The following week brought a new, more visceral layer of reality to the castle. A second truck arrived, smaller than the first, but its contents were far more evocative. Two men, careful and respectful, unloaded long, heavy cardboard tubes and reinforced wooden crates.
This was the shipment from the historical arms dealer in London.
Rex cleared a space in the driest part of the castle's undercroft, a vaulted chamber that had once stored wine and root vegetables. The air here was cool and constant, perfect for preserving wood and steel. As the deliverymen left, Rex was left alone with his new, and most dangerous, acquisitions.
He broke the seal on the first long tube. Inside, nestled in custom foam, was a six-foot English longbow, crafted from a single, flawless piece of yew. The wood was a symphony of tones, from pale cream on the belly to a rich, sunset orange on the back. He ran his hand along its length, feeling the incredible tension sleeping within the wood. It was a weapon of simple, brutal elegance, capable of punching an arrow through plate armor at a hundred yards. He had practiced for months with a modern replica; holding the real thing was like shaking hands with a legend.
Next came the swords. He pried open a crate to reveal a knightly longsword, its blade polished but unadorned, a tool for war, not ceremony. The balance was perfect. He gripped the leather-bound hilt, the worn wire wrap feeling like a handshake from the past. The weight was not a burden, but an extension of his own arm. He executed a slow, careful practice cut through the air, the blade whispering a deadly song. It felt right. It felt familiar.
There were other crates. A pair of sturdy crossbows with heavy steel prods. A dozen halberds, their axe-heads and spikes looking brutally efficient. And the armor. He unpacked a brigandine, a canvas jacket lined with overlapping steel plates, and a polished steel sallet helmet with a sweeping tail to protect the neck. He tried the helmet on. The world narrowed to the slit of the visor, his breathing echoing loudly in the confined space. It was hot, heavy, and isolating. It was the weight of responsibility.
He spent the afternoon inventorying and oiling the steel, a meditative process that reminded him of his combat training. Each weapon was cleaned, assessed, and assigned a place on the racks he had welded together. This wasn't a collection; it was an arsenal. The knowledge was a cold stone in his gut. He hoped he would never need them for their intended purpose, but the act of preparing was itself a form of defense.
The clash of eras became starkly evident the next day. A van from a solar panel company arrived, its technicians staring in bewilderment at the medieval scene. While Jean and Luc chiseled away at centuries-old mortar, the technicians began installing sleek, black photovoltaic panels on the south-facing roof of the gatehouse, the wires snaking down to a bank of lithium-ion batteries in the lodge.
Rex moved between the two worlds with ease. He would discuss the angle of the solar array for maximum winter sun, then turn and advise Luc on the best way to brace a wattle-and-daub wall they had discovered inside a ruined cottage.
Isabelle Moreau returned with her first draft of the master plan, and they spread the large sheets out on the table in the lodge, the plastic crates of supplies forming a silent audience.
"The synergy is remarkable," Isabelle noted, her finger tracing a line on the plan. "Your 'festival' requirements align perfectly with a functional, low-tech community. The old bakery," she pointed to a ruin near the well, "its oven is mostly intact. With a new stone hearth, it could bake bread for dozens. The stream, if we rebuild the mill race, can power a grindstone. It is… elegantly circular."
Rex nodded. "That's the idea. Nothing wasted. Everything serving a purpose."
Later, as the solar technicians packed up, leaving behind the quiet hum of the inverters, Rex stood on the wall. To his left, the new solar panels gleamed in the late afternoon sun, a symbol of modern ingenuity. Below him, Jean was patiently teaching Luc the old method of shaping a keystone for an arch. In the undercroft, enough weaponry to equip a small army lay ready. In the lodge, enough food to sustain them for years was stored.
It was a patchwork of times and technologies, a fusion of the old ways and the new, all bent towards a single, unwavering goal: resilience. He was not retreating into the past. He was building a bridge to a possible future, using the best tools from every era to forge a sanctuary.
The sun dipped below the trees, and the solar-powered lights he had installed along the main path flickered on, casting a soft, electric glow on the ancient stones. It was a new kind of dawn for the Forgotten Dawn.