I tilt my head, feigning confusion. "A hostage? But why?"

Erik's smile turns wry. "Should my kinsmen ever raid these shores again, Eamonn believes holding me captive might stay their hand. Though between you and me," he leans in conspiratorially, "I doubt my father would lose a wink of sleep over my fate."

"But why wouldn't Ragnar care?" I ask, my voice small and bewildered. "Aren't fathers supposed to love their children?"

A shadow passes over Erik's face, his emerald eyes darkening. "Ragnar cares for one thing and one thing alone - the fulfillment of the prophecy. All that matters to him is that I bring Gullveig to Norway and sire a son upon her. Beyond that..." he trails off, shaking his head.

I nod solemnly, even as my mind races. So, the great Ragnar Lothbrok is nothing more than a superstitious old fool, pinning his hopes on some vague prophecy. How utterly pathetic. And yet, how utterly useful. If Erik's own father views him as nothing more than a means to an end, perhaps I can use that to my advantage...

Erik returns to his seat, his attention once more captured by the tome before him. I watch him for a moment, then pipe up again. "What's Lord Eamonn like? I've never seen him, only heard Mama's stories."

Without looking up, Erik begins to speak, his voice a low rumble. "Picture, if you will, a man as wide as he is tall. Eamonn's girth is legendary, matched only by his cruelty. His face is a mass of quivering jowls and piggy eyes, forever squinting in suspicion or malice."

I listen, rapt, as Erik paints a vivid picture of our esteemed lord. A fat, petty tyrant ruling over a backwater fiefdom. How utterly typical. In my past life, I've seen a thousand Eamonns, each convinced of their own importance, each destined to be forgotten by history.

"Truth be told," Erik continues, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "I'm astounded the peasants haven't risen up against him already. Perhaps it's only a matter of time. Though with war on the horizon, such thoughts of revolution may well die out like embers in the rain."

I can't help but smirk at that. Oh, if only you knew, Erik. The seeds of revolution are always there, waiting for the right moment to sprout. And I, for one, am an expert gardener.

As the afternoon wanes, I let out a theatrical sigh. Erik glances up, then rises to his feet. He moves about the room with surprising grace for such a large man, placing candles on the table and lighting them one by one.

"Do not fret, little one," he says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "From this day forward, I shall take care of everything within my power. And Dumitra... she will aid us greatly in the times to come."

I tilt my head, my golden locks cascading over one shoulder as I fix Erik with an innocent gaze. "How will Dumitra help us, other than warming your bed?" I ask, my voice dripping with childlike curiosity that belies the calculated nature of my query.

Erik's emerald eyes widen, a mixture of shock and amusement dancing across his rugged features. He leans back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath his massive frame. "By the gods, child! 'Tis far too early for you to be jealous of another woman," he chuckles, shaking his head. "Though I must say, you're quite perceptive to have noticed such things."

I giggle, the sound high and girlish. "Oh, I'm not jealous. Maeve taught me all about men and women and what they do together," I say, watching with glee as Erik's face contorts in surprise.

His thick brows furrow, a shadow passing over his features. "Did she now? I believe I'll need to have words with Maeve about what's appropriate to share with a child your age," he mutters, more to himself than to me.

Unable to contain my mirth, I let out another peal of laughter. "You've no chance against Maeve in a battle of words," I declare, bouncing on the balls of my feet. "She'd have you tongue-tied and red-faced before you could even begin your lecture!"

Erik's lips quirk into a wry smile. "Aye, you speak true, little one. That woman's verbal resilience is a force to be reckoned with. She's more akin to a shieldmaiden than a tavern courtesan when it comes to wielding her sharp tongue."

I nod sagely, inwardly rolling my eyes. If anyone could match Erik's wits in this backwards realm, it would indeed be Maeve. The thought of those two verbose giants clashing in a battle of words is almost enough to make me wish I could witness it.

"But let us return to the matter at hand," Erik says, his tone growing serious once more. "Dumitra possesses quite a lot of political power in this realm. With her aid, we'll be able to accomplish nearly anything we desire."

My eyes widen, a genuine spark of interest igniting within me. "Political power?" I echo, leaning forward eagerly. "Wait, does this have to do with the Tuatha Dé Danann? You promised to tell me more about them when I grew up!"

Erik's emerald gaze softens, a fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Aye, that I did. Very well, little one. The Tuathans are protectors of the realm, guardians who stand between the world of men and the forces that would seek to destroy it. Without them, our society could not function at all."

I listen, rapt, as Erik continues. "The Tuathans are tasked with slaying creatures that would attack our settlements. Think of them as enforcers, if you will. The Witch Hunters, like your uncle Sean, serve as the frontline of the Tuatha Dé Danann - footsoldiers against the supernatural threats that lurk in the shadows."

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"Do the Norse have something similar?" I ask, genuinely curious about the supernatural defenses of my future home.

Erik chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that seems to vibrate through the very air. "Indeed we do. We have a coven called the Völva Sisterhood. 'Tis mostly comprised of women, though the men who possess gifts like Dumitra's are known as warlocks. They primarily join raiding parties or assist the coven in dealing with more... formidable threats."

I lean in, eyes wide with feigned innocence. "What kind of threats are there in Norway?"

Erik's expression grows grim, his voice dropping to a low, ominous tone. "Oh, there are many terrors that stalk the frozen lands of the north, little one. Jötnar, frost giants that tower over the tallest trees, with breath that can freeze a man solid in an instant. Draugr, the undead warriors who rise from their burial mounds to prey upon the living. Nøkken, shapeshifting water spirits that lure unsuspecting victims to watery graves."

He pauses, his emerald eyes distant as if recalling some long-buried memory. "Then there are the great serpents that dwell in the deepest fjords, large enough to crush longships in their coils. Trolls that turn to stone in sunlight, but come alive in the darkness to devour unwary travelers. And let us not forget the Fenrir wolves, monstrous beasts said to be the offspring of Loki himself."

I listen, fascinated despite myself. The sheer variety of supernatural threats in this world is staggering. It's like "someone" (pale skin, white hair, red eyes, you get it) took every myth and legend from a dozen cultures and tossed them into a blender. If I weren't living it, I'd think it was the plot of some particularly unhinged fantasy novel.

Nodding solemnly, I affect a look of wide-eyed wonder. "I always thought such creatures were naught but fairytales," I murmur. "But after seeing Dumitra... well, I know now that it's all real."

Erik's expression grows serious, his massive hand coming to rest on my shoulder. "Aye, little one. The threat is very real, and it's always there, lurking just beyond the edge of firelight."

I nod solemnly, my mind racing with the implications of his words. But there's another matter weighing on me, one that's been gnawing at the back of my thoughts for far too long.

"What of Uncle Sean?" I ask, my voice small and childlike. "I haven't laid eyes on him since... well, since the incident with Father."

Erik's emerald eyes darken, his brow furrowing as he considers his words carefully. "Ah, that's a thorny matter, to be sure," he rumbles, his deep voice tinged with a hint of regret. "Your uncle, brave soul that he is, has been forbidden from setting foot in the village or crossing paths with your father. The local magistrate deemed it necessary to keep the peace, you see."

I furrow my brow, feigning childish confusion. "But why? Uncle Sean was only trying to help us."

Erik sighs heavily, his massive frame seeming to deflate slightly. "Aye, that he was. But the ways of men and their laws are often twisted, little one. Sean's been tasked with patrolling the outskirts of Baile Rois, keeping watch for threats both mundane and... otherwise."

A sly grin tugs at the corner of Erik's mouth as he continues. "Though I hear tell he's been promoted of late. Witch Hunter Captain, if the whispers are true. Got himself a proper team and everything."

My eyes widen with genuine interest. "Really? That's wonderful news!"

Erik nods, though his expression remains guarded. "Aye, though between you and me, I suspect that vampiress Dumitra had a hand in his sudden rise. She's got her talons in all manner of pies, that one."

Fascinating. So Dumitra's influence extends even to the ranks of the Witch Hunters. I file that tidbit away for future consideration, my mind already spinning with the possibilities. If Sean's been promoted, that means he likely has access to more resources, more information. And if Dumitra's involved... well, the plot thickens, as they say.

Outwardly, I simply nod, my expression a mask of childish wonder. "I hope I'll see Uncle Sean again someday," I say, injecting a note of longing into my voice. "I like him ever so much."

Erik's face softens, a fond smile replacing his earlier grimness. "You may yet get your wish, little one. Your uncle visits my cottage from time to time, along with his new squadmates - Cedric and Ingvar."

Now that's intriguing. I wonder what sort of men Sean's surrounded himself with. Are they fellow Witch Hunters? Or perhaps something... more? The possibilities are endless, and each one more tantalizing than the last.

"Oh!" I exclaim, bouncing on my toes with feigned excitement. "I want to meet them too! Can I, Erik? Please?"

Erik's deep chuckle fills the room, warm and rich as honey mead. "All in good time, little one. All in good time. I've no doubt you'll cross paths with the lot of them eventually."

His expression grows serious once more as he glances towards the door. "But for now, we've more pressing matters to attend to. Your family should be arriving any moment for the feast. Come, help me set the table."

I nod eagerly, scampering over to the heavy oak table. As we lay out trenchers and utensils, my mind whirs with possibilities. Sean, a Witch Hunter Captain with his own team. Dumitra pulling strings behind the scenes. And me, trapped in the middle of it all, a wolf in sheep's clothing biding my time.

Just as we finish arranging the last of the place settings, a sharp knock echoes through the cottage. Erik strides to the door, his massive frame filling the entryway as he pulls it open.

"Welcome, welcome," he booms, stepping aside to admit the motley crew that is my "family."

They file in one by one - Maeve with her sultry swagger, Aislin looking worn but determined, Oisin reeking of ale and resentment. The children tumble in after them - Atlas with his too-knowing eyes, Nuada and Larisa clinging to their mother's skirts, and Fionn bringing up the rear with a mischievous grin.

As they file in, a cacophony of greetings and complaints filling the air, I can't help but feel a surge of... something. Not quite hope - I've long since abandoned such foolish notions. But perhaps... anticipation? Yes, that's it. A tingling sense of anticipation for what's to come.

For I know, deep in my bones, that this is just the beginning. This feast, this farce of a wedding, this entire primitive existence - it's all just a stepping stone. A necessary evil on my path to greatness. One day, I'll break free of this Truman Show nightmare Gwenhwyfar has trapped me in. I'll harness the power of this world's strange magic, build an army of loyal followers, and tear down the very fabric of this reality.

But for now, I must play my part. Smile and simper and pretend to be the innocent child-bride they all expect me to be. It's a long game, to be sure. But I've got nothing but time, and the patience of a saint... or perhaps a devil.

As Erik ushers the last of my "family" inside, closing the door behind them, I paste on my sweetest smile and prepare to face the chaos that's sure to ensue. Let the games begin.