I let out a wide yawn, stretching my limbs like a cat basking in the morning sun. My yellow eyes flicker over to Erik's slumbering form beside me, his broad chest rising and falling with each breath. A mischievous grin spreads across my face as I slowly peel back the furs, exposing my naked body to the chilly air. With the stealth of a seasoned thief, I creep closer to Erik, my small hand reaching out to grasp his morning glory.

My fingers wrap around his impressive girth, squeezing firmly. Erik's eyes snap open, a mixture of shock and anger flashing across his chiseled features. "Unhand me this instant, girl!" he growls, his voice thick with sleep and indignation.

I pout exaggeratedly, batting my eyelashes in a mockery of innocence. "But Erik," I whine, my voice pitched high and childlike, "I'm twelve summers now. Practically a grown woman! The village folk already whisper 'portpet' when I pass. Surely it's time..."

Erik's emerald eyes narrow dangerously. "In this household, we follow Norse traditions, not the foolish customs of these Irish savages," he spits, yanking the furs up to cover himself. "Until you've seen sixteen winters, you'll not be touched in that manner. Not by me, not by any man."

I roll my eyes dramatically, letting out an exasperated huff. "We're in Ireland now, not some frozen Norse fjord," I retort, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Your precious traditions mean naught while we linger in this backwater."

A loud scoff escapes Erik's lips as he shakes his head, his golden braids swaying with the motion. "You manipulative little vixen," he growls, his tone a mixture of admiration and frustration. "Remember your place. You're naught but a peasant bride, years away from proving your womanhood."

I flash him a saucy grin, leaning in close enough that he can feel my breath on his ear. "Oh, I'll remember my place well enough," I purr, my voice husky and far too mature for my years. "Flat on my back, legs splayed wide for my lord husband."

Erik's features darken with anger, his jaw clenching tight enough that I can see a muscle twitching. "Mind that impudent tongue, girl," he snarls. "Your only purpose is to provide me with sons to carry on my bloodline. Nothing more."

I can't resist one final barbed taunt, my yellow eyes glinting with malice. "If I'm naught but a broodmare for your spawn," I muse, tapping my chin in mock thoughtfulness, "does that mean the great Gullveig shares my humble calling?"

Erik's tanned features pale instantly, the color draining from his chiseled cheeks. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, but no words emerge. The mighty Norse warrior, rendered speechless by a slip of a girl. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I'd laugh if it weren't so pathetic.

Rising from the bed, I shiver as the chill air caresses my bare skin. Gooseflesh erupts across my arms and legs, and I turn to Erik with an arched brow. "Why do you insist we sleep naked under the furs every night?" I ask, genuinely curious. "It's colder than a witch's tit in here."

Erik clears his throat, seemingly grateful for the change in subject. "It's customary for people in Norway," he explains gruffly. "Keeps the body warm and... promotes intimacy between married couples."

I snort inelegantly. Of course it does. Nothing says 'marital bliss' quite like pressing your frozen arse against your spouse's equally frigid flesh. These Norse and their bizarre customs never cease to amaze me.

With a weary sigh, I pad across the room towards the heavy oak table. My fingers brush against the leather-bound tome resting atop it, and I can feel Erik's eyes boring into my back. "Don't damage that book," he warns, his voice tight with concern. "It's more valuable than you can imagine."

I roll my eyes as I settle into the chair, pulling the book onto my lap. "Yes, yes," I mutter, waving a dismissive hand. "I'll treat your precious ledger with all the reverence it deserves."

Opening the book, I'm greeted by neat rows of cramped writing. It's a veritable treasure trove of information - every villager in Baile Rois, their ailments, proclivities, medical histories, ages, and names laid bare for my perusal. I clear my throat and begin to read aloud, adopting different voices for each entry:

"Seamus Doyle, aged 45. Chronic gout in his left foot, likely from overindulgence in ale. Wife complains of his inability to perform husbandly duties. Recommend willow bark tea and less time at the tavern."

"Grainne Murphy, aged 18. Third miscarriage in as many years. Suspect incompatible blood between her and her husband. Advise against further attempts at childbearing."

"Colm Brady, aged 45. Persistent cough and night sweats. Possible consumption. Isolate from family and begin treatment with honey and garlic poultice."

I continue on, detailing the sordid lives and ailments of our neighbors with gleeful abandon. Erik listens with rapt attention, his brow furrowed in concentration. When I finally pause for breath, he shakes his head in disbelief.

"I can never reconcile how quickly you learned Irish," he muses, "let alone mastered the art of reading and writing. It's... unnatural."

I turn my head to meet his gaze, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. "Well," I say with faux modesty, "Aislin did say I'm quite smart."

Erik snorts, running a hand through his tangled golden mane. "Aislin didn't quite explain 'how' smart," he mutters, more to himself than to me.

With a dramatic flourish, I close the book and spin in the chair. I rest my head on the back, legs spread wide in a blatant display. "You still have some things to teach me," I purr, my voice dripping with suggestion.

Erik stands, his impressive physique on full display as he regards me with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. I meet his gaze unflinchingly, drinking in the sight of his chiseled abs and the trail of golden hair leading down to...

Erik blinks, then bursts into laughter. "By Odin's beard, girl," he chuckles, shaking his head. "You're far too interested in a man's cock. I'll have to have words with Maeve about this."

I can't help but roll my eyes. Oh yes, because clearly Maeve is the font from which all carnal knowledge springs. It's not as if I possess the memories and experiences of a grown man from a far more sexually liberated era. But sure, blame the tavern wench for my precociousness.

"The sooner I'm fucked and with child," I sigh, my tone matter-of-fact, "the sooner we can leave Ireland behind. Before war reaches these shores and we're all slaughtered in our beds."

Erik's expression grows serious, his emerald eyes clouding with worry. "I know it's a fight against time," he admits, running a hand through his beard. "But I cannot act. If I make landfall in Norway without a woman heavy with child at my side, I'll be killed on the spot for failing to fulfill the prophecy."

I consider this for a moment, then offer a solution with false innocence. "It could be a 'child' heavy with child at your side," I suggest, batting my eyelashes.

Erik's face contorts with disgust. "I'd be executed just the same," he spits. "Sleeping with children is a death sentence in Norway. As it should be everywhere."

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I sigh heavily, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. "Surely if I'm truly Gullveig, they wouldn't dare such a thing?" I press, grasping at straws.

Erik shakes his head firmly. "It would be seen as the gravest disrespect to the goddess," he explains. "To get her with child at such a tender age... no, it's unthinkable."

"I understand," I mutter, my tone resigned. "Then I suppose we'll all just have to wait to die. How delightful."

Erik's expression softens slightly, and he reaches out to ruffle my hair. "You're extremely perceptive and smart," he says, a note of pride in his voice. "Unlike that oaf Oisin. I'd wager he couldn't tie his own shoelaces, let alone learn to read and write in three months."

I can't help but snort at that. Oisin, that slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging cretin. The day he masters basic literacy is the day pigs sprout wings and take to the skies. He's about as sharp as a sack of wet mice and twice as useless.

"Oh, I don't know," I say with mock seriousness. "Father could probably do better. Why, I bet he could drink a whole keg of your finest mead in one gulp!"

Erik's booming laughter fills the room, and I find myself joining in despite my best efforts. As our mirth subsides, Erik moves to dress himself, pulling on his breeches and tunic with practiced ease. He turns to me, his expression expectant. "Get ready," he instructs. "We've a long day ahead."

I nod and stand, padding over to the heavy wooden chest that holds my meager belongings. Lifting the lid, I pull out my new clothes, marveling at their quality. The dress is a far cry from the rough homespun I wore in Oisin's hovel. Made of fine linen dyed a deep forest green, it's embroidered with intricate knotwork in crimson thread along the neckline and cuffs. The bodice is fitted, accentuating what little curve I possess, while the skirt falls in graceful folds to my ankles. A belt of soft leather, dyed to match the embroidery, cinches the waist.

As I slip the dress over my head, reveling in the feel of the soft fabric against my skin, Erik approaches. "Sit," he commands, gesturing to the chair. "I'll braid your hair."

I comply, settling into the seat as Erik's large hands begin to work their way through my golden tresses.

As Erik's fingers deftly weave my hair into intricate braids, I tilt my head slightly, my yellow eyes narrowing with calculated concern. "Erik," I begin, my voice pitched high and innocent, "have you noticed anything... peculiar about the villagers lately?"

Erik's hands pause momentarily, his emerald eyes meeting mine in the reflection of the small mirror propped against the wall. "Peculiar? What do you mean, little one?"

I bite my lower lip, feigning childish worry. "Well, some of them look more yellow than usual, like overripe wheat left too long in the sun. And others... well, they've been emptying their stomachs more often than a drunkard after a night at the tavern."

Erik's brow furrows, his fingers resuming their work on my hair. "That does sound concerning. Have you noticed anything amiss in their hovels or food stores?"

I shake my head, careful not to disrupt his braiding. "No, nothing out of place. But..." I pause for dramatic effect, "what about the well? I haven't checked their water buckets or the well itself. What if some poor soul relieved themselves in there? Or worse, what if an animal crawled in and died?"

Erik's hands still once more, his expression grave. "By Odin's beard, that's quite possible. The well could indeed be the source of this malady."

As he finishes the last braid, Erik hands me a small, polished metal disk that serves as a mirror. I gaze at my reflection, a mixture of admiration and disgust churning in my gut. I look fucking beautiful, like some ethereal fae child stepped right out of a storybook. If only I didn't feel like this body was a ill-fitting costume, a prison of flesh and bone that doesn't belong to me.

Erik's large hand pats my head, snapping me out of my reverie. "What would you like to break your fast with, little one?"

I force a sweet smile onto my face. "Oh, some eggs with bread and smoked meat would be lovely!"

"It shall be done!" Erik declares with a flourish, heading towards the main room and then descending into the cellar.

As he disappears from view, I allow my smile to fade, replaced by a calculating gleam in my eyes. This body may not be mine, but I'll be damned if I don't use every advantage it gives me. I move to the main room, perching myself at the table like an obedient child waiting for her meal.

When Erik emerges from the cellar, arms laden with provisions, I strike. "Erik," I call out, my voice trembling with carefully crafted fear, "shouldn't we be more worried about the well? If it's poisoned, my family could be in grave danger!"

Erik sets down the food, his expression softening. "Fear not, little one. Aislin and Maeve know to boil their water. They're not foolish enough to drink it straight from the source."

Not satisfied with his dismissal, I stand and move towards the water bucket near the hearth. I lean in, making a show of sniffing the contents. Erik watches me with a mixture of amusement and concern as he begins preparing our meal.

"Lile," he says gently, "remember, we don't draw water from the village well. Our supply comes from the nearby river."

I nod, but press on, unwilling to let the matter drop. "I know, but what if the river is tainted as well? What if whatever's poisoning the well has spread to our water source?"

Erik sighs, his knife pausing in its task of slicing bread. "Little one, you needn't worry so. Nobody perishes in mere days from befouled water. It takes time for such ailments to take hold."

His dismissive tone ignites a spark of genuine anger within me. I stand up straight, fixing him with a look of utter disdain that would be more at home on the face of a scorned noblewoman than a peasant child.

"And what of Nuada and Larisa?" I demand, my voice sharp as a blade. "What if they've already drunk from that cursed well? Tell me, Erik, if it were your child who had swallowed that poisoned water, what would you do to that well?"

Erik's knife clatters to the table, his emerald eyes widening with a mixture of shock and dawning realization. He turns to face me fully, his massive frame seeming to fill the entire room.

"By the gods," he breathes, his voice a low rumble of barely contained fury, "if it were my child... I'd tear that well apart stone by stone with my bare hands. I'd hunt down whatever foul beast or demon had tainted it and send them screaming back to Hel."

I nod, satisfied that I've finally gotten through to him. "Then you understand my concern. Those babes are as good as kin to me now, are they not? Should we not treat this threat as if it were aimed at our own blood?"

Erik's expression darkens, a storm brewing in his emerald eyes. "Aye, you speak true, little one. Perhaps I've been too dismissive of this danger. We shall investigate this matter thoroughly, starting with that accursed well."

As he turns back to the half-prepared meal, his movements now sharp and agitated, I allow myself a small, triumphant smile. It's almost too easy, playing on his emotions like this. But then again, what else is there to do in this godforsaken time but manipulate these simple folk for my own ends?

Erik's voice cuts through my thoughts, low and dangerous. "Tell me, Lile, how is it that you've come to know so much about the spread of disease? It's not common knowledge for a child your age."

I move to sit at the table again, my small frame perched on the edge of the chair. My yellow eyes lock onto Erik's emerald gaze, unwavering. "I've read and committed to memory every last book you have on medicine, Erik," I declare, my childish voice at odds with the weight of my words. "That's how I learned to read and write in Irish so quickly. I feel this... this burning need to learn as much as possible."

Erik's brow arches, skepticism etched into the lines of his weathered face. He turns to the hearth, preparing to fry the eggs, but his attention never fully leaves me. "Is that so?" he muses, his voice a low rumble. "Then perhaps you'd care to demonstrate this vast knowledge of yours."

I nod eagerly, playing the part of the precocious child. "Ask me anything, Erik. I'll show you what I know."

Erik's lips curl into a smirk as he cracks the eggs into the iron skillet. "Very well, little one. Tell me how to make a tincture for easing joint pain."

Without missing a beat, I launch into a detailed explanation. "First, you'll need to gather fresh willow bark and devil's claw root. Chop them finely and place them in a glass jar. Cover with strong spirits - preferably poitín - and let it sit in a dark place for a fortnight. Strain the mixture through a fine cloth, then add a spoonful of honey to sweeten the bitter taste."

Erik's eyebrows climb higher with each word. He nods slowly, then asks about five more tinctures - for headaches, fever, digestive troubles, wounds, and sleeplessness. I rattle off each recipe with practiced ease, describing the precise measurements of herbs, the ideal steeping times, and the best methods of administration.

As I finish explaining the last tincture, Erik's face has grown pale, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. He turns from the hearth, the eggs forgotten and starting to smoke. "By Odin's beard," he mutters, "you speak as if you've brewed these concoctions a hundred times over."

I shrug, affecting an air of childish nonchalance. "I told you, I remember everything I read."

Erik's emerald eyes narrow, his gaze piercing. "Very well, then. How would you go about setting a broken bone?"

I lean forward, my small hands gesticulating as I speak. "First, you must assess the break. Is it a clean fracture or compound? Once determined, you'll need to realign the bone carefully. This is best done with a strong assistant to provide traction. Once aligned, splint the limb using straight pieces of wood or bark, padding the area with soft cloth to prevent chafing. Bind it tightly, but not so much as to cut off circulation. The patient should be given willow bark tea for pain and instructed to keep the limb elevated to reduce swelling."[...]