Still disoriented by everything around him, Alexander felt a new wave of pain shoot through his skull. Another damned migraine.
"Ah, no... not again, fuck!" he thought, caught between rage and despair. "If I have to reincarnate one more time, let it be in an era with internet. And, since I'm requesting... I'd like to be rich too."
He muttered a curse under his breath just before consciousness slipped away once more. His body collapsed onto the straw, motionless.
The fainting alarmed Maria, who, trembling, believed for a moment she had driven out the profane being that had taken over her son's body.
She approached slowly, fearing what she might find. With cautious hands, she reached the boy's chest and felt his heart beat slowly but steadily.
She sighed deeply. Kneeling beside him, she silently thanked God through her tears.
Meanwhile, behind the fever and unconsciousness, Alexander was going through something he barely understood.
His mind was being invaded by fragments that did not belong to him. Memories that weren't his.
It was as if the original child's recollections were being transferred into his brain. In modern terms, it felt like his obsolete hardware was overheating, and the new software update froze halfway through, causing the system to stutter.
Hence the side effects. As he absorbed the child's memories, a few facts began to emerge.
First, he lived in a village under the feudal system. Second, he was a child who had been struck by the plague. Third, the original owner of that body had likely died from the illness.
The awareness of human fragility, and especially of the brief existence of the child he now inhabited, filled him with dark feelings.
To know he would live in the Middle Ages, in a time before penicillin, where the chief prescription was faith, plunged him into despair.
The language spoken by the woman was known as Provençal. It was not uncommon, however, for it to be called the Langue d'Oc, with "òc" being the word for "yes."
It was the tongue of the people of southern France, distinct from modern French and different still from the language spoken in the north of the country.
When Alexander emerged from the assimilation of memories, he noticed, near the bed, a priest sitting in a chair. He held a crucifix in one hand and the Holy Book in the other. His gaze was hard, almost threatening.
But what could a priest do? Throw a book at his head?
Alexander had never read Sun Tzu's The Art of War, but he doubted there was any passage that said, "Dodge holy books that are thrown at you."
Realizing this was no wandering priest, but the village's own cleric, he knew he couldn't afford to act carelessly. He cleared his throat gently, trying to draw attention.
When the priest lifted his eyes, Alexander ventured:
"Father Paul? Is everything alright?"
Without answering, the priest slowly stood and began to pray:
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..."
Alexander furrowed his brow, confused, and whispered to himself:
"What the fuck is this? Am I being exorcised?"
Before all this, Alexander had considered himself an atheist and, above all, a skeptic when it came to paranormal phenomena.
However, the recent experience of reincarnation made one thing clear: God might not exist, but there were certainly phenomena that entirely escaped human understanding. That, he could no longer deny.
Not feeling anything in particular, Alexander frowned. "Maybe he's just blessing me?"
When Father Paul finished the prayers, he spoke solemnly:
"All is well now, my son. There is no longer anything to fear. The grace of God has blessed you and purified your flesh. No demon shall covet you again."
"Fuck, all that? Alright... I won't say anything, but if we were in my world, I'd shit on your head. This religious talk is garbage," he thought, holding back the urge to roll his eyes. He merely nodded, feigning respect, before asking:
"Holy Father, what's happening?"
He tried to sit up in bed, but was immediately overtaken by sudden weakness and a dizziness that forced him to lie back again.
"Alexander, I bring grim news," said Father Paul, his voice grave. "The village was devastated by the plague. Many have passed. You've been in a coma for two weeks."
He paused, as if searching for words that wouldn't wound too deeply.
"In that time, we have endured many misfortunes... but you were spared by the grace of God."
Silence weighed heavily for a moment before he continued, eyes fixed on Alexander.
"However... though God has been generous with you, your parents have contracted the plague."
Shocked by the developments, Alexander whispered: "Two weeks? God has a peculiar way of expressing generosity."
Father Paul sighed and said: "Come with me, child."
Helping Alexander to his feet, he guided him to another hut, a few meters ahead.
"Don't get too close. It's contagious."
Alexander remained silent, respectful, without uttering anything absurd. But inside, his mind spun:
"What do I do now? I'm just a child and, as far as I know, there's no such thing as social services in this time, right?"
The thought that his survival was now at risk brought a cold fear over the days to come.
Oblivious to his thoughts, Father Paul remarked: "Only God knows if they'll pull through, but I have my doubts."
Looking into Alexander's eyes, he continued, "There are other young men in your situation, and I have welcomed them. I hope you will come with me. I promise that everything will improve if you join the clergy."
Alexander considered the offer and nodded, but inwardly he thought: "So this is how it works? In moments of weakness, you circle like vultures, offering salvation when what you really seek is submission."
He knew it wasn't a fair judgment. And yet, as someone who had considered himself anti-religious in his past life, the thought of joining a cult still turned his stomach.
"May I think about it, Father? I... need a moment to reflect."
Father Paul nodded without a word, respecting the request. Alexander then asked for help to sit on the threshold of the hut.
He looked out over the village.
The sky hung low and heavy, overcast. The air carried that bittersweet stench of damp soil and illness. Some houses stood abandoned, windows agape like silent, hollow mouths.
Others bore crude crosses on their doors, scrawled in lime or charcoal.
Alexander hugged his knees to his chest, feeling the cold wind bite through the thin skin of his borrowed body.
"What am I doing here?" he thought. "None of this feels real. These people… dying."
His gaze lost focus. The scene ahead blurred. For a fleeting instant, he wasn't here. Wasn't himself. Wasn't anyone.
There was something wrong with his hands small, brittle, filthy, but not his. His entire body felt like it didn't belong. Like a suit of flesh, too tight and ill-fitting.
He tried to recall the sound of his real voice. Not this thin, wavering child's voice. His own. But the sound slipped through him like smoke. His old face, his old life, everything dissolved into mist.
Nothing made sense. And yet, he was here. Alive.
And now the Church, this vast machine of faith and power, was offering him shelter.
But at what cost?
Unknowingly, Alexander began to drift back to his "essence."
In the early years of his previous life, he had faced recurring waves of depression. They had carved deep ruts in his self-esteem, seeded patterns of self-loathing, and brought with them frequent episodes of depersonalization.
He believed he had left all that behind. Or at least learned to ignore the parts of reality that were beyond his control. From then on, something akin to stoicism had taken root.
"I will do what is within my reach. I may suffer for it, but I refuse to be shaken."
With that silent conviction, and a resolve that contrasted starkly with the fragility of moments before, he rose from the ground with effort. His legs still trembled, his body was weak, but the decision was already made.
Without looking back, he began walking toward the hut to meet the priest.
At that moment, a figure appeared on horseback, standing out sharply amidst the wretched and desolate landscape of the village.
Riding a dark-coated, well-fed horse a stark contrast to the surrounding misery the man wore clothes that, though dusty, revealed fine fabric.
Alexander watched in silence, intrigued by the stranger.
"A noble, perhaps? Or someone with authority?"
The rider seemed agitated, his eyes sweeping the village in every direction, as if desperately searching for any sign of life. In that restless scan, his eyes met Alexander's.
The man stared intently and spoke with urgency:
"Where are the people of this village, boy?"
Without hesitation, Alexander answered firmly:
"I'll fetch the priest. Wait a moment."
Viguier Hugues frowned as he observed the worn homes, the nearly deserted streets, and the dense silence hanging over the village.
He dismounted with ease and continued surveying the surroundings, seeking any sign of life.
From the doorway of a hut, the priest emerged, stepping forward with an expression marked by exhaustion and a voice weighed with concern:
"Viguier Hugues, the state of the village speaks for itself. We are plunged into a crisis deeper than any we've ever faced."
Alexander, at a slight distance, followed everything in silence. He thought to himself:
"Viguier... a kind of administrative official. Handles taxes, order, the village. Sometimes more than one, if the fief is large enough."
He knew this from a documentary he'd watched in his past life. Who could have imagined that one day this curiosity would not only prove useful, but that he'd find himself experiencing the Middle Ages firsthand?
Viguier Hugues broke the silence with a firm voice, already assuming command:
"I need a report on the state of the village. Notify the local chief that I'm here."
Paul sighed, his expression growing heavier.
"The village chief is dead... succumbed to the plague," he answered with sorrow. "Only about a third of the original population remains. And even among them, many are ill."
Hugues clenched his fists and let out a quiet curse, muttering under his breath. Noticing the priest's disapproving glance, he nodded in murmured apology.
His gaze then fell on Alexander, who watched everything from a few meters away.
"And that boy?" he asked. "Is he under your care?"
Paul nodded, slightly surprised by the question.
"Yes, I'm looking after him... but nothing official yet. He hasn't chosen his path."
"So, he's not yet joined the clergy."
"Correct."
Hugues tilted his head slightly, satisfied.
"Perfect. Then I'll take him with me. He'll serve as my page."
Paul widened his eyes.
"Wait!"
Hugues turned, curt:
"What?"
Intimidated by Hugues' commanding presence, Paul still mustered the courage to protest:
"Though he is orphaned, he remains a free peasant. And, as such, he has the right to choose for himself. It is up to him to decide whether to follow me... or you."
Hugues smiled, as one who enjoys a challenge, and in perfect sync with Paul, turned to Alexander:
"So, boy... what do you say to becoming my page? If you prove worthy and persistent, you may one day become a knight like me."
Paul crossed his arms and said, in a sober tone:
"Don't be fooled, boy. The path of knighthood is neither easy nor guaranteed. Becoming a priest is also an honor and perhaps a safer one, if you choose it now."
Alexander turned to Paul, respect in his eyes:
"I thank you for everything you've done for me, Father... but I'd rather be a page."
Inside, Alexander sighed with relief.
"Thank God... Cough, cough, I couldn't stand a life in the clergy. But… what exactly does a page do?"
Still, he decided not to ask. Anything was better than being trapped in vestments and vows.
Hugues nodded, pleased:
"Very well. Come. Let's mount."
The horse neighed, its imposing presence making Alexander hesitate for a moment. The creature was enormous. A living mass of muscle and power, capable of crushing him with a single movement.
Even so, he approached, maintaining a brave façade despite his fear.
Sensing the boy's tension, Hugues let out a quiet laugh and helped him into the saddle with firmness, but no roughness.
Mounted, Alexander felt something strange in his chest. A sudden warmth, as if he were about to begin something that, in truth, mattered.
The soft wind and the morning sun felt more alive than ever.
But his reverie was abruptly interrupted when Hugues mounted behind him. The man's presence broke the gentle breeze that had caressed his back. The sunlight that had warmed him like a caress was swallowed by the knight's shadow.
Alexander wanted to complain, maybe even curse... but held back. That man was now his lord.
"How old are you?" asked Hugues, pulling the reins with a steady hand.
Alexander reflected for a moment before replying:
"Five."
Hugues gave him a sidelong glance. The boy was light, far too thin. Much work lay ahead before he could become useful.
"Want to fetch any belongings?"
Alexander hesitated. "Though this body is mine now... this life wasn't originally. Doesn't seem right to take any souvenir with me."
With a calm, steady gaze, he said aloud, "No. It's okay. We can go."
Hugues didn't waste time. With a gentle press of his heels into the horse's sides, he urged the animal forward.
The village receded behind them, as the road and a new fate opened before Alexander.