This elicits a burst of laughter from the boys, even as Aislin clucks disapprovingly. "Lile! Such talk is most unbecoming of a Christian bride!"

"Oh, leave off," Maeve chuckles, waving a dismissive hand. "The girl's got spirit, I'll give her that. She'll need it, dealing with that great oaf Erik."

As if summoned by the mention of his name, the door bursts open once more. Erik's massive frame fills the entrance, his emerald eyes scanning the room before settling on me. Behind him, I catch a glimpse of Oisin's ruddy face, his expression a mixture of greed and barely concealed resentment.

"Well now," Erik rumbles, his deep voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine, "it seems our little Gullveig is ready for her grand debut."

Oisin grunts, his pale eyes narrowing as he takes in my appearance. "Aye, and not a moment too soon. I've a thirst that needs quenching, and coin burning a hole in me pocket."

Maeve steps forward, her amber eyes glinting with mischief. "Sure, and wouldn't the wee lass look a sight with her hair all braided up like them Norse women? I could weave it right quick, make her look proper for her new husband."

Oisin's face contorts into a sneer, his voice dripping with disdain. "Waste of time, that is. The girl's to be covered head to toe anyway. What use are fancy braids under a cloak?"

Erik nods, his emerald eyes flickering with amusement. "True enough. No need for such frippery now. I'll see to her hair meself once we're home. 'Tis a husband's right, after all."

With a fluid motion, Erik reaches into his tunic and produces three gleaming gold coins. The sight of them makes my stomach churn. He holds them out to Oisin, his voice taking on a formal tone. "Here then. With this, our transaction is complete. The girl is mine in the eyes of God and man."

Oisin's eyes light up at the sight of the gold, his meaty fingers closing around the coins with unseemly haste. "Aye, that she is. May she serve you well, Norseman."

I can't help but sigh inwardly at the casual way they barter over me. Three measly coins, and suddenly I'm property to be handed off like a sack of turnips. The sheer absurdity of it all is almost enough to make me laugh.

Oisin turns and presses the coins into Aislin's waiting hands. "Here, woman. Put these away safe. We'll not see their like again for many a moon."

Aislin nods, her movements quick and efficient as she tucks the coins into the crude wooden strongbox hidden beneath a loose floorboard. "Thank you, husband," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

Suddenly, Fionn pipes up, his childish voice filled with bravado. "I challenge you to a fight, big man! Winner gets to marry Lile!"

Erik's deep laugh fills the cramped hovel. "Is that so, little warrior? Well then, when you've grown as tall as my shoulder and can wield a proper axe, I'll gladly meet you in combat. Until then, best stick to wooden swords and turnip shields, eh?"

Fionn's face turns red as a beet, his little fists clenching at his sides. With a howl of frustration, he stomps his feet, kicking up dust from the earthen floor. "It's not fair! I want to marry Lile!"

The adults in the room react with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. Aislin clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "Hush now, child. Don't be making such a fuss."

Maeve snickers, her eyes dancing with mirth. "Ah, the lad's got spirit, I'll give him that. Might make a fine husband someday... if he lives long enough."

Atlas, ever the peacemaker, takes Fionn's hand in his own. "Come now, brother. No need for all this caterwauling. You'll find a nice girl of your own someday."

As Maeve scoops up Nuada and Larisa, balancing a babe on each hip, Fionn turns to me with pleading eyes. "You'll still come visit us, won't you Lile? You won't forget about us?"

Before I can answer, Erik's deep voice cuts through the air. "Of course we'll visit. You're family, after all. It's not as if we're sailing off to Norway this very day."

I nod in agreement, though inwardly I'm rolling my eyes. As if I could forget this wretched hovel and its inhabitants, no matter how hard I might try.

Oisin grunts, pulling his tattered cloak from his broad shoulders. With a flourish that speaks more of impatience than ceremony, he drapes it over me, enveloping me in darkness. Then, without warning, his meaty hand connects with my backside in a stinging slap.

"Get a move on, girl," he barks. "Time's a-wasting."

I bite back a yelp of pain, the slap sending shockwaves through my already tender flesh. The sensitivity from my monthly pains, combined with the force of Oisin's blow, makes me acutely aware of the warm trickle of blood now seeping down my inner thighs. Fantastic. Nothing says "wedding day" quite like menstrual blood and bruises.

Oisin's beady eyes catch sight of the small crimson stain now visible on the earthen floor. His face splits into a grotesque grin. "Well, would you look at that! Bleeding on her wedding day. There's no higher honor for a bride, I tell you. The gods themselves must be smiling on this union."

I let out a long-suffering sigh, wishing I could explain to this simpleton that menstruation is a biological process, not some divine blessing. But of course, such knowledge is beyond the grasp of these medieval minds.

Maeve, never one to miss an opportunity for crudeness, pipes up with a wicked grin. "Aye, and if she's bleeding now, just wait 'til the wedding night! Poor lass won't know if she's lost her maidenhead or just started her courses again!"

Oisin lets out a bark of laughter, slapping his thigh in appreciation of Maeve's vulgar humor. "Ha! You've the right of it, woman. The Norseman's in for a bloody good time, that's certain!"

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to educate them all on the finer points of female anatomy and the importance of consent. Sometimes, being the only person with a 21st-century education in a sea of medieval ignorance is truly maddening.

Erik clears his throat, his voice taking on a gentler tone. "Come, little one. I'll guide your steps to the church. We wouldn't want you stumbling in the dark, now would we?"

But before I can take a single step, Oisin's gruff voice cuts through the air like a dull axe. "Now hold on there, Norseman. That's not how it's done. A proper bride should know the way to the church with her eyes closed. It's tradition, see? Shows she's going willingly to her new life."

I have to stifle a snort at that. Willingly? As if I have any real choice in the matter. These barbarians and their backwards customs can go fuck themselves with a rusty spear, for all I care. But of course, I can't say that out loud. Instead, I let out another weary sigh and take a tentative step forward.

"Follow the sound of my voice, Lile," Erik calls out, his deep baritone serving as a beacon in the darkness of the cloak.

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With agonizing slowness, I make my way out of the hovel, every step a reminder of the blood trickling down my thighs and the ache in my lower back. Behind me, I can hear the chorus of farewells from the assembled family.

"Be a good wife now, Lile!" Aislin calls out, her voice thick with unshed tears.

"Don't forget to visit!" Fionn shouts, still sounding on the verge of a tantrum.

"May the Lord bless your union," Maeve adds, managing to sound both sincere and mocking at the same time.

As we step out into the crisp autumn air, I can't help but roll my eyes beneath the heavy cloak. They're carrying on as if I'm being carted off to some far-flung corner of the world, never to be seen again. In reality, Erik's cottage is barely a stone's throw from this miserable hovel. I could probably make the trip blindfolded and hobbled, for all the difference it would make.

Still, I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies. At least this farcical wedding will get me out of that cramped, flea-infested den and into slightly more comfortable surroundings. And who knows? Maybe married life with Erik will provide some much-needed entertainment in this dreary medieval existence.

With that thought to sustain me, I take another careful step forward, following the sound of Erik's voice. The path beneath my feet is treacherous, littered with rocks and uneven ground that seems determined to trip me at every turn. I stumble, my toes catching on yet another unseen obstacle, and I lurch forward, barely catching myself before I fall face-first into the dirt.

Frustration boils within me, a seething cauldron of rage that threatens to spill over. I halt abruptly, my body rigid beneath the heavy cloak that shrouds me from head to toe.

"Why have you stopped, girl?" Oisin's gruff voice cuts through the air, sharp as a blade.

I remain silent, my jaw clenched so tightly I fear my teeth might shatter. The urge to scream, to tear off this wretched cloak and run as far as my legs will carry me, is almost overwhelming. But I won't give them the satisfaction. I won't move another fucking step in this farcical procession.

Erik's deep chuckle breaks the tense silence. "By Odin's beard, the lass must look like Satan himself under that cloak! I can practically feel the hatred radiating off her - for tradition, for God, for the very church we're headed to."

A bark of laughter escapes me before I can stifle it. Leave it to a Norseman to accurately predict the depths of my anger. If only he knew the true extent of my rage, the centuries of knowledge and experience fueling my contempt for this backwards world.

Suddenly, Oisin's meaty hand clamps down on my shoulder, his fingers digging painfully into my flesh. "Move, you stubborn wench," he growls, his foul breath hot against my ear.

I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to whirl around and sink my own teeth into his throat. Instead, I force my voice to quaver, injecting a note of childish fear into my words. "I... I can't. I'll fall if I take any more steps. The ground is too uneven."

"Bah!" Oisin spits. "Useless girl, can't even walk properly."

"Peace, Oisin," Erik interjects, his tone maddeningly calm. "The path is treacherous, even for those who can see it clearly. I'll take her hand and guide her safely to the church. We'll make better time that way."

Oisin's grip on my shoulder tightens, and I can practically hear his teeth grinding. "You've no place changing our traditions, Norseman. The bride walks alone, guided only by the voice of her new husband."

"Ah, but tell me, Oisin," Erik's voice takes on a sly edge, "do you still wish to come to Norway? To convert to the ways of my people?"

There's a pregnant pause, and I can almost see the cogs turning in Oisin's thick skull. Finally, he grunts, "Aye, that I do."

"Then perhaps," Erik says smoothly, "you might allow me this small concession. Let me guide the girl safely, so we might conclude this wedding as swiftly as possible. After all, are not the ways of the Norse built on practicality as much as tradition?"

Another grunt from Oisin, this one tinged with frustration. "Fine," he spits. "Do as you will. But make haste - I've a thirst that needs quenching."

I feel Erik's large, calloused hand slip beneath the cloak, his fingers entwining with mine. Despite myself, I feel a flutter of relief at the contact. His grip is firm but gentle as he begins to lead me forward once more.

"There now, little one," he murmurs, pitched low enough that only I can hear. "One step at a time. We'll be at the church before you know it."

Behind us, Oisin lets out a series of frustrated grunts and muttered curses. A vicious smile spreads across my face, hidden by the heavy folds of the cloak. Yes, fuck you, you miserable excuse for a human being. Choke on your impotent rage, you backwards, pig-headed bastard.

With Erik's steady guidance, we continue our slow procession towards the church, leaving Oisin to stew in his own bile behind us. The rough-hewn path beneath my feet is littered with stones and uneven patches, each step a potential pitfall in the darkness of Oisin's musty cloak. The autumn air is crisp and biting, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves.

Erik's deep voice breaks the silence, his tone measured and formal. "Tell me, Oisin, have you brought the ring for the lass? 'Twould be a grave oversight to forget such a crucial element of the ceremony."

A grunt emanates from behind us, followed by Oisin's gruff reply. "I haven't forgotten it, Norseman. Do you take me for some addled fool?"

"Good," Erik responds, his voice tinged with a hint of satisfaction. "We're nearly upon the church now. Just a few more paces and we'll be at its hallowed doors."

I can't help but let out a weary sigh, the sound muffled by the heavy folds of the cloak. Another vicious cramp seizes my abdomen, and I stumble slightly, Erik's firm grip on my hand the only thing keeping me upright.

"Steady now, little one," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "We're almost there."

As we draw closer to the church, the scents around me shift. The earthy odors give way to the acrid smell of tallow candles and the faint, musty aroma of old incense. The sounds change too - the crunch of gravel beneath our feet is replaced by the soft thud of packed earth, and I can hear the low murmur of voices ahead.

Christ on a fucking crutch, I think to myself, gritting my teeth against another wave of pain. This is what passes for a joyous occasion in this godforsaken backwater? Stumbling blind towards a sham of a marriage while my insides try to claw their way out through my navel? If there is a God - and I'm becoming less convinced of that with every passing moment - He's got one hell of a sick sense of humor.

"Here we are," Erik announces, his voice echoing slightly as we presumably enter the church's shadow. "Oisin, you'll need to remove the cloak from the lass now. 'Tis time for her to be presented before God and His servants."

I hear Oisin's heavy footsteps approaching from behind. "Aye, let's be done with this mummer's farce," he grumbles.

As the cloak is pulled away, I blink rapidly, my eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden influx of light. The church looms before us, a squat, ugly structure of rough-hewn stone that looks about as inviting as a tomb. Which, I suppose, is rather fitting. After all, isn't that what this farce of a ceremony represents? The death of my freedom, my autonomy, my very self?

I force my face into what I hope passes for an expression of childlike wonder and excitement, though inwardly I'm seething with rage and frustration. Let's get this over with, shall we? I think bitterly. I've got a lifetime of servitude and misery to look forward to, after all. Wouldn't want to keep that waiting.

With trembling fingers, I grasp the hem of my dress and lift it slightly, my eyes widening in horror at the sight that greets me. Crimson rivulets snake down my calves, staining the soft leather of my boots. Sweet suffering Christ, I'm bleeding like a stuck pig! This is beyond ridiculous. I'd laugh if I weren't so close to tears.

"Are you well, little one?" Erik's deep voice rumbles beside me, concern etched on his rugged features.

I force a smile, though it feels more like a grimace. "Aye, just... just a wee bit nervous is all."

Erik nods, his emerald eyes softening as he reaches for the heavy wooden door of the church. The hinges groan in protest as he pushes it open, revealing the dim interior beyond. The scent of incense and beeswax candles wafts out, mingling with the crisp autumn air.

As we step inside, my eyes adjust to the gloom. At the far end of the nave, two priests and four nuns stand clustered around the altar like crows at a carcass. The older priest, Brogan, is a wizened creature with wispy white hair and rheumy eyes. Beside him, Father Timothy cuts a more imposing figure, his dark hair peppered with gray and his face set in stern lines.

The nuns, identical in their shapeless black habits, remind me of nothing so much as a murder of crows. Their pale faces peek out from beneath their wimples, eyes downcast in a show of piety that makes my skin crawl.

"Ah, there they are!" Brogan's reedy voice carries across the empty church as he raises a gnarled hand in greeting. He shuffles towards us, his joints creaking almost as loudly as the floorboards beneath his feet. "Come, come, my children. The Lord awaits to bless your union."

I bite back a scathing retort. Lord? What lord? The only deity presiding over this farce is the god of cruel jokes and cosmic irony.

Erik's hand on the small of my back propels me forward. I can hear Oisin's heavy footsteps behind us, no doubt eyeing the gold and silver adorning the altar with barely concealed greed.

"Our deepest gratitude, Father Brogan," Erik says, his voice a low rumble. "Your swiftness in arranging this ceremony is most appreciated."

I can't help but wonder the same thing. When in the nine hells did Erik have time to set all this up? It's as if he knew I'd start bleeding today.

As we approach the altar, Father Timothy's stern gaze locks onto me. His lips move silently as he reads from the thick tome before him, no doubt reciting some archaic passage about wifely submission and the sanctity of marriage.[...]