Medieval Love, Modern Revenge

The clash of steel and screams of men filled the air as I ducked behind a fallen cart. Medieval warfare was nothing like I'd imagined—it was worse. The stench of blood and fear hung thick around our encampment, a constant reminder that Stefan and I were far from our modern lives in New York. Three months since we'd mysteriously appeared here, and I was still adjusting to leather armor instead of designer suits, to swords instead of spreadsheets.

"Formation!" Commander Reeves bellowed, his voice carrying across the training field.

I gripped my sword tighter, the leather wrapping on the hilt now familiar against my palm. My muscles had strengthened from daily training, my reflexes sharpened. Somehow, I'd adapted faster than Stefan, whose academic mind struggled with the physical demands of this brutal era.

"Eleanor, flank right!" The command came, and I moved without hesitation, my body responding with a fluidity that still surprised me.

Across the field, Stefan was paired with a burly soldier twice his size. He stumbled, barely deflecting a blow that would have cracked his ribs. While he lacked my newly acquired agility, he'd impressed the commanders with his strategic mind—mapping enemy movements, predicting attacks with uncanny accuracy.

"You're holding back," I told him later as we shared a meager dinner by the fire. "You need to commit fully to your strikes."

Stefan's eyes reflected the dancing flames. "I'm trying. It's just so... primitive." He reached for my hand, his touch a small comfort in this harsh world. "At least we're together."

I squeezed his fingers. "Always."

Little did I know how empty that promise would become.

---

The battle erupted at dawn, a surprise attack that sent our camp into chaos. Steel clashed against steel as I fought beside men I'd trained with for weeks. My sword found its mark repeatedly—not killing blows, but enough to disable opponents. I'd become a fighter, something I never imagined back in our apartment overlooking Central Park.

Through the chaos, I spotted Stefan near the command tent, surrounded by three enemy soldiers in black armor. Their swords glinted in the morning light as they closed in on him. Stefan parried one blow but missed the second attacker coming from behind.

"Stefan!" My scream tore through the battlefield noise.

Without thinking, I charged across the blood-soaked ground. Time seemed to slow as I threw myself between Stefan and the descending blade. The first strike caught my shoulder, sending white-hot pain through my body. I swung wildly, connecting with someone's armor.

"Eleanor, no!" Stefan's voice sounded distant as a second blade sliced across my chest.

I fought through the pain, driven by something primal. My sword found flesh—once, twice. A man fell. The second attacker hesitated just long enough for me to drive my blade into his thigh. The third man came at me with fury in his eyes.

The sword pierced my side before I could fully dodge. I gasped, tasting blood, but somehow managed to swing upward, catching him under his raised arm. He staggered back, then fled.

I collapsed to my knees, suddenly aware of the warm wetness spreading across my tunic. Stefan's face appeared above me, terror etched into every feature.

"Stay with me," he begged, pressing his hands against my wounds. "Eleanor, please!"

The sky tilted strangely. I wanted to tell him I loved him, that I'd do it again to keep him safe, but darkness pulled me under before I could form the words.

---

Pain was my constant companion in the weeks that followed. I drifted between consciousness and fevered dreams, catching glimpses of Stefan's worried face, feeling cool cloths on my forehead, hearing hushed voices discussing my chances of survival.

"The fever's breaking," a woman's voice said one day. "She might actually live."

Stephan was there through it all, or so they told me. Holding my hand, wiping my brow, changing my bandages. My body slowly knit itself back together, leaving angry red scars across my chest and side—permanent reminders of my sacrifice.

When I finally opened my eyes properly, sunlight was streaming through a small window. I was in a stone room I didn't recognize, lying on a straw mattress covered with rough linen sheets.

"You're awake." Stefan's voice drew my attention to the doorway where he stood, his face thinner than I remembered.

I smiled weakly. "Hey there."

He approached slowly, something strange in his expression. He sat beside the bed, studying me with furrowed brows.

"The healer says you'll recover," he said formally. "Your bravery on the battlefield is appreciated."

I reached for his hand. "I couldn't let them hurt you."

He stiffened at my touch, pulling back slightly. Confusion clouded his face.

"I'm sorry, but... do I know you? From before, I mean?"

My heart stuttered. "Stefan, it's me. Eleanor. Your Eleanor."

He shook his head slowly. "I don't... I'm told I was injured in the battle too. My memories are... confused. They say you speak of strange things—tall buildings of glass, horseless carriages..."

Ice spread through my veins as I searched his face for any hint of recognition, any sign that this was some cruel joke.

"You don't remember New York? Our apartment? The night we met at Columbia?"

"I'm sorry," he said, standing abruptly. "The commander says you saved my life, and for that I'm grateful. But these stories of another world..." He looked genuinely troubled. "Perhaps the fever has affected your mind."

As he turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of something in his eyes that didn't match his confused words—something calculating and cold that sent a chill through my healing body.