Time passed.
Again.
Rob did not come often.
Sometimes weeks slipped by without him. Sometimes months. When he did appear, it was like a season—unexpected, welcome, and never staying long enough. He always came with stories and plans, big ones. He spoke of gathering coin through hunting and guard work, of saving enough to pay for a ship that would take them south, across something called Uther's Crossing—a vast body of water separating the island of Albion from warmer lands.
There, he said, they could find peace.
There, he said, they could live together as a family.
So while Rob worked on his great plans—coin, ships, and a future that kept moving just out of reach—Bruce learned not to wait by the door.
Life continued anyway.
Even without Rob.
Bruce grew. Not quickly. Just… steadily.
Mother learned to catch small animals with traps, clever ones placed where rabbits passed. The garden fed them well. Fish still came from the lake. They ate better than Bruce ever remembered eating in his old life.
And Bruce trained.
Always trained.
Not to fight. Not to hurt. Just to be useful.
That had always mattered to him.
In his last life, he had been good at carrying heavy bags for Sarah when she asked. He liked that. Liked being needed. But whenever he offered to help strangers—when Frank or Sarah weren't there—people always declined. Frank once explained it was because Bruce wore all black, sunglasses even at night, a long coat and heavy boots.
"Creepy," Frank had said.
Bruce still didn't understand that.
Neo from The Matrix wasn't creepy. He was cool.
This time around, Mother made him wear dresses instead. Fur and leather ones, stitched from the animals Rob brought back. There were no trousers anymore. His hair was kept long. Apparently this made him "cute."
Bruce did not argue.
He crawled until crawling became walking.
He walked until walking became stumbling little runs.
He pushed himself up from the dirt until his arms trembled and his small body collapsed in exhaustion.
Mother watched him with a mixture of pride and concern.
"You strange child," she would murmur in Norse, half amused, half worried. "Why you work so hard?"
Bruce flexed his tiny arms in response, as if that explained everything.
Standing still still felt wrong.
Mother herself grew brighter as time passed.
The sickness vanished completely. Her cheeks filled out. Her cough faded. Her eyes regained their sharpness. Sometimes she trained alongside Bruce—awkwardly. Push-ups were nearly impossible with her chest in the way, and running was something she quickly abandoned, muttering complaints while Bruce watched in confusion.
Rob, when present, had seemed to like those things.
Bruce did not understand adults.
Winter came again.
But it was not the winter of snow and death.
This one brought rain.
Endless rain. Mud. Gray skies that never quite decided what they wanted to be.
The forest shielded them from the worst of the wind. The roof held. The fence stood.
They survived.
This winter was easier.
Food was plentiful. They stayed inside during the worst downpours. The fire stayed lit. The chickens were content, huddled together, warm and dry.
Bruce watched the rain outside the door and thought—vaguely, distantly—that life wasn't so bad, it was just simple as all.
Bruce spoke more now.
Mostly Norse. Sometimes Rob's old, crooked English when Rob was around. Words came faster. Thoughts followed more easily. And with them came questions.
Not about Mother's gentle stories of reindeer or wandering lights in the sky.
Bruce wanted to know who she really was.
Where she had come from.
At first, Mother answered reluctantly. Then, when she realized Bruce listened without interrupting—without judging—she spoke more freely.
She told him of her people.
They were few in number. Silver-haired. Sharp-eyed. Not large like Rob. Not violent. A quiet people who moved with the seasons, following their reindeer herds across wide northern lands. They built no permanent homes. Raised no walls.
"Nature is home," Mother said simply. "Land is not owned. Only shared."
Bruce liked that.
It made sense.
Then he asked why she was here.
Mother hesitated.
Then said, "A bad man came."
That was always how these stories began.
"He took me as bargain," she explained carefully. "For peace. Between Albion… and my people. The Vildar."
Bruce frowned.
That didn't sound peaceful.
"He was bad," she continued quickly. "Cruel. So I ran. I hide here from him. And his followers."
Bruce absorbed this in silence.
Bad man.
Bad followers.
Forest good.
Simple.
One day, he pointed at the number carved into the cabin wall.
"904?" he asked.
Mother nodded. "Year you born," she said. "I think."
Bruce frowned harder.
Something about that number scratched at him, like an itch he couldn't reach. He asked Rob once too, but Rob only shrugged and said Einsway had a long history—nearly sixty years—and that the old elder might know more.
Both of them were useless.
Like people who had never paid attention in history lessons and couldn't explain why anything existed the way it did.
Then came the questions Bruce didn't quite know how to ask.
"Why… am I a girl?" he asked one evening, pointing at himself. "Not boy?"
Mother froze.
She blinked, confused, as if the answer should have been obvious.
She smiled gently. "It… complicated," she said. "You will know later. When bleeding comes. Once a month, then you are true woman."
Bruce stared at her.
"Bleeding?"
Mother laughed nervously. "Later," she repeated. "Too young now."
Bruce did not like that answer.
He liked answers.
Still, she told him one thing firmly—that Rob was his father.
And Bruce… accepted it.
Sort of.
He didn't really understand how babies were made anyway.
Time moved again.
Rob came and went.
Then one summer afternoon, Bruce noticed something wrong.
Mother's belly had changed.
Just a little.
A curve that hadn't been there before.
Bruce stared.
Then pointed.
Mother looked down. Smiled. Tired, but warm.
"Yes," she said softly. "Baby coming."
Bruce's mind stopped working.
"How?" he demanded.
Rob laughed.
"Do not trouble thyself with such matters, little kitten," he said easily. "Soon thou shalt have a playmate."
Bruce did not like that answer either.
By now, he could walk properly. Run a little. Do small push-ups on his knees. Five squats. Three sit-ups. His body felt right—stronger than it should have been.
Mother knew about his gift.
Rob had seen it once or twice, but dismissed it as coincidence. A plant growing too quickly. A flower blooming out of season.
Bruce had learned to focus.
If he concentrated—really concentrated—on one small thing, life responded.
A bud would open.
A stem would straighten.
The world leaned toward him.
He didn't know why.
He only knew it felt… right.
And somewhere deep inside—beneath the growing body, beneath the unanswered questions—the light-heart pulsed quietly.
Waiting.
---
That summer seemed to slow.
Rob and Mother were… excited.
They spoke often of the child growing in her belly. Rob called it my child, laying his hand there with a reverence that made Bruce feel strange. As if something precious had appeared where nothing had been before.
Bruce didn't understand it.
Only that Rob—who Bruce had thought was his father—now looked at Mother's stomach more than at him.
Bruce noticed these things.
It felt like suddenly he mattered less. Like he had been moved from person to object. Like a chair. Or a chicken.
But that was fine.
Bruce didn't need anyone anymore.
He had most of his teeth now. He didn't need milk. He could eat peas straight from the garden, berries from the bushes, and strawberries—those were his favorite. Rob brought bread sometimes, hard and chewy, and Bruce liked gnawing on it because it made him feel capable.
And he had the chickens.
Especially Mr. Terminator.
They were friends.
Papa and Mama loved each other. Papa still left. That was how it worked.
When Rob was gone, Mother rested. She sat outside the cottage on the wooden chair Rob had built, watching the trees sway and the clouds drift lazily across the sky. Birds passed overhead. Time felt soft.
Bruce, meanwhile, focused on the plants.
He noticed something.
If he ate a strawberry, waited a little, and then concentrated—really concentrated—his light-heart recovered faster. Not fully, but enough. And if he used it carefully, slowly, on a single plant…
The plant responded.
A stem thickened.
Leaves deepened in color.
A green bud swelled, blushed, and turned red.
Bruce stared.
It took hours. Resting. Focusing. Feeding. Resting again.
But it worked.
From nothing… to edible.
Bruce sat there amazed, hands dusty, mouth stained red, staring at the strawberry like it was proof of something important.
He could do this every day.
Not infinite strawberries.
But… enough.
And it didn't even hurt anymore.
The exhaustion came slower now. Lighter. The light-heart pulsed more gently, like it was learning with him.
The chickens gathered around, watching with unblinking, soulless eyes.
They seemed impressed.
Later that evening, the sun sank low and the warmth lingered.
The good kind of warm.
The kind that made the cottage feel solid instead of fragile.
The fire burned low in the hearth, just enough to keep the night chill away. Mother sat nearby with needle and thread, carefully stitching a new pair of soft leather shoes—small ones.
Not Bruce's size.
Bruce stared at them for a long moment.
She hummed as she worked, content and calm.
Bruce sat near the door where the chickens slept, cross-legged in a nest of grass, patting feathers absently. Mr. Terminator endured it with the dignity of someone who believed himself essential.
Rob had left earlier, back toward Einsway.
They weren't expecting anyone.
Bruce was just deciding this was a very good night—
when shouting cut through the trees.
Not nearby.
Running.
A voice—loud, urgent, tearing through the forest.
"LILI—!"
The chickens exploded into noise.
Feathers fluttered. Claws scraped wood.
Bruce's head snapped up.
Mother froze mid-stitch.
They recognized the voice at the same time.
"Rob?" Mother said, confused.
The door burst inward.
It slammed open so hard it nearly struck Bruce, night air rushing in and scattering dust and ash across the floor. Heavy footsteps followed immediately—boots pounding wood with no care at all.
Rob stormed inside.
He didn't look at Bruce.
Not even once.
He went straight to Mother.
"We have to go," he said, breathless. "Now."
"What?" Mother rose too fast, swaying. "Rob, what is—"
Rob seized the bucket beside the hearth and hurled the water into the fire.
The flames died in a violent hiss.
Smoke curled and vanished.
"Rob!" Mother cried. "What are you doing?!"
"There is no time," he said sharply, already pulling her by the arm. "I'm sorry, Lili. My family asked questions. I told them too much. I spoke of the baby. Word spread." His voice broke. "The Duke's men are coming. They think I'm hiding you."
Mother's face drained of color.
"But—my little Lilipad—"
Rob turned then.
Finally.
He looked at Bruce.
Bruce's heart leapt painfully into his throat.
"Little kitten," Rob said fast, voice tight but steady. "Listen to me."
Bruce nodded without thinking.
"You're strong," Rob continued. "You're brave. But if we all run together, you'll slow us down."
Bruce didn't understand.
Mother shook her head violently. "What are you saying? No. I won't leave her."
Rob tightened his grip on her arm. "Lili—please. You won't outrun them with the child. Think of the baby inside you." His voice dropped. "They might spare Lilypad. They will not spare the child you carry."
"No," Mother sobbed. "I won't leave her."
Rob swallowed hard.
Then he chose.
He scooped Bruce up and moved fast, crossing the room in long strides. He shoved aside the stones at the side of the hearth where firewood was fed, revealing the dark, soot-stained hollow behind it.
He lowered Bruce inside.
Ash dusted Bruce's feet. The stone was still warm.
The space was tight.
Too tight.
"Hide, little kitten," Rob whispered urgently. "Stay still. Stay quiet."
Bruce's chest burned. The air felt too small.
"Papa and Mama will come back," Rob said quickly. "I promise. Just be good. Just hide."
Mother was crying openly now. "Rob—no—please—"
"There's no time," Rob said, already dragging her toward the door. "I'm sorry."
He pulled her with him.
The last things Bruce heard were the chickens clicking in panic, Mother sobbing, and Rob's voice—sharp, breaking—
"Be a good girl. Stay hidden, my little kitten."
The door slammed shut.
Footsteps fled into the night.
Bruce stayed where he was.
Because he had been told to.
Because disappointing people hurt more than fear.
Darkness swallowed the world.
Only a thin blade of moonlight slid down through the chimney above, dust motes drifting in it like falling ash. The hens murmured anxiously. Mr. Terminator clicked and shifted, feathers puffed, restless.
Something was wrong.
Bruce hugged his knees.
And waited.
However the silence didn't last for long.
At first there was only the sound of Bruce's own blood—thudding in his ears so loud it felt like it might give him away. The ash under his knees was gritty. His throat burned from holding his breath. The moonlight down the chimney made the soot look like drifting snow.
Then—
a sound outside.
Not a twig snapping. Not wind.
Boots.
Many boots.
Heavy.
Timed.
The kind of steps that didn't care if the ground was soft, because armor didn't care about mud.
They came closer.
And with them, the faint clink of metal—chain and plates kissing each other with each stride, a sound like teeth clicking.
The chickens stiffened.
Mr. Terminator's neck stretched, feathers rising. The hens bunched together like they were trying to become one creature with eight hearts.
Shadows slid across the window.
Not one.
Several.
Blocking the moonlight in long moving bars.
Bruce's stomach turned cold.
A hand hit the door from the outside.
The latch rattled.
Then the door flew open so hard it banged against the wall and shuddered.
Cold night poured into the cottage.
Men flooded in.
Big men.
Not village men. Not hunters.
These moved like a pack that had done this before. Their boots hit the floorboards with violent certainty. The room filled instantly with the smell of wet leather, sweat, and iron.
Bruce could only see pieces from where he hid—
boots slick with mud,
greaves streaked dark,
sword-hilts and spear-shafts,
a cloak hem dragging rainwater across the planks.
A lantern swung, throwing harsh yellow light that made every shadow jump.
Someone spoke.
"Where is she?" a voice barked—rough, accented, unfamiliar. The words were the same English Bruce was learning, but twisted with something sharp.
Another voice answered immediately, impatient. "She was here. Look—fire's out."
A third cursed. "Damn it."
Footsteps thudded closer to the hearth.
Bruce's lungs locked.
A shadow fell over the opening where he hid.
So close.
He could see the edge of a boot stop near his face. The leather creaked. Something metal scraped as the man shifted his weight.
Ash trembled off the stones.
Bruce pressed both hands over his mouth so hard his lips hurt.
Do not breathe.
Do not move.
Do not exist.
The soldier leaned slightly, as if peering into the dark.
Bruce's eyes watered.
The chickens made a tiny sound—one nervous click—then stopped, like they'd swallowed their fear whole.
For one long heartbeat, Bruce was sure the man could hear his heart.
Then the soldier turned away.
"He's gone," someone snapped. "Rob took her."
"After them!" the leader barked. "Move!"
The cottage erupted into motion again.
Men stormed through, boots pounding, a spear butt striking the floor once in impatience. The table scraped. A pot clattered. A blade hissed half out of a sheath somewhere—someone ready to cut open whatever hid secrets.
Then they were gone.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the roof.
Silence fell like a weight.
Not gentle silence.
The kind that feels like the world has stopped watching… but might start again any second.
Bruce didn't move.
He couldn't.
His whole body shook in tiny, uncontrollable tremors.
Slowly, the chickens crept closer.
Not all at once—one hen first, then another, feathers puffed, eyes wide. They squeezed awkwardly near the hearth opening, pressing warmth and living bodies into the space around him as if they knew exactly where they were needed.
Warm.
Alive.
Together.
Bruce swallowed, throat dry as sand.
He kept his hands over his mouth.
He stayed hidden.
He stayed quiet.
He did exactly what he was told.
And in the dark, with ash on his skin and fear hammering in his chest, Bruce tried to understand how a good night had become this—
and how long "Papa and Mama will come back" was supposed to mean.