Then—
the monster spoke.
"Well," the man said, voice low and rough, shaped in that strange, beard-wrapped English that sounded almost right and yet deeply wrong, like someone had taken real words and bent them sideways, "long time no see, fair one."
Bruce did not like that sentence.
He did not like the way it sounded.
He did not like the way it meant something.
Mother made a noise Bruce had never heard before.
It was sharp. Breathless. High.
Not fear.
Joy.
Before Bruce could even decide whether to scream or crawl under the dirt, she moved—fast, reckless, straight toward the giant.
"Rob—!"
The man dropped the sack.
It hit the ground with a dull, heavy thud that smelled like grain and dried meat and things Bruce had only ever known as food appearing.
Then Rob opened his arms.
Mother ran into them.
She vanished against his chest like she'd been waiting there the whole time.
She was small—Bruce had always known that—but next to him she looked tiny, barely reaching his chest. When she hit him, she clutched his tunic like she might shatter if she let go, her voice breaking as words spilled out in a tangled mess of Norse and that weird half-English she was still learning.
"Rob—Rob… where thou been? I… I fear much. I think—" her breath caught, "—I think thou dead."
Bruce froze.
Dead?
Who was dead?
Why was this being discussed now?
Rob's arms locked around her like a belt.
Bruce felt it through her body—the way her shoulders dropped, the way the tightness in her spine finally gave up. Relief poured through her like warm water, sudden and heavy, the kind you only feel when something you've been holding together for too long finally stops threatening to break.
Rob let out a low laugh.
Not loud.
Satisfied.
"Nay," he murmured into her hair. "Not dead. Never that. I be here now."
He did not let go.
He held her.
And held her.
And kept holding her.
Bruce watched, sitting in the dirt, surrounded by chickens who had crept closer in a loose half-circle like a council convened to judge bad decisions.
This was wrong.
This was a scene.
Rob's hands moved.
Bruce did not like that either.
They slid down Mother's back—not grabbing, but claiming, like hands learning a shape they already believed belonged to them. One lingered at her waist. Another rested at her hip, steady and confident, as if he needed proof she was still solid and real.
Mother did not push him away.
She clung harder.
Which somehow made it worse.
Rob leaned back just enough to look at her face.
His eyes—blue, too blue—moved over her like she was a miracle he had misplaced and finally found again.
"God's teeth," he breathed, voice rough. "Thou art fairer than my memory."
Bruce's stomach twisted.
Why was he talking like that.
Why did adults talk like that.
Mother's cheeks flushed. She looked away, embarrassed, but not angry.
"Rob," she said softly, broken English wobbling under the weight of feeling. "No speak… silly words."
"Silly?" Rob grinned. "I speak only truth."
Then he leaned in.
Bruce's mind went blank.
No.
No no no no no.
Rob dipped his head, slow and deliberate, aiming straight for her mouth.
Mother hesitated.
Not fear.
Something worse.
Indecision.
At the last moment, she turned her face aside.
Rob's mouth landed on her cheek instead.
Bruce exhaled in relief—
Too early.
Rob did not stop.
He kissed her cheek again.
Slow.
Then lower.
Along her jaw.
Then beneath her ear, where her skin was soft and warm and apparently a terrible idea to touch because Mother made a small, broken sound that Bruce did not recognize and did not want to learn.
"Come now," Rob murmured, voice smiling and hungry at the same time. "Just once proper, Lili. One kiss, and I ask no more. Only one."
Bruce's eyes widened.
Ask no more??
That was a lie.
Mother's breath hitched.
She pressed her hand against Rob's chest—not pushing, not pulling.
"Rob… is too soon," she said quietly. "I… I not ready yet."
Rob chuckled, low and confident, like her words were a puzzle he already knew how to solve.
"Soon enough," he said. "I wait, aye. But I wait close."
He leaned in again.
Bruce's brain finally broke.
This was too much.
This was gross.
This was awkward.
This was romance.
He did the only thing available to him.
He screamed.
"WAAAH!"
The sound tore out of him like a battle horn—loud, offended, and absolute.
The chickens jolted, feathers puffing, clucking in alarm as they waddled closer like a confused but loyal militia forming a defensive ring around the baby.
Romance died instantly.
Rob froze mid-motion.
Lili jerked back just as fast, eyes wide, hands flying to her chest before snapping toward Bruce on pure instinct.
"Oh—my baby—" she gasped in Norse, panic slicing clean through her blush as she rushed toward him.
But Rob saw Bruce first.
And something in him changed.
It was almost funny how fast it happened.
The hunger vanished.
The teasing grin collapsed.
His shoulders loosened, his breath slowed, his whole presence softened like a blade sheathed mid-swing.
"Aye?" Rob said, stunned. "What—"
He stepped closer, eyes dropping to Bruce like he'd just discovered something sacred in the dirt.
"By the saints…" he breathed.
Bruce's crying stuttered—not stopped, just confused by the sudden lack of tension.
Then Rob spoke again, and though the words were wrapped in that old, crooked English, the tone cut through perfectly clear.
"Who is this little kitten?"
Bruce did not like that.
He was not a kitten.
He was a warrior trapped in a humiliating situation.
Rob crouched smoothly—no awkwardness, no hesitation—and reached for Bruce with hands that immediately knew what they were doing.
Not grabbing.
Not snatching.
Supporting the head.
Sliding an arm beneath the tiny body.
Lifting carefully, like Bruce was made of glass and worth the effort.
Bruce's wail caught halfway out.
Because—annoyingly—
Rob held him right.
Warm.
Secure.
Confident.
The panic eased despite Bruce's better judgment.
Rob lifted him up to eye level, grinning like an idiot. "Look at thee," he said, wonder creeping into his voice. "Look at thee, little thing. So small. So fair."
Bruce sniffed.
Blink.
Sniff again.
Rob bounced him once—gentle, practiced, irritatingly effective. "Hush now, hush," he crooned, suddenly ridiculous. "No crying, little dove. No crying—Rob's got thee."
Bruce did not know why.
But his body believed it.
The screaming faded into angry little huffs. His fists unclenched. The world stopped spinning quite so fast.
Lili stood frozen a step away, hands hovering uselessly in the air. Then she saw it—the way Rob held the baby, the way Bruce had settled.
Something melted in her face.
Relief.
Gratitude.
And something dangerous blooming quietly beneath it.
Rob glanced down at her, still cradling Bruce like a treasure he hadn't known he was missing.
"What call'st thou her?" he asked softly. "What name hath this bright little one?"
Lili swallowed, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her English came out careful and proud, stitched together word by word.
"She… Lily," she said. Then, embarrassed by the sweetness of it, she added quickly, "Little lily pad."
Rob barked a laugh, delighted. "Lily?" He looked between mother and child, amused. "Two Lilies then! God save us."
He leaned closer to Bruce, lowering his voice like he was addressing a guest of honor at a feast.
"Well met, little Lilypad."
Bruce puffed his cheeks.
Still damp.
Still humiliated.
Still suspicious.
But… weirdly pleased.
No one had ever said Bruce like it meant something good.
But Lilypad?
Rob said it like it was precious.
Rob noticed the expression and laughed again. "Ha! Look—she understands." He grinned at Lili. "Bright little child, this. Bright as a candle."
Bruce scowled faintly.
He was not bright.
He was tolerating this.
---
Then Rob's nose wrinkled.
He sniffed once.
Then again.
His eyes widened in mock horror.
"Ah," he said solemnly. "She hath done a war crime."
Lili blinked. "What?"
Rob grinned at her, then looked down at Bruce with exaggerated seriousness. "Piss," he announced, as if naming a dragon. "Our little Lilypad hath pissed."
Bruce's face went red with fury.
He attempted to object.
"Ng—GAH!"
Rob laughed. Loud. Unashamed. "Aye, aye, I hear thee," he said cheerfully. "Thou art innocent. 'Twas… the trousers."
This was slander.
Before Lili could even move, Rob stood and carried Bruce toward the lake like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Lili hurried after him, stunned.
Rob knelt at the shore, tested the water with his fingers, and winced. "Cold," he muttered. Then, without ceremony, he washed Bruce quickly and efficiently, hands steady, movements practiced.
Cold water kissed Bruce's skin.
He shrieked.
"WAAAH!"
"Peace, peace," Rob said calmly, utterly unbothered. "Only a moment. Better cold water than rash, aye? There. There."
Bruce did not agree.
But the moment passed.
Rob wrapped him up snug again, warm and secure, and carried him back inside like he belonged there.
He laid Bruce into the little bed by the hearth with the care of a man who had handled babies since before he could properly grow a beard.
"There," Rob murmured. "Warm now. Safe now."
Lili stood frozen in the doorway, hands hovering uselessly, watching like she wasn't sure if this was real or something her exhaustion had invented.
Rob turned, strode back out, and returned hauling the great sack inside with a grunt.
Then came the miracles.
Bread.
Cheese.
Smoked meat.
Dried fruit.
Onions.
Grain.
And finally—wrapped carefully—one glass bottle.
Lili stared.
"What… is?" she asked, cautious.
Rob held it up, grinning. "Wine," he said. "For me—and mayhap for thee, if thou can stomach it."
Lili looked at it like he'd offered her dragon blood.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then did what she always did when overwhelmed.
"I… start fire," she said quickly, nodding like this was urgent business.
Rob stepped in front of her.
"Nay," he said simply. "Thou wilt rest."
Before she could argue, he scooped her up like she weighed nothing.
She squealed—half laughter, half outrage. "Rob!"
"Peace," he said, pleased with himself. "Stay put."
He set her down on the bed beside Bruce like she was something precious and fragile and not to be argued with.
"Rest," he ordered gently. "I be here now. Let me do."
Then he went to the hearth.
Wood stacked fast.
Kindling shaved with his big knife like peeling an apple.
Flint struck steel—once, twice—third spark caught, and fire bloomed.
Warmth returned.
The cabin stopped feeling like a dying box and began to feel like a home again.
The chickens waddled closer, deeply approving of heat and activity. One hen clucked loudly, as if filing a formal complaint about being overlooked.
Rob snorted. "Aye, aye," he told them seriously. "Your lordships shall have crumbs."
He returned carrying a meat pie already cut into thick portions.
"My mother made it," he said, voice softer now. "I saved it for thee. For… for when I found thee again."
Lili stared at it like she didn't know how to accept kindness that came without demand.
Her face crumpled.
Tears came fast, hot, unplanned.
She covered her mouth, making a small, broken sound.
Rob set the pie down, sat beside her, and pulled her into his chest without asking.
Lili cried like she had been holding it in for months.
Rob held her. Stroked her hair. Her back. Clumsy, careful, earnest.
"Thou art strong," he murmured. "Stronger than any in Einsway. Stronger than men with mail and swords." He swallowed. "I… I should ha' come sooner."
She shook her head against him. "I… I live. I make. I survive. But… hard. Very hard."
"Aye," Rob said, jaw tightening. "And I see it. I see thee. And I say this—Duke's men shall not find thee here." His voice hardened. "Not while I breathe."
Lili pulled back, eyes wide. "Rob…"
"I can stay," he said. "Two weeks, mayhap. Then duty calls. But for now—thou shalt rest. Birth was not easy. Thou be thin. Thou be coughing. That won't do."
She looked at him like she didn't know whether to trust the promise or fear needing it.
"Rest," he repeated. "Eat. Sleep. Let me carry the load a little."
Bruce lay tucked warm in bed, watching in stunned baby silence.
Then—because the universe had a sense of humor—
the chickens waddled over and began pecking at the meat pie with absolute confidence.
Rob blinked.
Lili hiccupped a laugh through tears.
Bruce felt a strange, unwelcome calm settle in his chest.
Rob still looked like a bully.
Rob still had wandering hands and eyes that wanted too much.
But watching him build a fire, feed his mother, and speak like a man who meant to stand between them and the world—
Bruce admitted it, grudgingly.
Maybe Rob wasn't such a bad guy after all.
That thought settled in Bruce slowly, unwillingly—like admitting a rival might actually be competent. And as the evening wore on, that feeling only grew.
The sun sank low, bleeding gold and red through the trees. The fire crackled softly. Rob and Mother ate at the small table—slowly, properly—while Bruce drank from her in the way his body demanded, warm and safe and drowsy. His eyelids grew heavy fast.
Too fast to notice the problem at first.
There was nowhere for Rob to sleep.
Bruce realized it vaguely, in the way babies realize big things late—when Mother hesitated, when Rob glanced once at the floor, once at the door.
It was Mother who spoke first.
"You… can sleep," she said, halting, careful. "On bed. Is warm. Is—" She swallowed. "Better than floor."
Rob did not hesitate.
Not even a little.
"Aye," he said easily. "That I shall."
And so it was decided.
The bed was small.
Too small.
Bruce lay on the side closest to the fire, away from the wall. Mother lay in the middle, one arm wrapped around him instinctively. Behind her—pressed to the wall—was Rob, his back against the boards, his large arms folding around them both.
Too close.
Too warm.
Bruce felt Mother's heartbeat through her chest—fast, yes, but not fearful. Excited. Alive. Her breathing was steady, relaxed. Safe.
Rob's presence was solid. Heavy. Protective.
No danger.
Bruce felt no fear.
Only warmth.
Only… rightness.
Sleep tugged at him hard.
He blinked up at Mother's face, firelight soft across her tired eyes, and without thinking—without effort—he murmured in Norse,
"God natt, mama."
Her breath caught.
She smiled so wide it hurt to look at.
"Oh," she whispered. "Good night, my little one."
Rob shifted slightly. "What said she?"
Mother laughed softly. "She say… good night, mama."
Rob grinned. "Ah."
He leaned closer, voice gentle. "Good night, little one."
Then he pointed at Mother. "Moder."
Then, boldly, without shame, he pointed at himself.
"Fader."
Bruce froze.
Oh.
Oh no.
Mother stiffened slightly. "Rob—"
But Bruce wasn't listening.
This wasn't romance.
This was a challenge.
Bruce puffed his cheeks, gathered his strength, and spoke—slow, careful, proud.
"God natt… moder."
Both of them froze.
Bruce continued, triumphant.
"God natt… fader."
Silence.
Then—
Mother gasped.
"Oh—oh, you clever thing," she breathed, laughing in disbelief. "So fast! You so smart, Lilypad!"
Rob stared.
A wide, stupid grin spread across his face.
He laughed once, quiet and stunned, then hugged Mother closer. "There," he murmured, pleased beyond reason. "Thou heard it. She named me."
Mother sputtered. "Rob, I— I not—"
He leaned closer, voice low. "It is all right. I know thou hast suffered. But thou can trust me."
She hesitated.
Then closed her eyes.
Just a little.
Bruce's eyes went wide in horror.
NO.
The kiss happened—brief, soft, nothing dramatic—but Bruce reacted as if they'd committed a crime.
"Ng—ew!"
He turned his face away, clapped his hands over his eyes, offended beyond words.
They broke apart instantly, laughing.
Rob poked Bruce gently on the nose. "Peace, little one. 'Tis only thy mother and father showing love."
Bruce swatted the finger away and pouted, cheeks puffed.
Disgusting.
As sleep finally claimed him, he heard quiet laughter. Soft kisses. Contentment.
His eyes drifted to the corner where the chickens huddled together, feathers fluffed, guarding their eggs.
A family.
Bruce's hand rested over his chest.
Warmth spread there—real, deep, unfamiliar.
In his last life, he had never known this.
In this one…
Maybe he had found it.
Bruce smiled.
And fell asleep.