I can't suppress a violent flinch at his crude words. But Colm doesn't so much as blink.

"You'd do well to heed your own advice about crudity," he says mildly. "As for the girl, I've studied the healing arts extensively. I know the dangers of getting a maid with child before her body is fully matured."

He fixes Oisin with that piercing stare. "Bearing too young leads to complications - obstructed labor, hemorrhage, fistulas, even death for both mother and babe. Sensible husbands wait until their wives have finished developing before risking such perils."

Aislin flinches again at his words, one hand straying to her flat belly. Colm doesn't seem to notice as he continues.

"I've seen too many births gone awry from such folly. Wise men exercise patience with their young brides."

There's an undeniable hint of rebuke in his tone now. Oisin scowls, his face mottling redder by the second.

"Well, ain't ye just a paragon of Christian virtue!" he sneers. "If ye're so keen on waitin', why bother with a child bride at all? Just take a widow or cast-off from the village instead!"

Colm arches one eyebrow disdainfully. "Because Lile's...unique qualities appeal to me in a way no common village maid could. But we can discuss the particulars of my intentions for her later."

He glances around the cramped chamber again, nose wrinkling. "For now, might I inquire why this dwelling remains in such...disrepair? Surely even peasants can afford some basic lye soap for cleansing?"

Oisin's mocking laughter rings out again, harsh and bitter. "Lye soap? With what coin, pray tell? We've barely enough to keep our bellies from emptying completely!"

His smile fades beneath Colm's piercing emerald stare. The Viking's eyes seem to bore into Oisin's very soul.

"We...we can scarcely afford food itself after the church's tithes and Lord Eamonn's taxes," Oisin continues, his bravado deflating. "I break my back from dawn till dusk in the fields, yet our bellies stay half-empty while those robed leeches grow fat from my blood and sweat!"

He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture, the very picture of an overburdened peasant. But I know the truth - this is all an act, a pathetic attempt to conceal his drunken indolence and cruelty from Colm's scrutiny.

If I could, I would leap across the room and claw that lying tongue from his foul mouth this very instant! How dare he play the martyr when his own vices are what keep us starving and degraded? My nails dig bloody crescents into my palms as I fight to contain the rage boiling inside.

Colm heaves a weary sigh, his broad shoulders rising and falling beneath that fine green tunic. "Very well, I shall pay the three silvers you ask for the girl's bride price," he rumbles in that exotic cadence. "But I cannot take Lile as a child ward into my home. My situation here is...precarious. I will not risk being branded a defiler of innocents."

A harsh bark of laughter erupts from Oisin's whiskery maw. "Ho, so the great Viking healer fears the church's wrath, does he?" He leans forward, elbows on knees as he leers up at Colm's towering form. "What foul deeds have you committed to earn such ire, hmm?"

Colm's striking features harden into a scowl, those emerald eyes glittering dangerously. He gives a curt nod. "Aye, the holy men watch me like hunting hawks, waiting for any misstep to justify removing my heathen presence from these lands." His powerful hands clench into white-knuckled fists. "One wrong move, one breath of scandal, and they'll gladly take my head from my shoulders."

Mother flinches at his grim pronouncement, her trembling hands clutching at the simple crucifix adorning her faded dress. "B-but surely you could take Lile on as a...a healer's apprentice of sorts?" she ventures hesitantly. "The church could hardly object to a child learning your arts, good sir."

But Colm is already shaking his head, that thick golden mane swaying with the motion. "Nay, I'll take no risks where the girl is concerned. Not with those blackrobed vultures circling, eager to tear out my throat."

I sneer inwardly at the Viking's cowardice, even as a part of me grudgingly understands his wariness. The bastard may be my best chance at escaping this wretched existence, but he's still just another craven peasant unwilling to defy the corrupt clergy's tyranny. My nails dig bloody crescents into my filthy palms as I seethe at the prospect of enduring more years trapped under Oisin's abusive roof.

"However..." Colm's deep voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "I have an alternative proposal that may satisfy us both."

He turns that piercing emerald stare on my drunken lout of a father. "Once Lile has flowered into maiden's bloom, I shall pay you three full gold pieces for her hand - a king's ransom by any peasant's reckoning."

Oisin's rheumy eyes widen comically at the astronomical sum. I can practically see the glint of avarice kindling behind his dull gaze.

"But that is not all," Colm continues smoothly. "From this day forth, I shall also provide three silver coins every seven-day to ensure the girl and her mother want for naught while she matures. You have but to guarantee Lile remains unmolested until I claim her as bride."

The very air in the cramped chamber seems to still as Colm's generous terms hang between us. I can scarcely credit the audacity of his proposal. Is the Viking truly offering to shower us in unimaginable riches, all for the dubious privilege of making me his child bride once I've bled?

"Well, well..." Oisin finally rumbles, dragging a filthy hand over his matted beard. "Ain't you a generous bastard, Colm? Can't rightly fathom what could make a moneyed freeman like yerself so eager for a piece of scrawny whelp like my Lile." He leans back, squinting shrewdly. "So tell me - why all this coin and trouble? Why not just take yer pick of the village lasses once they've ripened?"

A cruel chuckle grates from his throat. "Unless...you've a taste for unripe quim after all? Wouldn't be the first time a man's lusted after what he can't rightfully have."

White-hot fury lances through me at the implication. I open my mouth, a blistering retort ready to fly - but Colm beats me to it.

"Peace, peasant," he growls, the very air seeming to thrum with barely restrained menace. "I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue about you when addressing my intentions."

Those powerful arms cross over his broad chest as he regards Oisin with ill-disguised contempt. "Unlike you curs, I've no appetite for rutting filthy children. But Lile is...singular. A rarity I dare not let slip through these fingers."

His smoldering gaze flicks to me briefly, assessing. "There are...aspects about the girl that resonate with my spiritual beliefs. She holds a significance you could never comprehend."

Oisin blinks stupidly for a moment before barking another crude laugh. "Is that so? Well, by all means, enlighten this ignorant peasant!" He waves a meaty hand in mocking invitation. "What grand destiny does my scrawny brat fulfill, hmm? Don't tell me the whelp's the goddess of lice or fleas in yer heathen cult?"

The Viking's handsome face darkens like a thundercloud at the insult. "Mind your tongue, wretch," he snarls, the words seeming to reverberate through the very air. "You besmirch powers and mysteries far beyond your pathetic comprehension."

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Oisin flinches back, his bravado faltering beneath the intensity of Colm's glare. The healer takes a measured breath, visibly mastering himself before continuing in a quieter tone.

"Lile's countenance and...singular attributes bear an unmistakable likeness to Gullveig, the radiant goddess of gold and sorcery from the Norse eddas. It is her very essence made flesh."

My breath catches in my throat as the Viking's words wash over me. So I was right - he does see the primordial enchantress Gullveig in my strange, sickly visage! Which can only mean one thing...

Colm's gaze turns inward, his deep voice taking on a distant quality as if recounting lore from antiquity. "When my ancestors first made overtures to trade and settle these lands, the Irish nobles welcomed our skills and knowledge. But they remained ever wary of the...mystical forces we represented."

His eyes refocus on Oisin, mouth set in a grim line. "As insurance against any...unpleasantness, I was bound here, essentially on permanent parole. The local lord denies me leave to journey beyond Baile Rois under any circumstances, lest I bring ruination with the old powers at my command."

A bitter chuckle rumbles from his broad chest. "So you see, I've little choice but to claim Lile for my bride once she reaches maturity. She is quite literally the closest I shall ever come to my goddess's radiant form in this benighted land."

Oisin turns his beady gaze upon the towering Viking, a sneer twisting his whiskery features. "So, Colm - you aim to flee this village eventually, aye? Got grander plans than tendin' to us muck farmers?"

Colm meets the peasant's stare levelly, giving a curt nod of affirmation. "I've a way to depart these lands, though the price is steep." His deep voice seems to reverberate through the cramped chamber. "To secure my freedom, I must betray the locations of my Danish kinsmen's camps to you."

A cruel smile blossoms across Oisin's ruddy face. "Ah, so ye'll sell out yer Viking brethren, the bastards what keep raiding our shores?" He barks a harsh laugh. "No wonder Norway's longboats have turned away these past seasons - even they deem this shitehole not worth the plunder!"

I can't resist piping up from where I crouch against the wall. "Who is your father, Colm?"

The giant man chuckles, the sound a deep rumble that raises goosebumps along my arms. "Why, I am the get of Ragnar Lothbrok himself, little one."

Mother gasps, hand flying to clutch the wooden crucifix adorning her faded dress. Oisin throws back his head, bellowing with raucous mirth. "Hah! Ye expect us to swallow such a tale, ye heathen dog?"

But I'm gaping so hard I fear my jaw may crack and tumble to the dirt floor. Ragnar fucking Lothbrok - the legendary scourge of Christendom, the terrifying Norse warlord who butchered his way across Europe in an orgy of pagan savagery?! This gentle healer's very loins spawned such an unholy terror?!

Colm's striking features harden into a scowl. "Aye, that monster sired me upon some thrall wench, though I've no love for the fiend." His fists clench, thick cords standing out along his powerful forearms. "When I reached sixteen winters, Ragnar cast me out to find this 'Gullveig' he raves about - some mythical enchantress of the ancient eddas."

His piercing emerald gaze grows distant, as though inward-turned toward bitter memories. "For a time, I thought my Brigitte the embodiment of that radiant goddess. But she perished granting me naught but a stillborn wretch."

Oisin snorts derisively. "So the great Viking's spawn got sent on a madman's quest, only to wash up on our shores? No wonder Lord Eamonn keeps ye leashed - ye're like to slaughter us all in a fit of lunacy!"

Colm's jaw tightens, but he inclines his head stiffly. "Aye, I am trapped between two cruel jailors - my lord's mistrust, and the duty my father charged me with. This 'prophecy' may be naught but a madman's ramblings, yet I cannot escape its grasp."

Mother makes a warding gesture, murmuring, "Sweet Jesus preserve us! To have sheltered the very son of that unholy terror under our humble roof this night..."

But Oisin is already braying with laughter again. "Well well, no mystery now why our good lord refuses ye leave! Best mind yer manners here, else that Viking bloodlust might see ye swingin' from the gallows!"

Of course! Hahahaha! Of fucking course this gentle healer had to be the spawn of none other than the legendary Norse marauder Ragnar Lothbrok himself! As if stumbling into this primitive mudhole of an Irish kingdom circa 300 AD wasn't torment enough for my reincarnated soul.

And of course his name isn't actually Colm - that's an Irish moniker, not the sort of badass Viking handle you'd expect from the bloodthirsty son of the North's most infamous raider and pillager. I can just picture the mighty Ragnar cradling his newborn bastard and proclaiming, "I shall call this future scourge...Sven the Skull-Splitter!" Only for the kid to grow up all gentle healer vibes, rechristening himself Colm to better blend with the turnip-munching peasantry.

Hahahaha! As if it wasn't already a cruel enough cosmic prank that Brian fucking Boru is the so-called High King ruling over this festering crapscape of a realm. Now I find out the legendary Ragnar Lothbrok himself is not only alive and well, but sired the very man who may hold the keys to my escape from enslavement! What's next, we'll have Cleopatra herself dash in to regale us with tales of Antony's manhood? Maybe Romulus and Remus will pop by, fresh from suckling the she-wolf's teat? I'm sure Julius fucking Caesar can't be far behind, ready to cross this Irish rubicon and add his own flair to the madness!

Or hey, perhaps the time-space continuum will really kick into high gear and we'll get a visit from the 20th century's finest - Hitler and Stalin dropping by to compare notes on genocide and oppression! I'm sure those two delightful specimens would feel right at home amongst the religious zealots and pious rapists of 4th century Ireland. We could all sit around the campfire, passing a jug of fermented turnip piss as we cheerfully discuss the most efficient ways to slaughter, subjugate and dehumanize entire populations. Fucking party of the century!

Haha! The cosmic joke of my reincarnation into this primitive sty just keeps compounding layer upon layer. I must have monumentally pissed off some higher power in a past life - either I drowned an entire sack of kittens or this is all some form of uniquely-tailored purgatory. Maybe I'll wake up at any moment, the VR suite disconnecting as I return to my sanitized modern existence far removed from these lice-ridden bog trotters and their petty civilizational squabbles. A man can dream, right?

Colm's deep voice rumbles through the cramped hovel, "Given another twelve years, mayhap my accursed father will finally drink himself into an early grave on his beloved mead. Then I can return to Norway heavy with child and take my rightful place as its ruler."

A low whistle parts Oisin's whiskery lips. "Well I'll be damned...we may have the next Ragnar Lothbrok himself squatting under our roof, lads!" He turns a beady eye on the towering Viking. "Tell me true, Colm - does Lord Eamonn know the fiend what sired you?"

Colm's jaw tightens, but he gives a curt nod. "Aye, 'tis precisely why that wretched lord keeps me confined here like a dog on a leash. He fears my bloodline's...tendencies."

Despite myself, curiosity burns within me at this admission of Colm's infamous lineage. "If you're Ragnar's get, how old is the dreaded raider now?" I blurt before I can stop myself.

Those piercing emerald eyes bore into me for a moment before Colm replies, "My father had seen nearly four dozen winters the last time I laid eyes upon him."

Doing some quick mental calculations, I realize the legendary Norse scourge must be nearing his fiftieth year by now. Hardly decrepit for a Viking of his stature and reputation. Before I can inquire further about Ragnar's current whereabouts, Colm is already turning away with a dismissive sneer.

"Enough prattling about ancient history. I've no desire to linger amidst this sty a moment longer." His powerful frame strides toward the sleeping alcove, ducking slightly to pass through the low doorway.

I hold my breath, straining to make out any sounds from within the cramped chamber. At first there is only silence...until a sudden retching grunt reaches my ears, quickly followed by Colm's hulking form reappearing. He stumbles back into the main room, one arm flung across his face as he gasps for air like a landed fish.

"By Odin's eye, the stench in there could drop a bull at twenty paces!" he chokes out between ragged breaths. "I've smelled the putrid reek of week-old corpses left to bloat on sun-baked battlefields, and even that could not prepare me for this foulness!"

I can't help it - a snort of laughter escapes me at the Viking's dramatics. Oisin shoots me a withering glare, but I'm already dissolving into helpless giggles at the sheer absurdity of this entire situation. Colm, son of the dreaded Ragnar Lothbrok and scourge of Christendom...laid low by the ripe odors of our humble peasant dwelling!

Colm's nostrils flare, but he visibly masters himself with an effort. "Enough of this idleness," he growls. "If I am to take this maid to wife, she'll need to be made...presentable first."

He turns that piercing stare on my mother. "Aislin Ban, you shall deliver Lile to my cottage each seven-day for thorough delousing and cleansing. I'll not have my future bride smelling worse than a dung heap."

Aislin bobs her head frantically in acquiescence, but Colm is already rounding on Oisin with ill-disguised contempt.

"And you, peasant - from this day forth I shall send maids to scour this foul den of yours until it meets proper standards of habitation. These conditions are not fit for the lowliest thrall, let alone my future wife and child-bearer!"

Oisin's ruddy face purples with rage at this insult, his thick hands clenching into meaty fists. For a moment I think he may actually strike the Viking. But Colm simply arches one mocking eyebrow, utterly unruffled by the prospect of violence.

"What ails you, man?" he taunts softly. "Surely you did not expect me to subject my future bride to such squalor without objection? Do not puff yourself into an apoplexy over a few charitable maids and some honest critique of your...housekeeping abilities."

Reaching out, he plucks the clay jug of ale from the table and raises it to his lips, taking a long pull. Lowering the vessel, he smacks his lips with an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction.[...]