DUCHY OF FAYWYN
{Excerpt}
James T. Earl passed away at the age of 27 in the hospital, on July 14, 2025. He lost his brave and long battle with cancer, but not without leaving his mark on this world. He is survived by Aunt, Mary Wilson, his cousins, Karen, Talon, and Madison, and his grandparents Jeanette and Dougie.
A young yet renowned historian in the field of polemology, he will be remembered by his family, friends and colleagues for the loving passion and regard he held towards his career; his zest for wargaming, wildfowling and mountaineering, and even less known, his secret ardent affection towards sweets and sugary pastries will also not be forgotten(Laughs).
We know James is now with his parents, Joan and Mia Earl and is loved here on earth as well as in heaven.
A private funeral service was held at St. Mary’s Catholic Church on Sunday, August 16, 2025, and a memorial service is planned for a later date.
Please do not send flowers. Remembrances may be made to…
…
Excerpt from James Earl’s Obituary, written and published by his surviving maternal aunt, Mary Wilson, in XXXX, on the 30th of July, 2021.
{END}
11.13.1623
Strange as it was, in a state of partial consciousness, James recalled a poem he once read written by an English man long gone: Busy old fool, it read, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? The morning sun, as ever, was a pettish mistress; her golden fingers reaching for his sleeping form as a dusty beam, probing him from a restful slumber. Petulant.
The air was stuffy and thick with the scent of myrrh, vinegar and honey. James felt the wetness of a wrung rag run across his chest, the sudden coldness jolting him awake. It ached all over, a throbbing pain writhing under his skin and in his bones. Groaning, he reached for his head to feel the crisp edges of bandages wrapped around his hurting skull. His eyelids fluttered briefly for a moment; another moment passed before they peered open, breaking the hardened seal of their natural secretions.
Pupils contracting at the sudden brightness, James stared at the ceiling, his expression morphing into one of confusion.
“M-my lord?” A voice stammered by his side.
Glancing at the speaker, his eyes met that of a woman in her early thirties sitting beside him. The wet towel in her hand was frozen in midair. He was naked; only a plain piece of cloth over his crotch area preserved his decency. The lady was a nurse or caretaker, James decided, admittedly familiar with the lot. Though for some reason she was dressed in a cream-coloured linen dress underneath a brown tunic that faintly pronounced her mature figure. Her hair—one of a darker shade of brown than his and long enough to fall to her shoulder—was hidden partially underneath a cream-coloured wimple for yet another unknown reason. Silently he regarded her as she did him, the worry creasing her face gradually morphing into an expression of barely restrained joy.
“My lord, you have awakened!” The nurse exclaimed to a confused James. His gaze swept around the unfamiliar room, noting it was rather modestly decorated; antique-looking bookshelves at the foot of his bed beside what he assumed to be a study table; a few unlit candles in intricate candlestands dotting the place. To his left, a copper pane polished to a mirror-like gleam hung off the wall beside an open window framed outside by withering ivy and a wall of stone. The room felt comfortable, minimalistic and unfamiliar… Before feeling familiar yet again the next moment.
Confusing thoughts. Conflicting emotions.
James looked down to see lengths of clean bandages wrapped around his torso. It was apparent from the pile of discarded, blood-soaked gauze by the water basin and the collection of salves on the bed that they had just been changed. He hissed upon carefully fingering the bandages as he tried to sit up.
“Careful Levi,” Another voice called out from the other side of the room. Hoarse. Masculine. “Rest easy, your injuries should still be very raw.”
James turned to his left to see the man, who was sitting by the hearth, walk towards him. His dark clothing camouflaged him excellently in the shadowy corner of the room. Dressed in a dark brown tunic and arming coat, the fellow would be considered by many as handsome with his slightly chiselled face, dark brown, almost black hair and dark brown, sloe-like eyes. James’ eyes narrowed warily; he did not recognise the man. Nor the nurse for that matter.
“How are you feeling?” the man asked, standing beside the oddly attired nurse.
“What happened to me?” James inquired, struggling to parse his thought. Then it all came to him at once; a disorientating mess of memory and emotions:
A bloody brawl.
Confusion.
Spilt gold from a chest.
Betrayal.
A blazing fire. Smoke. Dead bodies with vaguely familiar faces.
Rage. Self Loathing.
A rather antiquated crossbow—not unlike that one from the museum down st. Avers street next to the city hall—aimed at another figure,
Terror.
And James himself, tumbling down a flight of stairs with pain blossoming from his torso where a bolt impaled him,
Resignation intermixed with relief.
“Who are you?” James asked, heaving. The sound of his laboured breathing abruptly reached his ears. Startled, he let go of the bedsheets he had been gripping unto in shock.
“…ung lord! Young lord! Levi! Are you okay?”
“Who are you? James asked again, reeling away from the stranger even as a bolt of pain lanced through his ribs.
The man’s expression froze, slowly turning ashen. His outstretched arm hung in mid-air before gradually withdrawing. “Young lord, do you not remember me? It is I, Lancelot, your father’s Viscount.”
James paused for a moment before replying.
“Lancelot… Lancelot Draagon?” he asked, a memory sliding in place.
“Yes, yes,” Lancelot replied hurriedly, relief returning to his face.
James turned to face the caretaker—housekeeper rather—by his side, ”Sarah?”
“Yes, My lord,” she said with a warm smile, her expression also one of relief.
“…But, who am I?” He asked no one in particular.
Silence befell the room for a few moments as Sarah and Lancelot once more exchanged worried glances.
“Levi, My lord,” Lancelot ventured. “You, My Lord, are Levi von Greifenburg. Earl of Faywyn, son of His Grace, Aden von Greifenburg, Duke of Faywyn and Governor of Souville Province.”
“No,” James shook his head, his confusion thickening. “No, I am not.”
Then, at that moment, another memory befell him. A void, another void within, an orb of strobing light… The Ordinator!
James froze.
“I am not dead?” he asked, turning to face Lancelot, his pupils dilating as panic and disbelief flashed through them.
‘Am I?’
***
A few hours later.
James sat at Aden’s desk, shirtless as he stared out at the moonlit night. The beautiful starry sky was unpolluted by city lights, and his pale skin was covered in crystalline droplets of sweat. To his left was a copper mirror; a single glance was all it took to see his starlit reflection; a mess of tousled, slick obsidian locks, peeking from behind his bandages, framing his pale, effeminate face. Flawless skin. Soft, pinkish lips more at home on the face of an adolescent girl adorned his features and staring back at him were limpid blue-green irises of a seemingly timeless colour, telling grand tales of the perfect spring sky, a tranquil hillside lake and the evergreen giants all the same. The most prepossessing of hues.
The person staring back at him was beautiful. So utterly so.
James was somewhat of a narcissist, believing his original appearance to be if not perfect, the next best thing. He wasn’t so sure anymore. Gone was his adorable mop of light brown hair; gone were his mesmerising green-sloe eyes; gone were the artfully etched freckles he loved so much… but this wasn’t so bad.
Katydids sang an autumn cacophony far out in the open fields, their songs faintly audible. Eerie shadows stood out prominently on the stone walls, dancing to the silent melody of a flickering flame. The muted performance continued even as the young man turned his gaze back towards the silvery crescent moon. It was much larger than the one he remembered from Earth; peeking out from behind a floating cloud where it hung majestically in the sky. The transmigrator grew nostalgic, his eyes unfocused and his mind adrift as a sense of calm permeated the atmosphere.
He sighed softly with a sense of conclusion, fingerings brushing his lower lip. “Hue Dywn…” He whispered to himself.
“Levi,” A knocking came from behind the door interrupting his musing.
“Come in,” James said without looking back as Lancelot walked into the room.
“Young Lord, the maids informed me that you were still awake,” The viscount stated in a concerned tone as he walked to stand beside him. “You should try to get some sleep”
“Where is Sean?” James asked, dismissing the viscount’s concern entirely, “and the men who fought alongside him?”
“Sean…” came a hesitant reply.
“Where is he?”
“…He has deserted. Your brother―”
“He is not my brother!” Levi growled, unable to fully rein in the burst of emotion that erupted in his chest. Lancelot froze at the unexpected outburst and the room settled into an uncomfortable silence.
“…Forgive me,” James said with a frown as he looked down to stare blankly at his right palm, “my emotions at the moment appear to be somewhat… beyond me.”
Silence.
“I still wonder why he did what he did,” Levi finally said with a weary sigh as he looked back to the starry sky, confusion clouding his features. ”Does he not care what father will do to him when he returns? There will be a rather handsome bounty for his head when this reaches the duke’s ears.”
Lancelot stiffened for a brief moment, the reaction falling to escape James’ notice.
“Is something the matter, Lancelot?” James asked, turning towards the viscount.
Lancelot hesitated, then sighed. “Your father sent a letter home. It arrived two days ago by carrier pigeon mentioning the fall of Bycrest, and the possible capture of his Majesty, the king. It also mentioned His Lordship will be personally escorting the Queen and Princess to safety, though there was no mention of where that would be. As of now details regarding the situation remain foggy, but we received additional messages from other sources confirming this.”
“That is impossible,” James replied with a dismissive scoff. “It would take years—dozens in fact—for any invasive force to have any reasonable chance of capturing Bycrest.”
“I dare not jest about such matters.” Lancelot sighed, shaking his head. “According to the letter, misinformation led our second fleet on a wild goose chase in an attempt to ambush a flanking manoeuvre from the south, southwest. This left the first fleet anchored in the Ignis basin to be decimated by a coalition fleet of Hertalean and Verumitte ships that in reality continued on their original course from the east. Ciden island fell in a day; a suspicious fire in the powder magazine of two of the bastions defending the island led to explosions that allowed a gap to form in the defence to which the Hertalean ships docked. Earl Milas of Fort Keptos that guards Ignis beach was assassinated, and his men soon fell to mutiny before the invaders even arrived. Ser Tone surrendered bastion Mina to Hertalean occupation sometimes after placing his father under house arrest. Viscount Pedro also turned on the Crown, staging an assault on the capital’s three Arsenals; the northern and western powder rooms set alight and detonated, with the third soaked through with water.”
“Bycrest has fallen,” Lancelot repeated. “I tried to hide this news until the lord returned but your bro— Sean with the aid of Barons Blumoon and Ralph took advantage of the decline in morale that this news would bring to sow discord and breakaway with His Lordship’s treasury and several of his men.”
James fell silent.
“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” He asked after another tense moment.
“Yes,” Lancelot said, “The grain stores were set ablaze sometime during Sean’s assault on the treasury; we failed to put out the fire before it caused significant damage. Also, the Hera’s… It appears they have also gotten a whiff of the news of the invasion and Sean’s subsequent mutiny and have disowned their oaths of fealty. I suspect more foul play from Sean given how quickly they capitalized on this; the snake most likely feared suffering a pursuit and seeks to divert our attention away from him.
“Hence, the Hera’s also sent…” Lancelot paused as if the words got stuck in his throat. “A notice.”
“A notice?”
“Yes. An eviction notice. It says we have five days to vacate the duchy or they will resort to forceful expropriation.”
“Oh?.. How civil,” James chuckled softly, his expression morphing into one of vague amusement.
“Lancelot,”
“Yes, My Lord?”
“Leave me.”
“…Yes,” Lancelot replied hesitantly. The viscount turned around to leave but paused as James spoke again.
“Lancelot,”
“Yes, My Lord?”
“…Regardless of what happens, from now on, I should be the first to be informed. Understood?” Levi said, turning around to make eye contact. In the depths of the viscount’s eyes, from where he stood at the exit, James could see vestiges of well-hidden concern and self-loathing, and to his relief, an absence of suspicion.
“…Thank you,” Lancelot finally said. “If you had not moved to my aid, I might have—”
“I need a full report of everything you can gather about the Hera’s in an hour, excluding nothing,” James interrupted monotonously, feigning disappointment as he ignored the viscount’s words. “Their burg, men, family members, vassals, distant allies, current locations, everything. In. One. Hour.”
“…Yes. Yes, My lord.”
“You may leave. We will discuss what to make of the Heras’ eviction notice when you return with what I asked for.”
James waited till the door shut behind him before turning back to the open window.
“Levi,” he whispered; the name rolling off his tongue as if tasting it. Despite his physical exhaustion, he laughed, a line of tears running done his face. His eyes slid shut, eyelids shuddering as he let the katydids’ song seep deep into his psyche. With another exhale, he leaned into a relaxed recline, mind adrift.
“I am free,” he whispered, happy.
