Erik's jaw clenches, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the table. He takes a deep breath, then asks in a strained voice, "And how would you treat a man afflicted with the plague?"

I pause, my mind racing. That wasn't in his books. Why is he asking me that? Outwardly, I maintain my facade of innocent curiosity. "There's no cure for the plague outside of Dumitra's tattoos," I say slowly, watching Erik's reaction carefully. "None of your books mention a tincture that could treat it."

Erik pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut. When he opens them, there's a mix of awe and fear in his gaze. "You are dangerously smart, child," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "You absorb information like dry soil drinks rain. It's... it's terrifying."

I tilt my head, a sly smile playing at the corners of my mouth. "Isn't that to be expected of someone who 'needs' to be Gullveig?" I ask innocently.

Erik nods slowly, his movements mechanical as he fills a few mugs with water. We drink in silence, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. When we finish, I scamper off to the washroom to relieve myself, my mind whirring with the implications of our conversation.

Upon my return, I find Erik has laid out our breakfast on a wooden trencher - bread, eggs (slightly charred), and smoked meat. We eat in silence, the only sounds the scraping of our crude utensils against the wood.

After the meal, Erik rises, his face set in grim lines. "I'm going to investigate the well in the village," he announces. "You stay here and clean the cottage and dishes."

I nod obediently, then ask in my most childlike voice, "Could you cut some logs for the hearth before you go? It's getting chilly in here."

Erik grunts in assent. "There are a few already in the washroom by the tub," he says, "but I'll get some more from outside."

As he strides out the door, I slump in my chair, a heavy sigh escaping my lips. My body thrums with a confusing mix of sensations - a burning, insistent arousal that feels utterly foreign in this childish form, coupled with a profound sense of detachment. It's as if I'm playing some twisted game, viewing this world and this body from a distance. I feel so damn fucking horny, but so detached from this body all the same. I feel like I'm playing a game in third person.

While I'm lost in my thoughts, the door creaks open, and Erik's massive frame fills the entrance. His arms are laden with rough-hewn logs, the scent of fresh-cut wood wafting into the room. He strides towards the hearth, his footsteps heavy on the wooden planks, and deposits his burden with a resounding thud.

"Lile," he rumbles, his emerald eyes fixing on me with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. "Take care, little one. When I depart, ensure the door is securely fastened."

I tilt my head, affecting an air of childish curiosity. "Oh? Has the great Norse healer grown wary of his own threshold?" I can't help but needle him, even as I play the part of the innocent child-bride.

Erik's brow furrows, a shadow passing over his rugged features. He approaches me, his large hand coming to rest atop my golden locks. The weight of it is both comforting and suffocating.

"Aye, that I have," he murmurs, his voice low and tinged with an emotion I can't quite place. "For now I harbor something far more precious than mere gold within these walls."

I have to bite back a snort. Oh yes, your little prophesied bride, your ticket back to the frozen hellscape you call home. How touching. Instead, I nod solemnly, my yellow eyes wide with feigned adoration.

"I understand," I chirp, my voice syrupy sweet. "I'll guard our home with all the fierceness of Cú Chulainn himself!"

Erik's lips twitch, almost forming a smile before he catches himself. With a grunt, he turns and strides towards the door. "See that you do, little one. I'll return before nightfall."

As the door closes behind him with a dull thud, I wait a heartbeat before springing into action. I scurry over, my small fingers wrapping around the iron key that protrudes from the lock. With a satisfying click, I secure our little fortress against the outside world.

I lean back against the rough wood of the door, my eyes roving over the interior of the cottage. It's a far cry from the squalid hovel I shared with Oisin and Aislin, but it's still primitive by the standards of my past life. The hearth crackles merrily, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Erik's books and instruments are scattered about, a tempting treasure trove of knowledge just waiting to be devoured.

But as I stand there, my back pressed against the unyielding wood, I become acutely aware of a different kind of heat. It radiates from between my thighs, an insistent, pulsing need that threatens to consume me. Part of me wants to ignore it, to busy myself with tidying up this mess of a cottage. It would certainly be the sensible thing to do.

And yet...

My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to explore this unfamiliar body. I've been in this form for years now, but I've never truly allowed myself to... indulge. The thought sends a thrill of excitement and revulsion through me in equal measure.

What's a poor, confused time-traveler to do? Scrub the floors like a good little housewife, or give in to the primal urges of this accursed teenager body?

Holy shit on a stick, are women always this fucking horny? It's like someone cranked the libido dial to eleven and snapped off the knob. We're supposed to be these angelic nurturers, all "Oh, let me bake you a pie and darn your socks," but instead, I'm standing here with my lady bits screaming like they're auditioning for a porno. This has got to be my fault, right? I mean, your average medieval rugrat wouldn't be thinking about the horizontal mambo the moment their hormones decided to throw a rave. But me? Oh no, I'm cursed with the carnal knowledge of a grown-ass man trapped in a pubescent girl's body. It's like being a sommelier at a juice box tasting.

And let's not forget the equipment change, shall we? No more trouser snake to charm - now I'm rocking the Venus flytrap model, complete with a fun button that's about as sensitive as a Twitter user during a political debate. My only option is to diddle the skittle and hope it's enough to take the edge off. But of course, the perspective's all wonky now. I've gone from being the painter to being the canvas, and let me tell you, it's a mindfuck of epic proportions.

Christ on a cracker, I can practically taste the sexual frustration. It's like someone crop-dusted the room with Axe body spray and desperation. If this keeps up, I'll end up humping the furniture like a chihuahua on meth. Is this what it's like to be a teenager? Because if so, I owe every hormone-addled adolescent I've ever met a sincere fucking apology. This isn't puberty; it's a goddamn hostage situation, and my sanity is negotiating for its release.

I swear, if I don't find some relief soon, I'm going to spontaneously combust. They'll find nothing but a pile of ash and a really confused look on Erik's face. "Gee, I didn't know Gullveig was that flammable." Yeah, flammable with lust, you oblivious Norse beefcake. Maybe I should start a support group: "Hi, I'm Lile, and I'm a reincarnated horndog trapped in a medieval Lolita's body."

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Fuck me sideways with a rusty spoon, this is...

No. No, no, no. I can't. I won't. My fingers twitch with the urge to explore this alien landscape of flesh, but I force them still. "Keep it in your pants, you hormone-addled idiot," I mutter to myself, my voice a harsh whisper in the empty cottage. "You want to make your gender dysphoria worse? Because that's how you make your gender dysphoria worse."

I pace the room like a caged animal, my steps quick and jerky. The depersonalization and derealization are already cranking up to eleven, making the world around me seem like some twisted funhouse mirror version of reality. If I give in to these urges now, I'll be stuck in this hellish limbo for years, with no modern pharmaceuticals to dull the edge of my fractured psyche.

"Fuck," I hiss, running my hands through my hair. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

I need a distraction. Something, anything to keep my mind off the incessant throbbing between my legs. My eyes land on the dirty trenchers from our morning meal, and I latch onto the task like a drowning man grasping at driftwood.

I attack the wooden plates with a ferocity that would make a berserker proud, scrubbing until my knuckles are raw and bleeding. The mindless repetition helps, a little. When the trenchers are clean enough to eat off (not that the bar is particularly high in this cesspit of medieval hygiene), I move on to the floors.

"Sweep, sweep, sweep," I chant under my breath, the broom moving in frantic arcs across the packed earth. "Don't think about your body. Don't think about the wrongness. Just sweep."

The table comes next, then the bedroom, then the washroom. I work like a woman possessed, which, given the state of my fragmented psyche, isn't far from the truth. With each completed task, I feel a tiny bit more grounded in this flesh prison I'm forced to call home.

I pause at the hearth, tossing a few logs onto the dying embers. The fire flares to life, and for a moment, I'm tempted to thrust my hand into the flames. Just to feel something real, something that isn't this constant disconnect between mind and body.

"Bad idea," I mutter, shaking my head. "Erik would ask questions. Can't have that."

My gaze drifts to the ladder leading up to the attic. Right. One last frontier to conquer in this crusade against my own traitorous mind. I start up the rungs, only to nearly topple backwards as my foot catches on the hem of my dress.

"Son of a whore-fucking, pox-ridden, shit-eating BITCH!" I snarl, catching myself just in time. "Who the everloving FUCK invented these godsforsaken rags? What slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging cretin looked at a woman and thought, 'You know what would be great? If we wrapped them in yards of fabric specifically designed to trip them up and expose their naughty bits at the slightest breeze!'"

I yank the offending garment up, bunching it around my waist as I stomp up the remaining rungs. "Bet it was some limp-dicked nobleman with more money than sense," I grumble. "Probably got off on watching his wife struggle to do basic tasks while he lounged around in his breeches, scratching his balls and thinking up new ways to oppress the peasantry."

The attic greets me with its usual musty embrace. Shelves lined with books I've read a hundred times over, each one more mind-numbingly dull than the last. I swear, if I have to read one more treatise on the proper way to balance a man's humors using nothing but turnip juice and prayer, I'm going to lose what's left of my sanity.

"At least Erik's medical texts aren't complete hogwash," I mutter, running a finger along the spine of a particularly well-worn volume. "Natural pharmacology that actually works. It's a fucking miracle the villagers haven't burned him at the stake for witchcraft yet."

I set about dusting the shelves, my movements mechanical and precise. "Then again," I continue my one-sided conversation, "these slack-jawed yokels probably think leeches are the height of medical science. Wouldn't know real medicine if it bit them in their plague-ridden asses."

Task complete, I descend the ladder with considerably more grace than my ascent, though I still nearly brain myself on the last rung. Back in the main room, I collapse into a chair, my body suddenly leaden with exhaustion.

My eyes drift to the washroom, and a thought begins to form. "A cold bath," I muse aloud, tapping my fingers against the arm of the chair. "Or better yet, just dump a bucket of ice-cold water over my head. Shock the system back to baseline."

I chew my lip, considering the idea. "It could work," I say slowly. "Reset everything to zero. Numb me out enough to get through another day in this godforsaken hellscape."

I stand, my decision made. As I move towards the washroom, my hand already reaching for the bucket, I can't help but wonder if this is just another form of self-flagellation. Another way to punish myself for the crime of existing in a body that feels like a borrowed skin.

With a determined grip, I seize the wooden bucket, its rough surface scraping against my palms as I march into the washroom. The cold air nips at my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. Without hesitation, I begin to strip, peeling off layers of coarse fabric that suddenly feel suffocating. "Can't have you getting wet now, can we?" I mutter to my discarded clothes, a sardonic smile twisting my lips. "Wouldn't want to ruin Erik's precious gift with my little experiment in masochism."

Naked as the day I was born - or rather, reborn into this hellish existence - I lift my feet and step into the tub. The metal is frigid against my soles, a preview of the icy torment to come. I hoist the bucket, its weight suddenly seeming immense in my childish arms. "Here's to you, you cosmic bastards," I growl, tipping the bucket.

The water crashes over me, a liquid avalanche that steals the breath from my lungs. It's beyond cold - it's a liquid dagger, piercing every inch of my skin. I gasp, a strangled sound that's half laugh, half sob. "Fuck!" I hiss through chattering teeth, quickly lowering myself to sit in the shallow pool at the bottom of the tub.

My skin prickles, a thousand tiny needles of ice stabbing me from every angle. I force myself to remain still, to let the cold seep into my bones. Maybe if I freeze myself solid, I'll wake up back in my real body, in my real life. Or maybe I'll just die here, a popsicle in a metal tub. Either option seems preferable to this farce of an existence.

I tilt my head back, my wet hair slapping against the tub with a dull thud. My eyes fix on the ceiling, boring into the rough-hewn beams as if I could see through them, past the thatched roof and into the cosmos beyond.

"Listen up, you interdimensional fuckwits!" I snarl, my voice echoing in the small space. "I know you're watching. I know you're getting your jollies from this little freak show you've set up. Well, joke's on you, because I'm not playing by your rules anymore."

I slam my fist against the side of the tub, relishing the sharp pain that shoots up my arm. It's real, it's visceral, it's mine. "I will find a way to cum," I declare, my voice low and dangerous. "Oh yes, I'll figure out how to work this alien plumbing you've saddled me with. And when I do? When I finally crack the code of this prepubescent pussy? That's when the real fun begins."

A manic grin spreads across my face, my teeth chattering in a rhythm that feels like a war drum. "I'm coming for you next, you gender-bending bastards. You think this is funny? Stealing my cock and balls, trapping me in this... this child's body? I'll show you funny. I'll hunt down every last one of you, and I swear by all that's unholy, I'll make you pay."

I lean forward, water sloshing around me as I gesture wildly, my words becoming more frenzied with each passing second. "You want to play god? Fine. But remember, even gods can bleed. And when I find you - oh, and I will find you - I'm going to introduce you to a whole new level of gender dysphoria. I'll swap your genders so hard, you'll forget what species you are, let alone what's between your legs."

With a heavy sigh that seems to come from the very depths of my soul, I haul myself up from the frigid water. My skin prickles instantly, a thousand tiny needles of ice stabbing at me from every angle. "God fucking damn it, it's so cold," I hiss through chattering teeth, fumbling for the linen cloth. "But hey, at least I'm not horny anymore. Just angry. So. Fucking. Angry."

I scrub myself dry with more force than necessary, as if I could somehow erase this alien body along with the water droplets. The rough fabric chafes against my skin, leaving angry red marks in its wake. Good. Let this body feel as raw and abraded as my psyche.

Dressing is a clumsy affair, my fingers numb and uncooperative as I struggle with the unfamiliar fastenings of my medieval garb. "Fuck these primitive clothes," I mutter, yanking the laces of my bodice tight enough to constrict my breathing. "What I wouldn't give for a good old zipper right about now."

Finally clothed, I stomp into the main room, my footsteps echoing in the empty cottage. The silence mocks me, a stark reminder of my isolation in this godforsaken time. My eyes dart around, searching for something, anything to distract me from the maelstrom of rage and frustration churning in my gut.

And then it hits me. A wicked grin spreads across my face, an expression that would look utterly out of place on the innocent visage of Lile. "I know," I drawl, my voice dripping with malicious glee. "I'll fucking rip into Erik's mead. Let's see how the mighty Norse healer likes it when his precious brew goes missing."

I make my way to the cellar door, throwing it open with more force than necessary. The hinges groan in protest, and for a moment I worry I might have broken something. But no - everything in this primitive hellhole is built to last, unlike the planned obsolescence bullshit of my own time.[...]