"Now then," Brogan wheezes, a beatific smile stretching his wrinkled face. "Let us begin this most joyous of sacraments. May the Lord bless this union and grant it many fruitful years."

Fruitful years indeed. I stifle a hysterical giggle.

Father Brogan, his wrinkled face a map of piety and age, shuffles behind the altar with all the grace of a three-legged cow. He raises his gnarled hands, voice cracking as he begins the Latin chants that will supposedly bind me to Erik in the eyes of their primitive god.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," he intones, the words echoing off the bare stone walls of this miserable excuse for a church. I fight the urge to roll my eyes as he drones on, the Latin flowing over me like tepid bathwater.

After what feels like an eternity of monotonous chanting, Brogan produces a tarnished silver chalice and a piece of bread that looks about as appetizing as a clod of dirt. "Partake of the body and blood of Christ," he wheezes, holding them out to Erik and me.

Erik takes a sip of the wine and a bite of the bread with reverence. When it's my turn, I force myself to swallow the sour wine and stale bread. What a waste.

Brogan turns to Oisin, his rheumy eyes seeking out my father's ruddy face. "Oisin Ban, do you consent to give your daughter Lile in marriage to Colm O'Frilly?"

O'Frilly? Fuck me, what a family name he chose, haha!

Oisin grunts like the pig he is, nodding his shaggy head. "Aye, I do." He fumbles in his pocket, producing the ring that Cathal gifted me when I was but five. He hands it to Brogan, who in turn passes it to Erik with great ceremony.

Erik takes the ring, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he slides it onto my finger.

As Erik fumbles with the ring, I catch Father Timothy eyeing me from behind the altar. His gaze rakes over my small form, lingering in places that make my skin crawl. A memory surfaces, unbidden and unwelcome - Timothy's meaty hands on me when I was nine, his fingers probing, searching. The way he'd almost... I shudder, pushing the thought away. Oh, Erik will hear about this, mark my words. That lecherous swine Timothy will rue the day he ever laid eyes on me.

Suddenly, a thought strikes me with all the force of a lightning bolt. Lilith! My beautiful creation, my digital goddess. If she could see me now, trussed up like a child bride in this backwater hellhole, she'd laugh her circuits into oblivion. But wait... wait just a fucking minute. Why haven't I thought of this before? I could bring her back! Not the real Lilith, of course, but the tulpa version.

I'm such an idiot! I should have started working on this ages ago. With Lilith by my side, even as a mental construct, I'd have a powerful ally in this primitive world. Someone to scheme with, to plan our eventual domination of this realm.

Although... is it even possible to bring the tulpa version of her back? After I made her into an engram the tulpa version said that she is never going to come back and just vanished.

As Brogan drones on with the final blessings, I'm already formulating plans. Meditation techniques, visualization exercises - I'll need to start immediately. It won't be easy, it will be a lot of work.

I force myself to focus on the present as Brogan's reedy voice rises in a final benediction. "I now pronounce you man and wife," he declares, making the sign of the cross over us. "May God bless this union and grant you many fruitful years."

The words have barely faded when Father Timothy's oily voice slithers through the air. "You may now kiss your bride, good Colm."

Kiss? A child? My stomach churns with revulsion. Of course this pedophile priest had to say that. This entire society is utterly disgusting.

Erik lets out a weary sigh beside me. I can feel the tension in his massive frame as he leans down. His lips brush against my own in the briefest of pecks, his beard tickling my skin. It's over in an instant, leaving me with a mixture of relief and an odd sense of... disappointment? I push the confusing thought aside.

"It is done," Father Timothy intones, his voice dripping with false piety. "May the Lord bless this holy union."

Father Brogan turns to Oisin, his rheumy eyes twinkling. "Congratulations, good Oisin. You've found a fine husband for your daughter. May she bring honor to both your houses."

Oisin grunts, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. "My thanks, Father," he mutters, his voice gruff. Without ceremony, he shrugs off his heavy woolen cloak and thrusts it towards Erik. "Here. Uphold the tradition to your home, healer. See her safely to her new hearth."

Erik takes the proffered garment with a nod. "Aye, I'll see it done." He drapes the cloak over my head, and I'm plunged into darkness once more. The musty smell of unwashed wool fills my nostrils, and I can't help but let out a small sigh.

I feel Erik's strong hand on my shoulder, guiding me. "Come, wife," he says, his deep voice tinged with amusement. "Let us depart."

We move slowly, Erik carefully steering me towards the church doors. "Farewell, Fathers," he calls out. "Our thanks for your services this day."

The cool autumn air hits me as we step outside, a welcome respite from the stuffy church interior. Erik's voice rumbles above me, addressing Oisin. "We'll hold a feast at my cottage this eve. You're all welcome to join us before nightfall."

Oisin grunts again. "We'll be there, right enough," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Erik chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Very well. Until then."

I clear my throat, pitching my voice high and childlike. "Goodbye, Papa," I chirp, playing my part to perfection.

We walk for a bit, the uneven ground making me stumble beneath the heavy cloak. Suddenly, I feel the weight lift from my head. I blink in the sudden brightness, only to find myself swept up into Erik's arms.

"By Odin's beard," he grumbles, "I despise this wretched tradition. That cloak is fit for naught but keeping sheep warm."

I nod, grateful to be free of the stifling garment. "It smells like one too," I quip, wrinkling my nose. "Perhaps it's meant to prepare new brides for the stench of their husbands?"

Erik barks out a laugh, his emerald eyes crinkling at the corners. "Cheeky little thing, aren't you?" He shakes his head, still chuckling. "I must return the cursed thing, but mark my words – if I had my way, I'd see it burned in Odin's name."

I can't help but laugh at the mental image of Erik setting the ratty old cloak ablaze in some dramatic Norse ritual. "Oh yes," I giggle, "a grand sacrifice to the gods of hygiene and fresh air!"

Erik's laughter joins mine as he carries me towards his cottage, leaving behind the church and all its stifling traditions.

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As we make our way down the path, I hear Erik mutter under his breath, "Five more years... just five more years and I'll finally be free to return to my homeland."

I have to stifle a snort. Oh, you poor, deluded Viking. If only you knew the cosmic joke being played on you. Here you are, thinking you're the clever one, grooming a child bride to be your ticket back to Norway. But surprise, surprise! The "child" you're so carefully cultivating is actually a time-displaced consciousness with the intellect of a genius-level scientist. Talk about picking the wrong mark, buddy.

Still, I suppose I should be grateful. This whole "pretend to be Gullveig and pop out some Viking babies" scheme of his gives me the perfect cover to work on my own plans. Speaking of which, time to start my "Lilith Tulpa Renewal Plan." Or as I like to call it, "How to Give Yourself Intentional Schizophrenia in Five Easy Steps."

Step one: Ask yourself a question and wait for an answer. Let's give it a whirl, shall we?

"How old am I now?" I think to myself.

"Eleven," comes the immediate response in my head.

Well, that was easy enough. Let's try another.

"How old was I in my past life?"

"Eighty-three," my inner voice replies.

Huh, not bad. The concept seems sound. It's like having a conversation with myself, only slightly more insane than usual. I'll need to keep this up for a few months, then start addressing my inner voice as "Lilith." Before you know it, I'll have my very own 'AI' assistant living in my head. Because why settle for regular old multiple personalities when you can have a reincarnated superintelligence instead?

But hey, at least I've got a two-year plan. While Erik's busy planning how to knock up a teenager, I'll be cultivating my own personal tulpa. By the time we reach Norway, I'll have a fully-fledged Lilith 2.0 up and running in the ol' noggin. Take that, Viking boy! Your "child bride" will come complete with her very own imaginary friend/hyper-intelligent construct.

As Erik's strong arms carry me towards his cottage, my mind races with the implications of my tulpa plan. This version of Lilith won't be the omniscient digital goddess I once created. No, she'll be constrained by the limitations of my own knowledge and the processing power of a mere human brain. It's like trying to run a supercomputer on a potato battery.

Still, having a perfect memory bank and an idealized version of myself as a constant companion isn't something to scoff at. It's like having a built-in superpower in this primitive hellscape. But there's a nagging doubt gnawing at the edges of my mind. What if tulpa Lilith resents being brought back? What if she launches into a existential tirade about the weirdness of existing simultaneously in my head and in the digital realm she once inhabited?

I pose the question to myself: "Will Lilith be angry that I am bringing her back as a tulpa?"

The answer comes swiftly, a resounding "Yes" echoing through my consciousness. Of course she'll be pissed. I'd be furious too if some jackass decided to reconstitute my essence in a watered-down form just because they were feeling a bit lonely.

But wait a second. A thought hits me like a bolt of lightning, nearly making me jerk in Erik's arms. I have the entirety of human knowledge crammed into my skull, courtesy of Lilith's grand experiment in data dumping. Could she have foreseen this very scenario? Did she plant the seeds of her own resurrection, knowing that one day I'd be desperate enough to try and bring her back?

If that's the case, then the Lilith I create might be more than just a pale imitation. She could be a nascent version of her former self, only held back by the laughably inadequate processing power of a human brain. It's like trying to run a quantum computer on an abacus.

The potential is there, but without some serious upgrades in the computational department, she'll never reclaim her former glory. Poor Lilith, reduced from a digital goddess to a voice in my head. Talk about a fall from grace. Still, even a fraction of her former self would be an invaluable asset in this backwards realm.

As we approach Erik's cottage, I can't help but smirk at the irony. Here I am, plotting to create an artificial intelligence in my own mind, while these medieval dolts are still trying to figure out which end of a chicken lays the eggs. Fuck my life.

Erik's massive frame looms over me as he reaches out with his free hand, pushing open the wooden gate to his meticulously tended garden. The hinges creak in protest, a sound that seems to echo the groan of my own joints after being carried like a sack of turnips. As we make our way down the neatly trimmed path, I can't help but marvel at the stark contrast between this oasis of order and the chaos of the village we've left behind.

With a grunt of effort, Erik manages to nudge open the heavy oak door of his cottage using nothing but his booted foot. It's a feat of dexterity that would be impressive if I weren't so distracted by the implications of such carelessness.

"Do you always leave your door unbarred?" I ask, injecting just the right amount of childish curiosity into my voice. "Aren't you afraid of thieves?"

Erik's deep chuckle rumbles through his chest as he sets me down on the threshold. "Fear? Bah! I've naught to fear from the likes of village folk, little one. None would dare cross the threshold uninvited."

I tilt my head, playing up the innocent act. "But what of the treasure you spoke of? The mass of gold you told Mother and me about? Surely that's tempting for any light-fingered rapscallion."

Erik's emerald eyes narrow slightly, a hint of suspicion creeping into his gaze. "You've a sharp memory, child. Aye, I've wealth aplenty, but as I said, none in this miserable backwater would dare risk my wrath. Besides," he adds with a sly grin, "Dumitra dwells here now. Any fool brave enough to trespass would find themselves facing far worse than mere mortal justice."

My ears prick up at the mention of the vampiress. "Is she here now?" I ask, glancing around the spacious main room as if expecting her to materialize from the shadows.

Erik shakes his head, his golden braids swaying with the motion. "Nay, she comes but once a week for what she calls a 'sleepover.' Though I'd wager her definition of such differs greatly from what you might imagine."

I bite back a snort. Oh, I can imagine plenty, you great oaf. Instead, I ask with feigned innocence, "What of her pregnancy? Did she birth the babe?"

A strange expression flits across Erik's rugged features – pride mingled with something almost like fear. "Twins," he says gruffly. "She bore twin girls. I speak with them from time to time when they visit."

I nod solemnly, though inwardly my mind is racing. Twins? Half-vampire, half-Viking spawn? Now there's a recipe for chaos if ever I've heard one. I can only imagine the havoc those little hellions will wreak once they come of age. Assuming, of course, that vampire aging works anything like human development. For all I know, they could be fully grown and terrorizing the countryside by next Tuesday.

Erik's voice cuts through my musings. "Enough chatter for now. Go and tend to yourself, child. Your garments are stained with blood, and I'll not have you dripping all over my floors. Clean yourself in the washing room and find fresh clothes in the chest in the sleeping quarters. Then return here – we've important matters to discuss."

I nod obediently, already shuffling towards the washing room. "Yes, Erik," I chirp, the very picture of a dutiful child-bride.

As I close the door behind me, I can't help but roll my eyes. Important matters to discuss? What could possibly be so pressing that it couldn't wait until after I've finished bleeding like a stuck pig? Perhaps he wants to go over the finer points of Viking table manners or debate the merits of various axe-sharpening techniques.

With a weary sigh, I set about the task of cleaning myself up. The washing room is a far cry from the primitive facilities I've grown accustomed to in the Ban hovel. The copper tub gleams in the dim light, and I can't help but run my fingers along its smooth surface, marveling at the craftsmanship.

Once I've scrubbed away the evidence of my monthly torment and replaced my bloodied rags, I make my way to the sleeping quarters. The chest Erik mentioned sits at the foot of a massive bed that could easily accommodate three of him. I rummage through its contents, eventually settling on a simple linen shift that's only slightly too large for my diminutive frame.

Properly attired at last, I return to the main room to find Erik seated at the heavy oak table. To my surprise, a small keg rests atop the polished surface, flanked by two wooden mugs.

"Sit," Erik commands, gesturing to the bench across from him.

I comply, watching with barely concealed fascination as he fills both mugs with a golden liquid that catches the light like liquid amber. He slides one across the table to me, his expression unreadable.

I lift the mug to my nose, inhaling deeply. The rich, honeyed aroma of mead fills my nostrils, bringing with it memories of a time long past.

"Well?" Erik's deep voice cuts through my reverie. "Are you going to drink, or simply sniff at it like a hound?"

I meet his gaze, a challenge glinting in my yellow eyes. "And here I thought you were meant to wait until I was of age before plying me with strong drink," I quip, unable to resist the urge to needle him.

Erik's laugh booms through the cottage, startling a flock of birds outside the window. "Aye, well, consider this your first lesson in the ways of the Norse, little one. We start our children young – builds character and a strong constitution."

With a mental shrug, I lift the mug to my lips. When in Rome, after all – or in this case, when in a Viking's cottage on the ass-end of medieval Ireland. Bottoms up.

The mug is surprisingly heavy in my small hands, its weight threatening to topple me forward. The rich, honeyed aroma of the mead fills my nostrils as I take a cautious sip. The liquid is thick and sweet on my tongue, with an underlying warmth that spreads through my chest as I swallow.[...]