It's funny how fast the extraordinary becomes ordinary when you're too busy chasing chickens to think about existential dread. There was something deeply grounding about routine—the clatter of wooden bowls, the smell of damp hay, the scramble to catch a goat that refused to stay in its pen. In this life i once thought strange, I found myself slipping into rhythms that no longer felt foreign.
The language had been the first hurdle, a never-ending puzzle where everyone else had the box and I was stuck guessing what went where. But gradually, piece by stubborn piece, it came together. One day I woke up, listened to Ingrid humming softly by the hearth, and realized I wasn't translating anymore. Anglo-Saxon words had nestled comfortably into my brain, cozying up right alongside English like they'd always been there. It felt like unlocking a secret passage—not just into understanding, but belonging.
My grasp of the language soon reached the point where I could effortlessly sass Einar without stopping to mentally rehearse first. I still remember the proud gleam in Ingrid's eyes when I first called him a "grumbling old bear" perfectly—though Einar just harrumphed and grumbled something about me taking after my mother's sharp tongue. He muttered it under his breath, but I caught the hint of amusement.
Days slipped comfortably into routine. The system Loki had gifted me quickly faded into the background—like an old phone app I'd downloaded in a moment of boredom and promptly forgotten. At first, I'd checked it obsessively, thrilled at each incremental boost in my stats, but real life quickly proved far more engaging than some ethereal RPG. When you're busy mastering the fine art of sneaking honeycakes without getting caught, checking your charisma stat feels pretty trivial. Not to mention there were chickens to wrangle, firewood to gather, and enough chores to fill three lifetimes.
Oh, I knew it was there. But sometimes weeks would pass before I remembered it even existed. My past life lingered similarly—like an old dream, vivid but fading. Memories remained clear enough to occasionally remind me of missed luxuries like toothpaste, running water, and pizza delivery. But those recollections became increasingly distant, more amusing anecdotes than pangs of loss.
I couldn't forget—not completely. But every day, Alice the Anglo-Saxon girl overshadowed the twenty-first-century analyst with existential crises and a caffeine addiction. The new me was scrappy, resourceful, and a little wild. I liked her more than I expected.
By my fifth year, I'd fully settled into this strange yet comforting reality. Ingrid and Einar no longer felt like adoptive parents or guardians but simply my family. Ingrid, whose patience seemed inexhaustible even when I proudly helped her by scattering flour across the entire floor, was the warmth of home. Einar, gruff yet gentle beneath his bluster, taught me simple joys—like how to pick a decent apple from a questionable tree, or the proper way to feed chickens without getting swarmed. I learned to braid kindling, to wash clothes in freezing water without cursing (much), to avoid the goat with the spiteful headbutts.
"Too clever for your own good," Ingrid would tease, ruffling my hair. But her eyes held pride, not worry.
Seasons came and went, carrying familiar rhythms. Spring brought rainstorms that turned the village into ankle-deep mud and frantic sheep-herding. Summers meant climbing trees until Einar shouted threats about broken necks. Autumn was all golden leaves, crisp air, and berries sweet enough to stain my fingers for days. Winter involved huddling around a smoky fire, listening to tales of old heroes, wandering spirits, and cunning tricksters—stories that resonated just a bit too personally, thanks to Loki's meddling. I didn't mention that part to them though.
Yet, somehow, even that faded. It became easy—natural even—to forget about gods, mythical beings, and my strange origins when Ingrid was singing softly at the loom or when Einar grumbled as I tagged along behind him in the fields, peppering him with endless questions about sheep, wolves, and herbs.
Sometimes, at night, wrapped in coarse blankets, staring at shadows flickering on the walls, I wondered if Loki watched me still, if he found amusement in my simple life. I imagined his mocking grin, his knowing eyes. But even those thoughts came less often now. Worrying about gods required energy that was better spent trying to evade baths or plotting revenge on Hilda's boys for pelting me with mud again. I still owed them a frog.
It was after a heavy rainfall, one of those long, relentless storms that left the village more puddle than path. I was busy hopping from patch of grass to patch of grass, careful to avoid the mud. Ingrid had finally convinced me to wash up properly yesterday—no way was I volunteering for a repeat performance. The cold water still haunted my nightmares.
I miscalculated one particularly enthusiastic leap, landing squarely in a puddle with a splash. Water soaked my shoes instantly, cold seeping through woolen socks. I groaned dramatically—mostly out of habit—before glancing down at the offending puddle.
And froze.
My reflection stared back at me clearly, shimmering slightly as ripples faded. I'd never actually seen myself, not clearly anyway; we didn't exactly have mirrors lying around. But here I was, face-to-face with a stranger in muddy water.
"Oh."
Dark blue hair, deeper than midnight sky, fell loosely around a face that was too pale for someone who spent most days outside running wild. But the real kicker? The eyes—bright, unmistakably vivid red, gleaming back at me like polished rubies set into a porcelain doll.
I knelt slowly, dipping one hesitant finger into the puddle as if to verify the reality. My reflection rippled again but returned unchanged.
Well. That explained a few things. Like why the villagers whispered when they thought I couldn't hear, or why Ingrid sometimes watched me with quiet concern, or why Einar always seemed to glance away quickly when our eyes met.
I sighed, rubbing at my face. "Thanks a lot, Loki. Very subtle."
Suddenly, all the strange warnings, cautious looks, and whispered conversations made a lot more sense. I wasn't just "clever" or even mildly unsettling. In a world of farmers and priests, I was practically a walking bad omen.
I stood back up, shaking water from my foot as best I could. There wasn't much to do about it now—I couldn't exactly dye my hair or pop in colored contacts. The villagers had always seen me as strange. Now I understood why.
Oh well. If being a blue-haired, red-eyed curiosity was the worst I had to deal with, I'd manage.
"Hey Alice!" Ingrid called from the doorway, waving me inside. "Stop staring at puddles and help me out in here!"
I smiled weakly, stepping around the puddle with newfound care. "Coming!"
After all, what's life without a little chaos?
Life was simple—messy, tiring, occasionally smelly—but simple. I'd traded world ending dread for the mundane, and honestly? I was happier for it.
I was Alice, daughter of Ingrid and Einar. No longer a misplaced soul dropped into history as a cosmic joke. Just Alice—bright, curious, and slightly troublesome. A bit odd, perhaps, but theirs. Completely theirs.
For the first time, my world felt stable. My days were filled with work and warmth, mischief and meaning. I didn't fear what came next. I simply lived.