I must be careful how much of this mead I drink, I remind myself. I've already had that willow bark tincture today, and this body is that of an eleven-year-old girl. A quarter of this mug would probably have me dancing naked on the table, singing bawdy tavern songs. Wouldn't that be a sight for Erik's oh-so-proper Norse sensibilities?

With effort, I set the heavy mug back on the table. Erik's emerald eyes bore into me, his expression unreadable.

"We must have the talk now, child," he rumbles, his deep voice filling the room. "And you must listen well."

I nod, affecting an expression of wide-eyed innocence. "Of course, Master Erik."

He leans forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the table. "First and foremost, cleanliness. Once an object is used, it must be cleaned. You will bathe daily, without fail. We will eat three meals a day, at proper times."

I can't help but raise an eyebrow at this. I'm surprised Erik lives like this. I expected him to take a bath at least once every three days or so. Surprise! Perhaps there's hope for medieval hygiene after all.

"I will also help you learn to read and write," Erik continues, "both in Irish and Norse. And I shall teach you my craft."

Ah, yes. The joys of illiteracy. I recall trying to read the Bible at the church, only to find the words weren't in Irish. The written language in this world is different, it seems. I'll need to learn how to read and write again from scratch in these languages. How delightful.

I nod solemnly. "I will do my best, Master Erik."

His lips quirk in what might be the ghost of a smile. "Good. I shall try my utmost to make you presentable to my people in five years' time."

"Four," I interject, unable to help myself. "It's only a bit left until my birthday."

Seized by a manic curiosity, I ask, "When is your birthday, Master Erik?"

He regards me for a long moment before answering. "The twenty-sixth of Deireadh Fómhair."

Well, well, well. Isn't that interesting? Erik's a Scorpio, born just one day after this body's birth date. The jokes just keep on coming, don't they?

Erik's voice grows stern once more. "You must respect the cleanliness part with obsession, child. I find myself... disgusted by filth, more so since I began living here. Even a speck of dirt on my skin now..." He shudders visibly.

I can't help but giggle at the mental image of the mighty Viking warrior Erik, scourge of the seas, cowering before a speck of mud. Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Next thing you know, he'll be demanding we use those newfangled 'forks' I've heard tell of.

"I will take great care with cleanliness, Master Erik," I assure him, my voice syrupy sweet. "I wouldn't want to offend your delicate Norse sensibilities, after all."

Erik's eyes narrow, but he nods, seemingly satisfied. As he turns away to refill his mug, I allow myself a small, wicked smile. Oh, this is going to be fun.

I tilt my head, adopting an expression of childlike curiosity. "Erik, why do you live so far away from the village? Aren't you afraid?"

Erik pauses, his mug halfway to his lips. "Afraid? What do you mean by that, little one?"

I bite my lip, feigning hesitation. "Well, Uncle Sean told me stories about monsters lurking in the forest. And your cottage is basically in a forest clearing. Aren't you worried they might come for you?"

A deep chuckle rumbles from Erik's broad chest. He sets down his mug and points towards a corner of the room. "See that axe over there? That's all the protection I need."

I follow his gesture, my gaze landing on a formidable-looking axe leaning against the wall. It's an impressive weapon, to be sure, but something doesn't add up. I furrow my brow, playing up my confusion.

"But... Uncle Sean has a special sword to kill monsters. He calls it a Spellsinger. A normal axe doesn't seem like it would do much against creatures from the otherworld."

Erik's emerald eyes twinkle with amusement. "Ah, but who said this was a normal axe?"

Before I can respond, Erik rises from his seat, his massive frame towering over me. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out what appears to be a small bone talisman. With practiced ease, he ties it around his palm, the weathered bone stark against his tanned skin.

"Watch closely, little one," Erik says, his voice low and intense. He turns towards the axe, his gaze fixed upon it. "Come," he commands, his voice ringing with power.

To my utter astonishment, the axe springs to life. It flies across the room as if pulled by an invisible thread, its hilt landing perfectly in Erik's outstretched hand.

Holy fuck, I wasn't expecting that after knowing what Sean's Spellsinger can do. I guess it's thematically appropriate, though, right? The norse do have a fetish with returning weapons. Still, seeing it in action is... unsettling.

Erik grins at my slack-jawed expression. "We Norse folk call these Thor's Axes. Your Irish Spellsingers are impressive, to be sure, but we have our own tricks."

I struggle to keep my voice childlike and innocent as I ask, "What's the reason for that talisman? Is it magic?"

Erik nods, his expression growing serious. "The talisman binds the user to the weapon. Without it, the axe's powers would not work. The same would happen if your Uncle Sean were to lose or break his wolf medallion."

I nod, filing away this crucial information. "How are the weapons made? It must be a complex process."

"Indeed it is," Erik replies. "Each weapon is forged from silver, imbued with the blood of a mage. Then it's linked to the talisman using the wielder's own blood. The runes carved into the axe tell it what to do, though the craftsmen know far more about the intricacies than I."

So the Norse have their own version of these psychokinetic weapons. Fascinating. I wonder what other technological marvels this primitive world is hiding beneath its superstitious veneer. With the right knowledge, one could potentially create an army equipped with these supernatural armaments. The strategic advantages would be immense.

Erik sighs, breaking me from my reverie. He places the axe back in its corner with reverence. "Enough of such talk. I must start preparing for when your family arrives for the wedding feast. There's much to be done."

I perk up, seizing the opportunity. "Can I help?"

A warm smile spreads across Erik's bearded face. "Of course, little one. Here, I'll need you to fetch some things from the cellar. Bring them to the hearth, and we'll get started."

I nod eagerly and scamper off to the cellar. As I make multiple trips, hauling various ingredients, a thought strikes me. I've been wondering about this for a while, and now seems as good a time as any to broach the subject.

"Erik," I begin, trying to sound casual, "how are you going to take me and my family out of Ireland? We're all property of Lord Eamonn as serfs. Won't that be a problem?"

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Erik blinks at me owlishly, clearly taken aback by the question. "Where did that come from, child?"

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "I was just curious." In truth, I really am curious to know how he plans to take us all out of here. It's not like we can just walk away from our feudal obligations.

Erik's brow furrows as he considers his response. "Well, if you must know, I have plans in place with Dumitra and your Uncle Sean. And if those plans fail, then I'll simply sell out the Danish settlements to Lord Eamonn and be done with it."

My eyes widen at this revelation. "But how will we leave afterwards?" I press, unable to contain my curiosity.

Erik's eyes narrow, and for a moment, I fear I've pushed too far. But he answers nonetheless. "We'll leave by ship, one that Dumitra will procure for us. Our route will take us through a narrow pass bordering Francia, allowing us to avoid the war between England and Ireland."

I nod, absorbing this information. It seems that he's thought it all out. Good. I'm in safe hands. Still, I can't help but marvel at the audacity of his plan. Selling out entire settlements, navigating war-torn territories... it's a risky gambit, but one that just might work.

As we continue our preparations for the feast, my mind wanders into the realm of theoretical weaponry. The psychokinetic weapons I've encountered in this primitive world are fascinating, but could they truly surpass modern armaments? The question gnaws at me, demanding a thorough analysis.

From a purely kinetic energy standpoint, modern firearms have a clear advantage. The muzzle velocity of a 7.62x39mm round fired from an AK-47 can reach up to 715 meters per second, delivering a devastating impact. However, psychokinetic weapons operate on an entirely different principle. They manipulate fundamental forces at a quantum level, potentially bypassing the limitations of Newtonian physics.

The pros of psychokinetic weapons are numerous. They don't require physical ammunition, eliminating supply chain issues. They're silent, offering a significant tactical advantage. And their effects can potentially ignore conventional armor, making them devastatingly effective against fortified positions.

But the cons are equally significant. The energy requirements for sustained use could be astronomical, potentially limiting their practical application in prolonged engagements. There's also the question of precision - while a bullet follows a predictable trajectory, psychokinetic forces might be more difficult to control over long distances.

Then again, what if we could combine the two? The thought sends a thrill of excitement through me. Imagine an AK-47 that doesn't rely on chemical propellants, but instead uses runic engravings to generate a localized psychokinetic field. The barrel could act as a focusing mechanism, with the runes 'instructing' the field to propel any object placed within it.

The possibilities are mind-boggling. No need for gunpowder or primers. No recoil to manage. Potentially infinite ammunition, limited only by the availability of suitable projectiles. Hell, you could load it with pebbles and still have a lethal weapon.

But the question of power source remains. These weapons can't possibly have infinite uses - that would violate the laws of thermodynamics. There must be some form of energy transfer, perhaps drawing from the wielder's own life force or tapping into some cosmic background radiation we've yet to discover.

I need to get my hands on one of these weapons, to dissect its inner workings. The craftsmen Erik mentioned in Norway could be the key. With their knowledge and my understanding of modern physics and engineering, I could revolutionize warfare. No, more than that - I could reshape the very fabric of this primitive society.

The potential applications extend far beyond weaponry. Imagine psychokinetic-powered machinery, vehicles that defy gravity, buildings that assemble themselves. The industrial revolution would pale in comparison to the changes I could bring about.

But first things first. I need to survive this medieval hellscape, make it to Norway, and get my hands on those craftsmen. Then, and only then, can I begin to unlock the secrets of this alien technology.

I stand by the hearth, stirring a pot of thick, bubbling stew. The rich aroma of herbs and root vegetables fills the air, mingling with the smoky scent of the fire. The wooden spoon in my hand scrapes against the bottom of the iron pot, sending up little puffs of steam with each turn. Across the room, Erik sits at the table, his broad frame hunched over a leather-bound tome. The scratching of his quill against parchment is barely audible over the crackling flames.

"Erik," I pipe up, my voice high and childlike, "do you trust Oisin to behave himself when we're in Norway?"

Erik doesn't look up from his book, his brow furrowed in concentration. After a moment, he grunts out a terse, "No."

There's a heavy pause, broken only by the bubbling of the stew and the occasional pop from the fire. Then Erik sighs, a deep, weary sound that seems to come from the very depths of his being.

"That drunken lout's so-called 'reform' was naught but a reaction to your uncle's fists," he growls, still not looking up. "Without the constant threat of another beating to keep him in line, I fear he'll soon return to his old ways."

I nod sagely, as if this is some great revelation. "And what then?" I ask, my tone innocent but my mind racing with possibilities.

Erik's massive shoulders tense, his knuckles whitening as he grips his quill. "Then I may have no choice but to end him," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Be it in Norway or before we even set sail. If he dares revert to the beast he once was..."

He trails off, leaving the threat hanging in the air like a storm cloud. I turn back to the stew, hiding my smirk. "Well," I say lightly, "you're free to do whatever you want with Oisin. It's not as if I love him."

The sudden slam of Erik's book closing makes me jump. I whirl around to see him staring at me, his emerald eyes blazing with an intensity that would make a lesser child quail.

"No, little one," he says firmly. "You deserve a father, even if the one you have is... lacking. I'll not take that from you, no matter how tempting it might be."

His expression softens, a shadow of pain crossing his rugged features. "I... I wish I had known a good father. Or a mother, for that matter."

I watch, fascinated, as Erik's face contorts with a mixture of grief and longing. It's as if he's aged a decade in mere moments, the weight of his past etched into every line of his face. For a brief instant, I almost feel a twinge of... something. Pity? Empathy? How quaint.

"I never had a true childhood," Erik continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "And it pains me deeply to see another denied that precious gift."

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and I have to fight the urge to squirm under his penetrating gaze. "I swear to you, Lile, I'll do everything in my power to reform Oisin. To mold him into the father you deserve, even if it's too late for you to truly enjoy having a 'good father'."

Oh, isn't that just precious? The big, bad Viking wants to play happy families. As if Oisin could ever be anything more than the drunken, abusive waste of flesh he's always been. But sure, Erik, you go ahead and try. It'll be amusing to watch you fail.

"What about your mother?" I ask, tilting my head in feigned curiosity. "Is she still alive?"

Erik's face darkens, his jaw clenching. "No," he says shortly. "She died bringing me into this world. She was... she was one of my father Ragnar's thralls."

I nod solemnly, filing away this tidbit of information for future use. Then, with all the excitement of a child about to embark on a grand adventure, I ask, "Tell me about Kattegat! And Norway! How big are they?"

Erik's mood seems to lighten slightly at my enthusiasm. "Kattegat is the largest city in Norway," he explains, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. "Besides that, there are perhaps a few dozen villages scattered across the land."

My eyes widen, not entirely feigned. "How many people live there?" I ask breathlessly.

"In all of Norway?" Erik ponders for a moment. "Perhaps two thousand souls, with about half of those dwelling in Kattegat itself."

Two thousand? Two measly thousand? Sweet suffering Christ, what am I supposed to do with that? It's barely enough people to staff a decent-sized factory, let alone kickstart an industrial revolution. How am I supposed to advance technology and reshape this primitive hellhole with such a paltry population? I'll need to find a way to dramatically increase those numbers, and fast. Perhaps some aggressive expansion is in order...

I school my features into a neutral expression and nod, as if this information is perfectly satisfactory. Erik, misreading my silence, hastens to reassure me.

"Do not fret, little one," he says, his tone gentle. "Life in Norway is far more luxurious than what you've known here in Ireland. You'll want for nothing."

I force a smile, making my eyes wide and hopeful. "I hope so," I say softly. "Mama has sacrificed so much since I was born, all to give me a better life."

Erik's expression softens further, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "Aye, that she has," he agrees. "Your mother Aislin... she's the finest example of motherhood I've ever witnessed."

Oh yes, the paragon of motherly virtue, that one. A woman so desperate to secure a better future for her child that she's willing to offer sexual favors as thanks. Still, I suppose I can't fault her dedication. In this backwards shithole of a world, you use whatever weapons you have at your disposal.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, my small frame casting a flickering shadow in the warm glow of the hearth. The flames dance merrily, oblivious to the weight of my thoughts. I turn to Erik, my yellow eyes wide with feigned innocence.

"There's... there's something else troubling me," I say, my voice a perfect imitation of childish hesitation.

Erik looks up from his tome, his emerald eyes narrowing slightly. "What could possibly be vexing that clever little mind of yours now, child?" he asks, his deep voice tinged with amusement.

I bite my lip, playing up the act of a worried child. "The war that's coming... what if they make you fight the English? What if they take you away?"

A booming laugh erupts from Erik's chest, echoing off the cottage walls. He rises from his seat, his massive frame casting a shadow that engulfs me as he approaches. His large hand descends upon my head, ruffling my golden locks with surprising gentleness.

"Ah, little one," he chuckles, "your concern warms my heart. But fear not. Lord Eamonn may be many things, but a fool he is not. He knows my value lies not in swinging a sword, but in my potential as a hostage."[...]