History and geography were always my thing. Even since I was a child in my last life. It had started with late nights poring over atlases and old maps, turning into a full-blown obsession sometime around college. I knew the capitals of every country, the ebb and flow of borders through centuries, and could identify obscure islands from grainy satellite images. If trivia nights had been a viable career path, I'd have retired early with a belt full of championship titles, an unhealthy addiction to niche Wikipedia rabbit holes and hell of a lot more hours in paradox games then I would be willing to admit.
Maybe that was exactly why Loki had dropped me in the past. Trickster gods like him having a sick sense of humor.
I'd suspected for a while that I was somewhere along the eastern coast of Anglo-Saxon England. The clues were obvious enough—wooden crosses, whispered prayers in what felt like Old English, monks in plain robes, and a culture so thoroughly steeped in Christianity that even the pagan leftovers seemed mildly apologetic. The coastal air had that telltale brine of the North Sea, and the rhythm of the tides seemed too familiar to be purely coincidental. Besides, a vast sea to the east wasn't a feature that screamed many locations aside from the Britannic isle.
But suspicion isn't certainty. For all I knew, Loki had decided to raise Doggerland from the sea just to throw me off my game. And in a world as unforgiving as this one, certainty wasn't just comforting—it was survival. I got my answer one chilly afternoon during one of the priest's regular visits.
Father Aldwin had checked in regularly from the start. His visits were gentle and friendly, his manner that of a shepherd tending a particularly fragile flock. He always made an effort to ensure I felt safe around him. Of course, after the recent revelation of my reflection—red eyes and blue hair—I couldn't really blame him for monitoring my potential to sprout wings or start speaking in tongues.
That day, the priest had settled into conversation with Ingrid while I sat nearby, carefully sorting herbs we'd gathered that morning. I pretended not to listen, but every word lodged itself firmly in the center of my thoughts. I was practiced at fading into the background, letting my presence become as innocuous as a stool or a cup. It helped to keep up the innocent-child act when people forgot you were there.
"You're looking tired, Father," Ingrid said, pouring him some warmed cider. "Has your week been difficult?"
Father Aldwin sighed, taking the cup with both hands. "Long, perhaps, rather than difficult. Bishop Eadfrith at Lindisfarne requested more medicinal herbs from the village to replenish their supplies. It's a blessing to assist, but the travel grows wearisome, especially in weather like this."
My hand froze over a sprig of thyme. Lindisfarne.
The name rang out like a bell in my mind. Lindisfarne wasn't just another monastery—it was the monastery. Holy Island. The site of the 793 Viking raid, a historical moment that kicked off the period of 200-300 years scholars would refer to as the Viking Age more than a thousand years later. I remembered every detail: the isolated island, the scribes painstakingly illuminating manuscripts, the helplessness of peaceful monks as longships crested the horizon like omens.
Loki, you theatrical bastard.
Of course he didn't just drop me into history—he placed me on its doorstep.
"It must be difficult, traveling so far," Ingrid replied with sympathy. "But the monks' blessings surely make it worthwhile."
"Indeed," Father Aldwin said warmly. "They send their gratitude each time, along with prayers for our village's continued safety."
I nearly choked. Safety. If memory served, those prayers were going to need divine intervention on steroids.
Trying not to look like a child teetering on the edge of a historical panic attack, I gently interrupted, keeping my tone airy and innocent. "Lindisfarne, Father? Is it very far away?"
He turned toward me, smile soft. "Not terribly far, Alice. A journey north along the coast, a few hours at most by boat. It sits just off the mainland on a little island—a holy place, home to monks who dedicate their lives to God."
"Do you visit them often?" I asked, eyes wide with mock curiosity.
"Often enough," he nodded. "It is an important center of learning and prayer. They copy the Gospels, preserve sacred texts, and keep the flame of knowledge lit even in these dark times."
I nodded as if the idea of candlelit scribes wasn't sending alarm bells screaming through my head. The implications were massive. It confirmed everything. The timeframe. The location. The trajectory of doom barreling toward us like a tidal wave of steel.
"Do people from far away ever visit?" I continued. "From across the sea?"
Father Aldwin chuckled. "On occasion, yes. Merchants, pilgrims, even the odd scholar. But it remains peaceful. Remote. God watches over it."
Right. I thought grimly. And Thor's watching, too, with a sparking hammer and a calendar marked 'coming soon.'
He set down his cup and turned back to Ingrid with a softer expression. "Before I forget—there's good news from the monastery. Bishop Eadfrith offered special prayers when we told him of your condition. He sends blessings and hopes for a healthy child."
My head snapped up. Ingrid's hand drifted to her stomach. Her cheeks flushed as she met my eyes, smile warm and a little nervous.
"Alice," she began gently, "we meant to tell you soon. You're going to have a brother or sister."
The words hit like a stone thrown into still water—ripples of realization spreading through me.
Of course. Einar's watchfulness. The hushed conversations. The extra care around Ingrid. And Father Aldwin's deeper reason for visiting.
They'd waited years. Hoping. Praying. Quietly carrying that yearning beneath every mundane day and every quiet night. Ingrid's smile always held a trace of sorrow behind it, the kind that only those who've longed and waited too long could understand. Einar, ever the stoic, never said much on the subject, but there was a softness in the way he looked at Ingrid when she hummed lullabies to no child in particular.
He had always done his part, quietly and without fanfare. Fetching firewood before Ingrid asked. Taking over the heavier chores when she looked fatigued. Leaving small bundles of berries or late-summer apples in the kitchen without comment. It was in the details—the gentle sort of love you could miss if you didn't know what to look for.
And now, finally, a child of their own.
This moment wasn't about me, not really. It was about them. About joy blooming after so many seasons of stillness. About a long-dormant hope that had finally been answered.
Had I been part of a divine trade? Or just a prelude?
I looked at Ingrid, her expression glowing with quiet joy, and something twisted in my chest—warmth, affection, and a sliver of guilt. Not because of anything they'd done, but because a part of me, buried deep and fleeting, had wondered if this changed things. If now, with a child truly their own on the way, there might be less space for me. But I banished the thought as soon as it surfaced. It was a shadow born of fear, not reason. I knew better. Knew them better. Ingrid and Einar weren't the kind to measure love by blood. They had taken me in without hesitation, nurtured me, claimed me. Nothing about that had been conditional. They were far too kind, too steadfast, for a thought like that to ever cross their minds.
"That's wonderful," I said softly, and meant it.
Father Aldwin smiled. "God is kind, Ingrid. Your patience has been rewarded."
She nodded, voice thick with emotion. "We are truly blessed."
The priest stood, finishing his cider, then turned to me again—eyes keen, thoughtful. "And you, Alice. Be well. God watches over you, too."
I smiled sweetly. "Thank you, Father."
He left, and silence followed.
Ingrid turned to me gently. "Something troubling you, dear?"
I shook my head, masking the storm inside with practiced ease. "Just thinking."
She laughed. "Try not to think too hard. You're mangling the parsley."
I returned my attention to the herbs, but my thoughts spun in tighter circles.
Lindisfarne. A baby on the way. A sudden thunderclap somewhere in the distance signaling rain.
History was unfolding around me. And I was smack in the middle of the opening act.
Fantastic.
At least now, I knew exactly where I stood.
Next step? Try not to get crushed by the story I'd once seen on television.