"Come along now," Mother urges, quickening her pace. "We must speak with him while we have the chance."

We approach the imposing stranger slowly, my heart fluttering with a mixture of trepidation and...something else I cannot quite name. As we draw nearer, new details emerge - the chiseled angles of his bearded face, the piercing intensity of eyes the color of polished emeralds. This is no mere peasant, that much is certain.

Mother dips into an awkward curtsy, nearly overbalancing with her burdens. "Good morrow to ye, sir. Might I beg but a brief word?"

The man turns towards us fully, his striking features thrown into sharp relief. By the Heavens, he is as comely as the old tales make the gods out to be! That strong jawline could have been hewn from granite itself, framed by a neatly trimmed beard the same burnished gold as the hair spilling past his broad shoulders. And those eyes - luminous jade pools that seem to glitter with an inner fire as they rake over us appraisingly.

"How may I be of service, good woman?" His deep voice holds the faintest lilt of some exotic accent, the words rolling from his tongue like the caress of a lover.

Those smoldering emerald orbs flick down to me, widening almost imperceptibly as they take in my slight form. I feel heat rushing to my cheeks under his intense scrutiny and quickly drop my gaze.

"Forgive me intrusion, sir," Mother stammers, bobbing another clumsy curtsy. "I am Aislin Ban, wife to Oisin the plowman. And this is our daughter, Lile."

She swallows hard before continuing. "I...I wished to offer condolences on the passing of your own beloved wife, Brigitte. May the Lord grant her eternal peace."

The man - Colm - nods solemnly. "You have my gratitude for your kind words, Aislin Ban. Brigitte's loss still pains me greatly."

His gaze drifts to the baskets in Mother's arms. "But tell me, what manner of goods have you purchased at market this fine morning?"

"Oh, nay sir!" Mother shakes her head quickly. "We came to sell, not buy. Our surplus from the garden, you see."

She gestures to the nearly empty baskets looped over her arm. Colm's eyes widen slightly as he takes in their pitiful state.

"Ah, I see. Though I must wonder..." His brow furrows as that piercing stare swings back to me. "Where have you and your husband kept this precious little one hidden from me all these years?"

To my shock, the towering figure suddenly kneels before me on one knee, bringing his striking countenance uncomfortably close. I shrink back instinctively as those blazing emerald eyes bore into mine, assessing, weighing, judging. The scent of exotic spices and woodsmoke wafts from his clothes and hair, making my head swim.

"What is the child's name, Aislin?" he rumbles, never breaking that intense eye contact.

"L-Lile, good sir," Mother stammers. "Lile Ban, our only living daughter."

"Did Oisin not come to you himself about...inspecting the girl?" Aislin asks.

Colm shakes his head. "Nay... he like as not meant to seek me out once his labors in the fields were complete for the day."

Colm hums thoughtfully, holding my gaze for another endless moment before rising in one sinuous motion. I release the breath I hadn't realized I was holding in a relieved whoosh.

"The resemblance is striking indeed," he murmurs, more to himself than us. "This child could easily pass for Brigitte reborn in miniature."

He turns that unsettling stare back to Mother. "So the girl's father wished to approach me regarding her...hand?"

At Mother's hesitant nod, a slow smile curves Colm's full lips. "How very intriguing. I shall have to discuss the matter with Oisin himself this evening, it seems."

"H-he seeks at least three silvers for her bride price, sir," Mother ventures timidly.

I can't resist the urge to speak up, emboldened by curiosity. "Are you a nice person, Colm? Mama says you lost your wife."

The giant man blinks down at me, seemingly taken aback by my blunt query. Then, to my surprise, he laughs - a rich, rumbling chuckle that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand upright.

"Why, I should certainly hope so, little one," he replies, still grinning as he reaches down to ruffle my tangled curls playfully.

But his smile falters as his fingers make contact with my filthy tresses. Grimacing, Colm lifts his hand away, shaking it in obvious disgust at whatever foulness now coats his skin. He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache.

"Even if I do agree to this bride price," he says at last, "I would not take Lile to wife until her first flowering at the earliest. Nor would I seek to breed her until she has seen at least sixteen summers. You have my word on that, Aislin Ban."

Mother beams, clasping her hands together joyfully. "Oh sir, you sound a true gentleman! A very kind and patient soul."

She nudges me meaningfully. "Go on then, Lile. Thank the good healer for his gracious manner."

But before I can muster a reply, Colm sweeps us an elegant bow, every inch the regal nobleman bidding farewell to lowly peasants. "I shall return on the evening tide to discuss terms with Oisin," he declares. "Pray he is amenable to my...proposals for the girl's future."

With that, the striking figure turns on his booted heel and strides away, disappearing into the bustling market crowds with one last backwards glance.

Mother's mouth works soundlessly for a moment before she finds her voice. "Saints preserve me, I can scarce believe the great Viking took an interest in my scrawny Lile!" She shakes her head in wonderment. "You're a lucky girl indeed if he agrees to the bride price."

Grasping my hand firmly in her calloused one, she tugs me onward down the rutted dirt path. "Come along now, we've one last stop to make before returning home."

Rounding a bend, the source of our detour comes into view - a sturdy two-story building of rough-hewn timber and cracked plaster. Faded letters painted above the entrance proclaim it the "Grain & Feed Store", while a battered wooden sign hangs creakily from rusted iron hinges. The lower level's wide double doors stand open, revealing shadowy recesses within.

"Mama, why are we going to the grain merchant's?" I ask, peering up at the weathered facade. "Surely we've no coin left after purchasing our winter stores?"

Mother's grip tightens almost painfully around my fingers. "Aye, that we do not, lamb. But I aim to spend all but four coppers on grains to bake our bread."

My brows knit in confusion. "Bread? But how will that stretch to fill our bellies till the spring thaw?"

Aislin's shoulders slump as if under a heavy burden. "It shan't, not truly. But 'tis the only way we'll survive this winter - eating naught but the most meager bread rations until the new planting season."

A cold knot of dread forms in the pit of my empty belly. "But...but why?" I sputter. "Surely Father will hunt or purchase meat and proper provisions for us, will he not?"

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Mother's reply is tinged with bitterness. "Your father cares only for drink and spending his coins on such 'provisions' for himself." She tsks disapprovingly. "Nay, the fault lies with me - a useless mother who births naught but daughters rather than sons to please him."

I frown, stung by the self-recrimination in her tone. But before I can protest, Aislin squeezes my hand gently.

"Forgive me, Lile. You are my greatest blessing, not some burden." Her sad smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Which is why I must try my utmost to secure you a better future than this squalor. Even if it means surviving on bread crusts all winter to keep you fed."

With that, she pushes through the grain store's entrance, tugging me along in her wake. The dim interior is a vast, echoing space smelling of chaff and musty burlap. Stout wooden pillars support a heavy beamed ceiling, from which dangle a few sputtering lanterns that cast flickering pools of wan light. Towering stacks of bulging sacks line the walls, each taller than a man and marked with incomprehensible symbols.

Mother leads me toward the rear of the cavernous chamber where a battered wooden counter sits before a yawning open doorway. A wizened old man with a bald pate and rheumy eyes presides there, his gnarled hands idly caressing the beads of a rosary.

"You there, Bran!" Mother calls out, her voice swallowed by the looming shadows. "I've need of your goods, if you'd hear my plea."

The ancient figure stirs, peering nearsightedly in our direction. "Aye, woman, I hear you well enough. Though I'll wager you've not the coin to pay for more than rat droppings this day."

Aislin flinches but holds her head high as she approaches the counter. "Four stone of rye, good man, and as much oats as these last few coppers can purchase."

So saying, she reaches into a hidden pocket and upends it over the battered wood surface. A small pile of dull copper coins spills forth with a muted clink - twenty-six in total by my reckoning.

The old man grunts, sweeping an assessing gaze over the meager offering. His bony fingers deftly count and separate the coins into two smaller stacks.

"This'll get you four stone of rye," he rasps, nudging one stack toward Aislin. "And these paltry few'll buy ye...three pounds of oats at best."

Mother's shoulders slump further, but she bobs her head in resigned acceptance. "Very well, I'll take—"

"Wait." The gravelly voice interrupts her, one arthritic hand raised. Bran's milky eyes fix upon my slight form hovering at Aislin's elbow. "This little bairn yours, woman?"

At Mother's hesitant nod, his wrinkled face splits in a toothless grin. "Then you'll be wantin' more than that piss-poor portion to fill her growing belly this winter."

With surprising swiftness, he scoops the coins back into a gnarled fist and disappears through the rear doorway. I can hear his muffled curses and the creak of wood and rope as he presumably scales some ladder or stair. When he finally reemerges, the old man is staggering under the weight of two bulging sacks nearly as large as himself.

Bran heaves the rough burlap bags onto the counter, sending up a small cloud of chaff. He shoves them unceremoniously toward Aislin, along with a single copper coin.

"There you are, woman - four stone of rye and every scrap of oats I can spare." His rheumy gaze meets mine again, surprisingly keen. "And a copper besides for the little bairn. Winter's no season for swollen bellies, eh?"

I gape at the unexpected generosity, scarcely able to credit the man's words. Beside me, Mother clutches her hand to her breast, eyes shining with grateful tears.

"Oh sir, you are too kind!" she breathes fervently. "The Lord himself has blessed us through your mercy this day!"

Bran snorts, waving a dismissive hand. "Think nothing of it, woman. Just see you make it stretch till the spring rains, aye?" His clouded eyes crinkle in what might be a smile. "And keep that little 'un's belly full no matter what. Scrawny babes don't weather the cold well."

With trembling hands, Aislin gathers up the precious sacks and my single copper coin. Bobbing a grateful curtsy, she ushers me back toward the entrance and whatever future awaits beyond.

I glance back over my shoulder as we depart, staring in wonderment at the old man's bent form silhouetted against the looming stacks of grain. Our very survival depends utterly on the fickle kindness of strangers, I realize with a shiver. And this winter, it seems the gods have smiled upon us...for now.

As we trudge back towards that wretched hovel, I can't help stealing sidelong glances at Aislin. The poor woman strains under the weight of those bulging sacks, her slender frame bent nearly double as she staggers along the rutted path. By the heavens, how does this frail creature possess such preternatural strength? She must be blessed by supernatural forces to bear such burdens without collapsing!

My gaze drifts to the sacks themselves, and I ponder the unexpected generosity old Bran showed in providing extra rations. What prompted this miserly grain merchant to bestow such charity upon two lowly peasants? Surely he did not act from any sense of Christian benevolence or pity. No, there must be some deeper motive, some hidden agenda at play here that my limited perspective cannot yet discern.

Which reminds me...that Viking healer Colm and his inexplicable interest in inspecting me like prize livestock! When first he laid eyes upon my filthy, lice-ridden form, the giant actually smiled and questioned where my kin had kept me concealed all these years. As if I were some exotic creature or mythical being rather than the reality - a diseased, half-starved urchin destined to waste away in this festering backwater!

But why? What could possibly compel a wealthy freeman to entertain purchasing such worthless stock? Aislin prattles some nonsense about my resemblance to his deceased wife Brigitte, yet I sense deeper mysteries lurking beneath the surface here. This Colm hails from the fabled Norse lands, home to the ancient pagan pantheons. Perhaps my peculiar appearance evokes some figure from their heathen mythologies rather than simple human familiarity?

I pause, brow furrowing as I mull over this intriguing possibility. Golden hair like spun sunlight...pale skin that seems to glow faintly, as if lit from within...and of course, these unsettling yellow eyes that so unnerve the superstitious peasant folk. Aye, I can perceive the parallels now! Clearly I bear an uncanny resemblance to some mythological Norse entity associated with gold and radiant luminescence.

But which one? A frantic mental inventory of my limited knowledge about those obscure northern legends proves frustrating. I've no patience to sift through endless sagas of drunken, brawling deities and their incestuous couplings. No, I require something more...definitive. Something that will allow me to pinpoint the exact archetype this Colm subconsciously associates me with upon first glance.

The answer strikes like a thunderbolt - Gullveig! That primordial being whose name literally translates to "power of gold" and who appeared as a radiant woman adorned in shimmering threads. A wicked, seductive enchantress whose supernatural beauty and preternatural abilities struck terror into the hearts of gods and mortals alike. Of course! I am the living incarnation of this infamous figure from the pagan eddas. No wonder the Viking could scarcely conceal his rapt fascination upon beholding me.

A cruel chuckle nearly escapes my cracked lips. So not only must I endure this abject existence as a lice-ridden peasant waif, but I've also been cursed to walk this earth wearing the unmistakable guise of a mythological harbinger of chaos and destruction? The cosmic joke grows richer by the moment!

Fuck me sideways with an entire forest of oaken shafts, this HAS to be a dream.

We arrive at the entrance to our small vegetable garden, the gate creaking as Aislin nods towards it. "Open it for us, Lile."

I grunt with effort, shoving the weathered wooden gate inward. As it swings open, a scruffy tabby cat darts through, immediately rubbing against my bare legs and purring loudly. Its coarse fur tickles my skin as it winds itself around my ankles.

"Leave the beast be, child," Aislin chides, already shuffling past with her heavy burdens. "We've too much to do before your father returns."

I start to bend down and scoop up the friendly feline, but a young girl's voice calling out makes me pause.

"Here, Minou! Come get your treat!"

I glance over to see a girl around my own age waving a scrap of dried meat, her other hand resting on her hip. Despite the dirt smudging her cheeks and tattered dress, she's strikingly pretty - all rosy cheeks, button nose, and large doe eyes fringed with thick lashes. Loose chestnut curls tumble past her shoulders in a wild tangle.

The girl flashes me a bright smile, beckoning with her treat. "Hello there! I don't think I've seen you before."

Feeling unaccountably shy, I return her wave tentatively. "H-hello..."

"What's your name?" she asks, taking a few steps closer. The cat immediately abandons me, trotting over to wind itself around her ankles instead with a plaintive meow.

"I...I'm Lile," I mumble, ducking my head.

"Lile? What a lovely name!" The girl beams at me, revealing a missing tooth. "I'm Saoirse. How old are you, Lile?"

Before I can respond, Aislin's sharp voice rings out from inside our hovel. "Lile! Get yourself back in here this instant, girl!"

I flinch at her tone, shoulders hunching. Turning back to Saoirse, I offer an apologetic grimace. "Sorry, I've got to go. My mother will strap me if I linger."

The pretty girl's face falls, but she nods in understanding. Giving the cat one final scratch behind the ears, she straightens and waves farewell. "Goodbye for now, Lile! Maybe we can play together another time."

I return the wave half-heartedly before scurrying inside, the gate clanging shut behind me. Aislin is just setting down the bulging sacks of grain in one corner, brushing stray wisps of hair from her brow.

"There you are," she huffs, rounding on me with hands planted on her hips. "Mark me words, Lile - you must be on your best behavior when the healer Colm comes to inspect you later. Our very survival may well depend on him taking a fancy to you."

My eyes widen at the weight of her pronouncement. Aislin's expression softens slightly as she continues.

"If this Colm agrees to your bride price and weds you, we'll be spared the cruel grip of starvation this winter. But I'll not suffer any antics or sass from you, understand?" She fixes me with a stern look. "If I spy even a hint of stubborn defiance, I'll take the strap to your legs the moment he departs, I swear it."[...]