A tremor runs through me at the Viking's ominous words. Oisin, however, seems unimpressed - though I notice a slight tightening around his pale eyes as Erik continues in a low, grim rasp.

"Aye, to be a raider is to court death itself on each foray across the whale-road. One must be prepared to drown beneath the thrashing waves, hacked to pieces by the blades of your foes, or burned alive as your longship is sent to the briny depths in a blazing pyre."

Erik shakes his head slowly, lips twisting in a humorless smile.

"And even should you survive such perils, there is always the chance of being captured - taken as a thrall by your enemies to endure torments that would turn even the most hardened warrior's bowels to water."

He fixes Oisin with another piercing look. "Tell me, farmer - are you prepared to have your eyes put out with blazing iron stakes? Or perhaps have your nails slowly peeled away one by one until you beg for the cold release of death?"

I can't help but shudder at the vivid imagery Erik's words conjure. Even Oisin seems taken aback, his ruddy face paling somewhat as he shifts in his seat.

But the Viking presses on relentlessly.

"Those are just the physical torments a captured raider might face, mind you. The true agonies are of a more...spiritual nature."

Erik's tone drops to an ominous hush, the shadows seeming to lengthen as he leans forward over the table.

"Imagine being kept in a cramped, filthy pit for years on end - your only company the moans of your fellow thralls as they succumb one by one to starvation, disease, and the cruel whims of your captors. All the while, you're forced to listen as your kinsmen's ancestral sagas are mocked and desecrated by those heathen filth."

A muscle twitches in Oisin's weathered jaw, but he remains silent, seemingly transfixed by Erik's grim monologue. The big man takes another pull of mead before continuing in a low rasp.

"Worst of all, you know your very soul is imperiled by such an ignoble, protracted demise. For we Norse believe that a warrior can only enter the hallowed halls of Valhalla by perishing in the heat of glorious battle - not wasting away in some forgotten pit, begging the gods for the mercy of a clean death."

Erik shakes his head, lips twisting in a sneer of disgust.

"So you see, Oisin Ban - the life of a Viking raider is one of constant peril, of staring into the pitiless eyes of death at every turn. It demands a fortitude of spirit few men possess, lest their souls be forever damned to the cold, empty void that awaits cowards and thralls."

He drains the last of his mug, then slams it down on the table with a dull thunk, fixing my father with a level stare.

"So I ask you again - do you truly have the mettle to take up the axe and shield as one of my kin? Or would you simply piss yourself at the first sign of hardship and beg for the security of your pathetic Christian god's embrace?"

The hovel falls utterly silent, the weight of Erik's words seeming to press down upon us all. I find myself holding my breath, utterly transfixed.

After a long moment, Oisin clears his throat and lets out a wheezy chuckle, shaking his grizzled head.

"Well...you Vikings certainly have a way with words, I'll give you that much," he mutters. "I think I'll just stick to the turnip fields for now and leave the raiding to you heathens!"

A rumbling laugh bursts from Erik's broad chest at that. "A wise decision, my friend! The glories of Valhalla would surely be wasted on a meek Christian soul such as yours."

With that, he snatches up the jug of mead and refills both their mugs, seemingly putting an end to the morbid discussion. I let out a soft breath, some of the tension draining from my small frame.

Well, that was certainly an...illuminating glimpse into the savagery of Erik's Norse kinsmen, I muse inwardly. Though I can't say I'm entirely surprised. Even in my former life, the tales of the dreaded Viking raiders were enough to chill one's blood.

Still, a part of me can't help but feel a strange sense of...exhilaration, even excitement at the prospect of such brutally visceral existence. To live each day courting death itself, to revel in the heat of battle and the thrill of mortal peril - it's certainly a far cry from the staid, sedate existence of a modern academic like my former self.

Perhaps there's a reason these Norse barbarians have managed to cling so tenaciously to their violent ways, I ponder. In a world as harsh and unforgiving as this, maybe only those who embrace their primal, bloodthirsty natures can truly thrive and find...fulfillment.

Oisin leans back on the bench, his ruddy face flushed from the mead. "It feels weird having a drinking buddy who's more...intellectual than my usual tavern mates," he slurs, eyeing Erik with a mixture of envy and disdain.

Erik chuckles, that deep rumbling laugh of his echoing through the cramped hovel. "Aye, I'll wager your companions at the alehouse are about as sharp as the pigs you slop each morning!"

He takes a long draught from his mug, emerald eyes glittering with amusement over the rim. "The more you surround yourself with brainless beasts, Oisin, the more you'll start resembling them yourself. Best make friends with men who can challenge that thick skull of yours for a change!"

Oisin grunts, scowling at the Viking's jibe. "Like you, Norseman?" he retorts gruffly.

A sly grin curves Erik's full lips. "Well, I could say as much. For all my shortcomings, I'd wager I'm still the smartest man in this entire village."

Ooooh, humble are we? Don't be humble, in comparison with these peasants you're a bonafide Albert Einstein, 'bro'.

Just then, a pained grunt issues from the sleeping area, drawing my gaze. It's Aislin, shifting uncomfortably on the straw pallet.

"If it's a boy, I want to name him Atlas," she calls out, her voice strained. "But if it's a little lass, then Larisa would be a fine name."

Oisin turns towards the sound of his wife's voice, brow furrowing in confusion. "Atlas? Where'd you hear a name like that, woman?"

"Our Lile dreamed it," Aislin explains wearily. "She spoke of a great man named Atlas who carried whole mountains upon his back."

At the mention of my name, Erik swivels to face me, mug in hand. "Is that so, little one?" he rumbles, flashing me an indulgent smile. "Well then, for dreaming up such an amazing name, you deserve a reward. Would you like a sip of my mead?"

He extends the brimming cup towards me invitingly. But before I can respond, Oisin slams his meaty fist down on the table with a bang.

"No!" he snarls, pale eyes flashing. "Women shouldn't be drinking ale or any other spirits. It's not proper!"

I flinch at the outburst, instinctively shrinking back. But Erik merely tsks, shaking his head in disapproval.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Ah, but such rules won't matter once we're away in my Norse lands," he chides Oisin lightly. "There, even the smallest maids are allowed a taste of the meadhorn at feast times."

From her spot leaning against the wall, Maeve suddenly pipes up. "I worked at a tavern for years," she says, amber eyes downcast. "But I was never once allowed to touch a single drop of ale, even to sample it."

Her voice takes on a wistful tone as she continues. "I've never tasted the stuff in my whole life, if you can believe it."

Erik arches one thick golden brow at that, but says nothing. Instead, he dips his finger into the depths of his mug, letting the rich amber liquid coat the tip. Then, with a sly grin, he extends the glistening digit towards my face.

"Well then, little Lile," he rumbles. "You'd best give it a taste and let us know if it's worth all the fuss, eh?"

I eye the proffered finger, my mouth watering at the sweet, heady aroma wafting from the mead. Despite Oisin's gruff "No!" of protest, I can't resist leaning forward to wrap my lips around Erik's fingertip.

The flavor that bursts across my tongue is like nothing I've ever experienced! Sweet and rich, with hints of honey and wildflowers, the mead is utterly intoxicating. I suck eagerly at Erik's finger, trying to draw out every last drop of that heavenly nectar.

When I finally release him with a wet pop, I can't help but let out a delighted giggle. The world seems to spin ever so slightly as the potent alcohol hits my system.

Oisin's face has gone nearly purple with rage, his fists clenched so tightly the knuckles are white. But Erik merely raises one arm in a placating gesture, utterly unruffled.

"Peace, Oisin," he rumbles. "The child is to be my bride one day. I'll decide what's fit for her to partake in, not you."

For a moment, it looks like Oisin might actually strike the Viking. But then he grunts and gives a curt nod, seemingly accepting Erik's words - for now, at least.

"Helloooo?" Aislin's strained voice drifts out again. "Husband, did you hear me? Is Atlas a good name for our son or not?"

Oisin grimaces, shaking his head slowly. "It sounds...strange to my ears," he admits gruffly. "Not a proper Irish name at all."

But Erik merely shrugs those massive shoulders. "Perhaps not," he concedes. "But to me it has an almost...Greek sort of ring to it."

Interesting, so the Greeks exist in this world, hmm...

The Viking takes another contemplative sip of mead before continuing. "Aye, I can see the appeal now. This Atlas fellow from the child's dreams - he must have been something akin to one of our mighty frost giants from the old tales, bearing entire mountain ranges upon his shoulders!"

Oisin considers this for a moment, then nods slowly. "Well...when you put it like that, I suppose the name doesn't sound half bad after all."

He raises his voice to carry into the sleeping area. "Aye, woman! If it's a strong son you birth me, we'll call him Atlas. The name has a good, sturdy feel to it now."

Grinning at my little victory, I tug insistently on Erik's tunic. The big man turns towards me with an inquisitive look.

"Yes, child? What is it?"

I put on my most winsome expression, batting my long lashes up at him. "Can you put me on your lap?" I ask sweetly. "I want to taste more of that yummy mead from your fingers. It was so good!"

Erik lets out another of those deep, rumbling chuckles that seems to reverberate in my very bones. "As you wish, little princess," he murmurs indulgently.

With surprising gentleness for one of his immense size, he reaches down and scoops me up to settle on his muscular thigh. I snuggle eagerly against the warmth of his body, reveling in the feeling of being held so tenderly.

But when I glance over at Oisin, the scowl on his ruddy face shows he's none too pleased by this display. I can't resist letting out another impish giggle at his obvious discomfort.

Oh yes, I may be trapped in this tiny form for now. But I'm quickly learning just how useful a child's innocent facade can be for getting away with the most deliciously wicked behavior!

Oisin's words start to slur as the potent mead takes its toll. "Thish...shite'sh strong, Norshman," he mumbles, tongue thick and clumsy.

Erik chuckles deeply, the rumbling sound vibrating against my small frame where I sit nestled on his muscular thigh. "Already drunk off your arse, are you?" he taunts with an amused grin. "You'd likely die of drink before seeing a single winter in my homeland!"

I can't help but giggle at the Viking's jibe, delighted by the easy camaraderie between these two very different men. Erik shoots me a wink before turning back to my addled father.

"Aye, truth be told, your piss-poor Irish ale wouldn't even qualify as swill fit for our pigs back in Norway," he declares with an exaggerated sniff of disdain. "This honeyed mead, though? Now that's a drink worthy of a true warrior's throat!"

Oisin grunts, squinting at Erik over the rim of his mug. "Well if it's sho...sho damn good, why don't ye give ush the reshpie then?" he demands in a petulant tone.

But Erik merely shakes his head, that sly grin playing about his full lips. "And why would I do that, my friend? If I gave away all my secrets, I'd have no gifts left to bestow upon you louts."

His piercing emerald gaze sweeps over Oisin and me, seeming to linger for the briefest moment on the swell of my budding chest beneath the rich sapphire folds of my gown. A delicious shiver runs through me at the Viking's heated look.

"You see, in my lands, the giving of gifts is both tradition and competition amongst men of status," Erik continues in that rich, rumbling baritone of his. "To hold the upper hand, to be able to grant rare and precious things that others cannot - ah, there's a power in that like no other!"

He chuckles again, taking another deep pull from his mug. "So no, I'll not be surrendering my advantage so easily. You'll simply have to make do with being on the receiving end of my generosity for now."

Oisin lets out a bark of laughter at that, shaking his grizzled head. I can't resist piping up in my most innocent childlike lilt.

"Colm, Colm! I have ideas for names if I have babes someday," I declare with a bright, toothy grin. "Can I tell you?"

The big man turns towards me with an indulgent smile, those intense eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well now, let's hear these grand ideas then, little princess," he rumbles, giving me an affectionate pat.

Putting on my best impish look, I tilt my head up at him. "For a boy, I want to call him...Fenrir! And if it's a little lass, then Idunn would be ever so pretty, don't you think?"

The words are barely out of my mouth before Erik's eyes widen almost comically. "Fenrir?" he echoes, brow furrowing. "And Idunn? Where in the nine realms did you hear those names, child?"

Oisin lets out another of his raucous guffaws at the Viking's obvious consternation. "What's wrong with the lil'un's names, Norseman?" he slurs with a sloppy grin. "They sound plenty Norse to me!"

But Erik is already shaking his head slowly, mouth set in a grim line. "Aye, they're Norse names alright," he agrees in a low rumble. "Fenrir was the great wolf, offspring of Loki himself and bane to the Aesir during Ragnarok. And Idunn..." He pauses, shooting me another searching look. "She was the fair-haired goddess of youth and fertility, keeper of the golden apples of immortality."

I can't resist letting out another impish giggle at his grave tone, delighted by the chance to provoke the normally unflappable Viking. "Well I dreamed of them, just like I dreamed about the big strong man named Atlas!" I declare with an airy wave of my hand.

Erik sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture of obvious exasperation. Oisin, however, seems to find the entire situation hilarious, letting out another braying laugh as he slams his mug down on the table.

"Har! You hear that, Norseman?" he guffaws, pale eyes glittering with drunken mirth. "Seems your precious little Gullveig there has some...interestin' dreams, eh?"

I can't help but perk up at the mention of that strange name Erik has taken to calling me. The Viking shoots Oisin a quelling look, but my father is undeterred, leaning forward with a sloppy grin.

"Go on then, tell ush who thish...Gullvog lady is that you think the brat embodies," he slurs with a leer. "Don't be holdin' out on ush with more of yer heathen nonsense!"

Erik's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he seems to accept the challenge, squaring those massive shoulders as he begins to speak.

"Gullveig was no mere 'lady', as you so crudely put it," he intones in that deep, resonant voice of his. "In the old tales, she was the eternal harbinger of war and strife, an ageless being of pure malice whose coming heralded the destruction of the nine realms themselves during the cataclysm of Ragnarok."

A tremor runs through me at the Viking's ominous words, though I'm sure it's merely a dramatic embellishment on his part. Erik takes another fortifying pull of mead before continuing.

"According to the sagas, Gullveig first appeared to the Vanir as a wizened crone swathed in tattered rags, begging for shelter. But when the Vanir denied her hospitality and tried to burn her alive, she could not be harmed - for Gullveig was an immortal being of pure seidr, or magic."

His piercing gaze bores into mine as he leans closer, voice dropping to an ominous rasp.

"Three times the Vanir sought to slay her in the flames, and three times Gullveig was reborn from the ashes, each time more powerful and terrible than the last. It was then that the worlds of gods and men were plunged into an age of darkness, war, and slaughter the likes of which had never been seen."

A heavy silence falls over the cramped chamber. Even Oisin seems cowed by the Viking's dire words, staring at Erik with a mixture of awe and unease. I simply gaze back at the big man, keeping my expression one of childlike fascination.

At last, Erik lets out a weary chuckle and shakes his head, seeming to rouse himself from the grim reverie. "But those are just old tales spun by drunken skalds to frighten babes," he rumbles with a dismissive wave of one massive hand. "I've no true belief in such fanciful prophecies, I'll admit."

His intense emerald gaze finds mine once more, holding me in its piercing depths. "More than likely, you're simply a clever little girl blessed - or cursed, some might say - with an...unusual appearance, like spun gold."[...]