then go with God, Gwyndolin of… wherever the Lord has sent you from." There was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes again, but he did not press. "And remember should your path ever bring you back to Fulford, this house will still have room for you."
William slung his hammer over his shoulder, gave a small, respectful bow, and started down the dirt road, the church bell tolling softly behind him as headed down the village"
[Athelstan POV}
The sun was climbing toward noon, and Athelstan's back already ached from bending over the furrows. The wet earth clung to his hands and feet, the smell of soil and sweat heavy in the air. Beside him, his younger brother Aldred swung the hoe lazily, while his wife, Edith, gathered weeds into a basket with their eldest boy at her side.
Athelstan straightened, wiping his brow with a rough sleeve. His gaze drifted toward the small rise where the church roof shone faintly through the morning haze. He scowled.
That lord.
He spat into the dirt. "Knight," they said. "From faraway lands," he said. All fine words, but fine words didn't till the earth or fill the bellies of children.
He thought back to the night before,the smell of roasted chicken still clung to his thoughts. Two whole birds gone in one meal. They'd offered them freely, of course; it wasn't every day a man in armor, with silver hair and a hammer fit for a king, came to your door asking for food. And the man had been polite enough, even smiled a little, thanked them for their hospitality.
But now he was gone. Off to the church in the morning, and by now likely on his way to York, chasing coin and glory.
"Knight," Athelstan muttered, stabbing his hoe into the ground. "Aye, and I'm the King of Wessex."
"At this rate," Aldred grunted, "I'd be surprised if he remembered our names."
Edith glanced up from the basket, her expression soft but weary. "He was kind, Athelstan. He said he'd pray for us."
"Aye," he said, forcing a bitter laugh. "Prayers don't plow fields, woman."
For a moment, they worked in silence, the crows calling from the hedgerows, the steady rhythm of hoes and shovels filling the air.
Athelstan looked down the road that led toward the hills. Somewhere out there, that pale-haired stranger was walking beneath the same sun, eating their bread and thinking himself some hero of faraway lands.
"Knight, my bottom," he muttered again.
He drove his hoe back into the earth. Maybe the Lord sent him, maybe He didn't. Men like that come and go, and the fields stay the same.
He spat, wiped his brow, and went back to work. The sun was climbing, and no stranger's promise would bring in the barley.
But just as he was about to strike again, his wife stiffened. "He's coming back," she almost shouted.
Athelstan and Aldred quickly raised their heads and turned. Gwyndolin was indeed walking back from the direction of the church, carrying a small cloth bundle. He stopped a few paces away, the deep steel of his armor seeming to absorb the morning light.
"I came to thank you again," he said, his tone soft. "For your kindness. You fed me when I had nothing. I wish I could repay you, but…" He spread his gauntleted hands slightly. "I've no coin. Not a single penny to my name."
Athelstan gave a short, nervous laugh. "Then we're much the same, Ser. We've no copper between us either."
A faint, private smile touched William's lips. "Then perhaps I can repay you another way." His gaze turned deliberately to Athelstan's son, Harold, who stood frozen beside his mother. "I'll be traveling north, to York, and a knight needs a squire. I can't promise wages now, but I will teach him to read and write. Then he will become a squire who must learn to fight, and then, finally, a knight like me."
The field fell silent.
The boy's mouth opened a little.
The mother's hand went to her chest.
Athelstan stared at the stranger for a long moment, weighing the words. A poor man's son had two choices in this world: die in the same mud as his father or follow a mad dream and maybe see something more before the end.