"Cadogan?"
The name hung in the fetid air, an auditory anchor in the disorienting sea of his new consciousness. It wasn't his name, the one lost in the chaotic transit between worlds, yet a phantom ache resonated through the strange limbs he now inhabited. This body, this Cadogan, knew the sound. More than just the damp air made him shudder; the chill struck deeper, along a spine that felt both foreign to his mind and yet an undeniable part of his new physical self.
The old woman watched him, her gaze sharp and steady. Her calloused hand, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and crushed herbs, rested on his forehead for another moment, then she pulled it away. She grunted again, a sound that could have been satisfaction, or perhaps just acknowledgement of a fever lessened.
He tried to speak, to ask the thousand burning questions that clawed at his mind – Where am I? Who are you? What is this place? – but only a dry, rasping cough emerged from Cadogan's throat. The effort sent a fresh wave of dizziness through him, and he sagged back against the lumpy pallet, the rough-spun blanket scratching at his chin.
The woman, seemingly unfazed by his silence, shuffled closer. She gestured with the steaming wooden bowl she held, then towards his mouth, her meaning clear even across the chasm of language. Food. Or what passed for it in this primitive setting. The boiled grain, thin and tinged with a sour, herby scent, provoked a fresh wave of nausea. His own era's rich and varied foods were a stark contrast. Still, a deep-seated, primal urge—was it Cadogan's fading will, or just survival itself?—knew this meager offering was essential.
With slow, deliberate movements, the old woman dipped a crude wooden spoon into the bowl and brought it towards his lips. He flinched, instinctively wanting to turn away, but the weakness in his limbs was profound. He was trapped, a prisoner in failing flesh. He opened his mouth, a grudging surrender.
The gruel was bland, barely warm, and had the consistency of watery mud. He swallowed with difficulty, the act laborious. Each spoonful felt like an immense effort. The woman watched him, her expression unreadable, occasionally wiping a dribble from his chin with the back of her hand as one might a child. Humiliation warred with a desperate, analytical need to observe, to gather data.
Her clothes were simple, coarse wool dyed a drab, uneven brown. Her hands were gnarled with work. The room, he now saw more clearly, was small, the stone walls unadorned save for streaks of dampness and the single, arrow-slit window providing meagre light. The floor was packed earth. A low fire smoldered in a shallow hearth in one corner, its smoke supposedly guided out by a hole in the thatched roof above, though enough lingered to sting his eyes. This was no hospital recovery room. This was… a hovel. Or perhaps a servant's quarter within something larger.
As she fed him, the old woman continued to mutter, her voice a low drone. Most of it was incomprehensible, but occasionally a word or phrase would snag in his mind, not because he understood it intellectually, but because a flicker of something – an echo, a shadow of recognition – would stir within Cadogan's dormant memories. *"…da… gwell…" * followed by a soft sigh. Then, more urgently, *"…arglwydd… dy dad…" *
Arglwydd. Lord. That word resonated with a peculiar clarity, tinged with a faint impression of fear and… obligation? Dy dad. Your father. Fragments of images, not his own, flickered behind his eyelids: the stern, icy-eyed man from the earlier flash, his presence filling a vast, fire-lit hall; a heavy hand on a younger Cadogan's shoulder, the weight of expectation. This Cadogan, it seemed, had a lord for a father. This squalor, then, was likely a sickroom, not his permanent state. A small, cold comfort.
He tried to focus on the woman's face, to find some commonality in human expression. He attempted a gesture, lifting one of Cadogan's weak hands, pointing to himself, then raising his eyebrows in a questioning manner. Who am I? Who is Cadogan?
She paused, spoon halfway to his mouth, and looked at him with a glimmer of something that might have been pity, or perhaps just weariness. She tapped his chest lightly. "Cadogan," she stated, her tone leaving no room for doubt. Then she gestured around the small room, a sweeping motion. "Castell… Caer Maelog." The name of the place? It sounded suitably grim.
Finished with the feeding, or perhaps deciding he'd had enough, she set the bowl aside. She then began to tend to him in other ways, adjusting the rough blanket, wiping his brow with a damp, cool cloth that smelled of mint. Her touch was surprisingly practiced, impersonal yet not unkind. He was clearly an invalid, someone who had been under her care for some time. How long had he been here, trapped in this failing body, while Cadogan's original consciousness… faded? Or had it been snuffed out entirely, leaving this empty vessel for him to inhabit? The thought sent a fresh wave of existential dread through him.
His analytical mind, the historian and strategist within him, began to assert itself, pushing through the fear and disorientation. He was in a pre-industrial society, likely very early medieval given the language fragments and material culture. The name Cadogan, the term arglwydd, the Brythonic-sounding place name – all pointed towards a setting analogous to post-Roman Britain, the chaotic "Dark Ages." A period of immense upheaval, fragmentation, and nascent kingdom-building. His specialty. A bitter, cosmic joke.
He needed information. He needed strength. He needed to understand the rules of this new, brutal game he'd been thrust into. The body he wore was a liability, weak and fever-prone. But the mind within it, his mind, was his only weapon.
As the old woman made to leave, casting one last look at him, he focused all his will, dredging up the dregs of Cadogan's strength. He managed to lift his head slightly. "Tad…?" he rasped, the word feeling alien on his tongue, yet it was one of the few that had surfaced with any clarity from the body's memories. Father?
The old woman stopped at the crude wooden door. She turned, her expression softening for the briefest of moments. She nodded slowly. "Yr arglwydd… ydy," she confirmed. The lord… yes. Then, she added something else, her voice dropping low, almost a whisper, "Gweddïa… bydd yn gryf, Cadogan bach." Pray… be strong, little Cadogan.
With that, she slipped out, the door thudding shut, leaving him alone in the dim, stinking room with the echoes of a life that was not his, and the terrifying weight of a future he could not yet comprehend. Little Cadogan. He was clearly not a figure of great import, or at least, not one who inspired robust health or confidence. The fight for survival, it seemed, would begin from a position of profound weakness.