Erik's expression softens somewhat as he regards Aislin. "Of course," he replies. "Though feel free to take some salted meat from my cellar to supplement your own provisions, Aislin. I would not see you or the child go hungry."

I can't help perking up at the mention of food, my childish curiosity piqued. "But how do you have so much meat?" I pipe up, tilting my head at Erik. "Doesn't the village need it too?"

The big Viking smiles down at me fondly. "Ah, ever the inquisitive one, aren't you little lamb?" he chuckles. "I purchase such stores directly from Lord Eamonn's own kitchens, for I would not see the village's entire harvest bought out and leave the peasants naught to purchase for their own bellies."

I blink slowly, considering his words as an odd sense of respect blossoms in my chest. Erik is pretty thoughtful, it appears. Hmm.

Aislin turns to me with a concerned look. "Lile, can you walk around for me, lamb?"

I nod and slide off the soft feather bed, my bare feet padding across the wooden floor as I take a few tentative steps. Surprisingly, I feel no lingering weakness or dizziness. In fact, I feel better than ever - strong, energized, like a weight has been lifted.

Hmm, I actually feel even better than before, haha! Those ritual markings really did the trick.

"See, mama?" I say with a bright smile, twirling in a little circle. "I can walk just fine, nothing's wrong!"

Aislin lets out a relieved sigh and stands up from the bed. "Thank the Lord," she murmurs, then turns to Erik. "If it's not too much trouble, could you fetch the salted meats you promised? I...I don't feel right going down to the cellar just yet."

Erik frowns slightly. "I told you to help yourself to the stew pot and mead cask while I was tending to the lass, Aislin. There was no need to go hungry."

"Oh, but I couldn't eat a bite!" Aislin exclaims, wringing her hands. "I was so scared and nervous, thinking my wee lamb might be dying today. The thought of food made me quite ill."

I step over and take her hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. "But I'm good now, mama, really! That nice healer Erik made me all better."

Erik nods. "Aye, the ritual markings seem to have purged whatever ail plagued the child. But you must be cautious, Aislin - show these markings to no one in the village until they've faded completely."

"How long until they disappear, then?" Aislin asks, brow furrowed.

"A few days at the very least," Erik replies. "Perhaps a week or more before they've run their course and vanished from the lass's flesh."

Aislin nods slowly. "I see...and what shall I tell Oisin if he notices these strange symbols on our daughter's skin? You know he'll not take kindly to such pagan devilry."

Erik snorts derisively. "Your lout of a husband was a soldier once, was he not? Then surely he's familiar with the markings warriors bear to cheat death on the battlefield."

"I...I'm not certain," Aislin admits hesitantly. "Oisin speaks little of his days as a fighting man."

"Well, no matter," Erik says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You must return home soon in any case. I'm...expecting visitors this evening, you see."

He turns and strides from the bedroom, heading into the main chamber. Aislin and I follow, watching as Erik crosses to the heavy trapdoor and hauls it open, disappearing down into the cellar.

A few moments later, he re-emerges carrying a rolled parchment bundle, which he hands to Aislin. "Some salted pork and beef to supplement your own provisions," he explains gruffly.

Aislin thanks him, but I can't help rolling my eyes inwardly.

Yeah, yeah, 'visitors', more like Dumitra coming to get herself impregnated by his spawn. Still, I wonder how old that vampiress truly is, hmm...

Erik turns to my mother Aislin and says, "Get more linen straps to wrap your feet properly before you leave."

Aislin nods apologetically and replies, "Of course, let me fetch some." She heads into the washroom.

A few moments later, she emerges with her feet now wrapped in thicker layers of linen cloth. Erik gives a satisfied nod and walks over to open the heavy oak door.

"Now go, and come back in three days," he instructs.

Aislin smiles warmly at Erik. "You are a good man for helping us."

"You're most welcome," Erik responds with a slight bow of his head.

I tug on my mother's dress, eager to be on our way. Aislin takes my small hand in hers and we make our way out of the cottage. As we start down the winding forest path back towards the village, I glance back over my shoulder to see Erik watching us depart from his doorway.

As we walk along the forest path, I take in the scenery around me with a newfound clarity and perspective. Now that I've regained most of my memories from my past life, I can view this primitive world through a sharper analytical lens.

I need to start acquiring a network of loyal confidants and supporters who will aid my ambitions once I reach adulthood. An army of followers will be crucial - the Norse Vikings could potentially serve that purpose nicely. By presenting myself as the mythical goddess Gullveig, I could easily sway their pagan beliefs and bring them under my control. Demonstrating advanced technologies like electricity and firearms would cement my divine status in their eyes.

Erik the healer and Dumitra the vampiress are the only ones I've encountered so far who could prove truly useful assets. Erik's knowledge of the old Norse ways gives him influence, while Dumitra's supernatural abilities make her a powerful ally. Ideally, I need to recruit others who possess preternatural talents like psychokinesis, similar to the girls Mary and Eilis. The more metaphysically gifted individuals I can gather, the stronger my forces will become.

For now, Erik and Dumitra remain my sole pieces on the board. But I must keep watching, keep searching - there may be other uniquely skilled personas waiting to be uncovered who could aid my cause. Potential allies could emerge from the most unlikely places in this strange, magic-infused land. I cannot leave any stone unturned in my quest to amass power.

As I trudge along the muddy forest path, my small hand clasped tightly in Aislin's calloused grip, my mind races with the implications of Dumitra's revelation. The vampiress said I'm magically attuned, didn't she? And Gwenhwyfar, that pale alien bitch, force-fed me her blood months ago, claiming it would awaken latent abilities within me...but only once I experienced sufficient trauma.

I kick a loose pebble, watching it skitter into the undergrowth as I ponder the possibilities. Fucking hell, what kind of trauma would it even take to activate these supposed powers? In this scrawny child's body, would something as vile as rape be enough to trigger the change? I shudder at the thought, my free hand clenching into a tiny fist. No, surely not. I'm far too jaded to be broken by mere physical violation at this point.

But what about emotional anguish, like witnessing Aislin's brutal demise? I glance sidelong at my peasant mother, noting the weary slump of her shoulders and the deep lines of strain etched around her eyes. Would seeing her butchered before my eyes shatter my psyche enough to unleash the dormant potential locked within my DNA?

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I gnaw my lower lip, brow furrowed in concentration as I continue analyzing the variables. Is the key catalyst psychological trauma, or physiological shock? How much is required to push me over the edge into awakening? And what if repeated exposure to horror is necessary, rather than a single cataclysmic event?

Growling under my breath, I rake my fingers through my shorn curls in frustration. I just don't fucking know. There are too many unknowns, too many factors to consider. I need more data, more insight into the mechanics of this metaphysical fuckery.

Perhaps Dumitra could shed some light on the specifics of how to jump-start my abilities. She seemed to have a wealth of knowledge about the preternatural and arcane. It's worth bringing up the next time our paths cross, though I'll have to be careful not to arouse suspicion with my probing questions.

I tilt my head, considering what I've gleaned so far about the innate "gifts" of the species I currently inhabit. Empathy and psychokinesis seem to be the common threads, abilities rooted in emotional resonance and mental manipulation of the physical world. It stands to reason, then, that any catalyst for awakening would be primarily emotional or psychological in nature.

But is trauma truly the only way to bridge the gap between latent potential and active manifestation? Or could there be some other esoteric method of initiating the change, like a ritual or rite of passage? Fuck, for all I know, it could be as absurd as clicking my heels together three times and wishing really hard.

The sheer scope of my ignorance galls me. In my old life, I could have simply looked up the relevant scientific literature and consulted with field experts to get the answers I needed. But here, in this primitive backwater of superstition and squalor, I'm flying blind. Forced to fumble my way through the mysteries of magic and monsters like some kind of discount Harry Potter.

I square my narrow shoulders, jaw clenching with resolve. One way or another, I will unravel the enigma of my own untapped potential. I'll poke and prod at the boundaries of my abilities until something gives, even if I have to systematically expose myself to every conceivable trauma and horror along the way.

Because if there's one thing I've learned over the centuries, it's that knowledge is power. And in this twisted game Gwenhwyfar has trapped me in, I'll need every scrap of power I can get my grubby little hands on if I hope to emerge victorious in the end.

So bring on the trauma, the terror, the mind-shattering anguish. I'll endure it all, and more besides. Because when I finally ascend to my full metaphysical might, this world - and the alien fucks who created it - will tremble before the onslaught of my wrath.

Aislin and I arrive at the rickety wooden gate leading into the small garden behind our dilapidated hovel. She pushes it open with a creak, and we step through onto the hard-packed dirt path winding between the sparse vegetable plots.

As we approach the mud-daubed walls of our humble dwelling, Aislin sets down the bundle of salted meats Erik gifted us on the rough-hewn oak table. "We'll have some bread and eggs when your father returns from the fields," she tells me. "But first, I want to give him this fine meat to keep him in good spirits."

I nod obediently, though I can't resist rolling my eyes inwardly. As if a few scraps of cured pork will make that drunken brute any less vile.

No sooner have the words left Aislin's lips than a gruff voice calls out from the sleeping alcove. "What's this about favoring me, then?"

Oisin emerges, swaying unsteadily on his feet, the reek of sour ale wafting from his disheveled form. He looks utterly wretched - sunken eyes, sallow skin, lank hair matted with grease and grime. Just the sight of the miserable bastard fills me with a twisted sense of satisfaction.

Heh, looks like my little "gift" is taking its toll already. That poisonous meadow saffron Erik so kindly provided is clearly doing its work.

Oisin lurches over to the table, peering blearily at the parcel of salted meats. He unties the twine binding it and greedily tears off a strip of cured flesh, shoving it into his mouth and chewing noisily.

"That Colm didn't happen to send any mead along, did he?" he grunts around a mouthful of gristle, fixing Aislin with a baleful glare. "Seein' as you saw fit to leave without so much as a word this morning."

Aislin flinches under his accusing stare, wringing her hands anxiously. "I...I had to fetch the healer, Oisin. Our Lile was nigh unto death, her lungs seized by the croup."

Oisin scoffs derisively. "Is that so? And what did this Colm do to 'heal' the little brat, then?"

"He...he took her to the church, and had some markings inscribed upon her flesh," Aislin stammers, her voice quavering. "Ritual tattoos, to purge the corruption from her body."

In an instant, Oisin is on his feet, the bench clattering to the floor behind him. "Show me these markings, woman!" he bellows, spittle flying from his cracked lips.

I can't help flinching at the sheer venom in his tone. Swallowing hard, I reach up with trembling hands to slowly lower the neckline of my dress, baring my collarbone and the intricate crimson symbols etched there.

Oisin's eyes widen, and he lets out a hissing breath. "Saints be good...one of those pagan rites, in the flesh." He leans closer, peering intently at the glowing markings. "Well go on then, let's have a proper look!"

Aislin hurries to assist me, deftly unlacing the front of my dress until the rich sapphire fabric pools around my feet. I stand there shivering in my lacy underthings, feeling utterly exposed under Oisin's hungry gaze.

He circles me slowly, taking in every line and whorling symbol adorning my skin from collarbone to navel. "Well I'll be..." he murmurs, something like awe coloring his gruff tones. "That's the finest bit of ritual work I've ever laid eyes on. Incredible..."

At last, Oisin straightens and returns to the table, sinking heavily onto the bench. Aislin quickly helps me redress, her hands trembling as she does up the laces once more.

"Those markings ain't cheap, that's for damned sure," Oisin grunts, eyeing me appraisingly. "Only the wealthiest lords and kings can afford to have their brats inscribed with such potent rites. So how much did this Colm have to pay to get you marked up, eh girl?"

I meet his gaze levelly, keeping my features carefully schooled into an innocent expression. "Three whole silver coins, father. And the pale lady who did the inscribing looked ever so fine, like a great noble!"

Oisin snorts derisively at that. "Aye, I'll just bet she did..." he mutters, almost to himself. "The fuckin' Guild's got their claws in this too, I'd wager."

Before I can question him further, Aislin pipes up in a tremulous voice. "Would...would you like me to prepare some bread and eggs for your supper, Oisin?"

But the drunken oaf just waves a dismissive hand. "Nay, I'll have none of that shite. Just fetch me whatever Norse mead that Colm sent, and be quick about it!"

Aislin's shoulders slump in resignation. "He...he didn't send any mead this time, Oisin. Only the salted meats."

Oisin lets out an explosive sigh, flopping back against the table with a dull thud. "Well that's just feckin' perfect, innit?" he growls. "Since you seem to be fresh out of sons to give me, Aislin, I'd decided to take a new wife from McDermott's tavern stock. Let the slave girl whelp me some proper heirs, since your own womb's as barren as-"

He breaks off abruptly, squinting at Aislin in sudden confusion. Then, impossibly, a cruel smile splits his cracked lips as he starts to laugh - a harsh, mocking sound that sets my teeth on edge.

"Well I'll be damned and thrice-pissed!" he crows, gesturing obscenely at Aislin's skirts. "Looks like the old bitch's courses have come back around! Should've known that stinking cunt would start drippin' blood again just when I'd given up on her dried up twat!"

Aislin flushes crimson, hunching her shoulders as if to make herself smaller. I feel a surge of rage on her behalf, my tiny hands clenching into impotent fists.

But Oisin is far from done with his vile tirade. "Not to worry though, I'll still be takin' that slave wench from McDermott's lot!" he jeers, leering at Aislin with undisguised malice. "After all, a man needs a few spare holes to fill when his wife's cunt is too busy bleedin' out like a stuck pig!"

Aislin turns to Oisin, wringing her hands anxiously. "But Oisin, will the church not forbid ye from takin' a slave wench when ye already have me as yer wedded wife?"

Oisin abruptly stands, his bulky frame towering over Aislin as he glares down at her menacingly. Aislin shrinks back, cowering under his furious gaze.

"Listen here, ye addlebrained quim!" he snarls, spittle flying. "I'll do whatever the feck I want, ye hear? A slave ain't no wife - she's just a warm hole to stick me cock in whenever I please!"

My eyes widen at his crude words, even as I struggle to maintain my childlike facade. Aislin flinches but presses on timidly.

"D-does this slave lass have a name, then? Have ye laid eyes on the poor wretch already?"

Oisin leers, his cracked lips curving in an ugly smirk. "Aye, she's a black-haired beauty to be sure. Got eyes the same queer yellow as me own, and porcelain skin to match. Plump little arse too, ripe as a goat's rump and just beggin' to be split on me rod!"

I can't help shooting a startled glance at Aislin, whose eyes have gone wide with...recognition? Realization? Before I can ponder it further, Oisin lets out a bark of laughter.

"Ah, that's right - the wee slut's name is Maeve!"

Aislin visibly pales at the name. "M-Maeve?" she stammers. "Do...do ye know the lass's family name as well?"

Isn't Maeve Aislin's sister? The thought flits through my mind, even as Oisin waves a dismissive hand.

"Feck if I know, some Gaelic shite like Ó Súilleabháin or the like," he slurs carelessly. "Ain't like it matters none to me."

Aislin gives a slow nod, her expression unreadable. "And...and do ye recall my own family name, Oisin? Before I became yer wife?"

Oisin rolls his eyes thoughtfully for a moment. "Ó Súilleabháin, if me memory serves," he grunts at last.

Then, to my shock and grim satisfaction, the drunken oaf suddenly doubles over, hacking up thick gouts of blood in a violent coughing fit.[...]