Since the dawn of my toddling steps, I was exiled from the culinary domain. The kitchen, a forbidden fortress, was my realm of prohibition.

Why? The family cook, the harbinger of blandness, deemed my zestful intervention a crime against gastronomy. Yet, had he dared to even taste it, he'd realize my additions elevated his dreary concoction from mere swill to ambrosial delight. Alas, my masterpiece was consigned to the communal cauldron, a sacrifice to the gods of culinary conformity, all in the name of food conservation through the ages.

Meaning: the family cook despised my alterations to his recipe, banning me from the kitchen because I hurt his pride. He discarded the small portion I'd sneaked away where I elevated our dinner with spices and other delights, and instead incorporated it into the communal pot, obliterating all traces of my efforts.

The ignoramus knew zilch about flavor. Growing up in that household, a silent feud simmered between us. Whenever opportunity knocked, I'd stealthily infiltrate the kitchen, pilfering the unused spices he stashed away due to his ineptitude, then infused them into our family meals. Those evenings, the cook would be summoned to the dining hall and lauded for his culinary prowess, while I couldn't help but sport a shit eating grin. He'd shoot me a glare, fully aware of what I'd done, the asshat, and slink out of the room, crestfallen that the praises weren't for his own concoctions.

It was sheer bliss, and I relished every single moment of it, especially alongside my two sisters. The sight of satisfaction that graced my father and mother's faces as they savored my dishes, even my two sisters who were in on my antics, was priceless. Even if they weren't fully cognizant of my culinary handiwork, it didn't matter. Their enjoyment of my creations was all that counted in the end.

Then came the reckoning: my father stumbled upon my escapades when the cook finally had his fill. At the tender age of eight, that tasteless asshat spilled the beans to my father, sending him into a fury. Now, let's not misconstrue, my father of that era was a hardworking yet affectionate man who just so happened to be a highly successful lord with a lot of land. Yet, he harbored a desire for a son to carry on his legacy. But, with the birth of my youngest sister came complications that nearly claimed my mother's life, rendering her unable to bear more children. So, upon discovering my mischievous deeds toward the cook, my father took it upon himself to instill discipline within me.

He initiated me into the art of swordplay, all the while imparting the skills needed to manage his estate. Apparently, in his view, they were complementary endeavors—running the estate required not only financial understanding but also the ability to defend it. Such was the norm in those times.

If only he had a clue about my killer aim with a bow, a talent I'd perfected in a previous life. While I begrudgingly swung that pitiful sword day in and day out, my real talent lay in the precision of my bow skills, waiting for the perfect moment to shine. If he'd only allow me to show him, he'd rethink the sword training quicker than I could draw back an arrow.

However, it was a pity these folks hadn't stumbled upon the wonders of gunpowder yet. Maybe I could help with that discovery…

If only they knew how simple grenades were. Those Viking bastards wouldn't know what hit 'em. Sure, gunpowder lacked the punch of grenade explosives, but given enough time, I reckon I could crack the code. After all, who doesn't love a good explosion to spice up the day?

Just picture the sheer disbelief etched on their faces as I lobbed one their way! They'd likely inspect it with curiosity, pondering, "What in blazes is this contraption?" Then, *BOOM*, game over! Their pals would stare in terror and bewilderment, a spectacle worthy of epic proportions. Oh, the sheer magnificence of it all!

All I needed was some powdered shells or clay…

I was getting ahead of myself.

For five relentless years, my father drilled me in the art of swordplay, despite my best efforts to show him the bow was a better fit for me, and estate management. Every. Single. Day. His dedication knew no bounds. But with such rigorous training, there was scarcely a moment to indulge in my passion for cooking. How I yearned to witness the delight spread across my family's faces as they savored my creations. My sisters, bless their too soft souls, attempted to plead my case, fully aware of my misery, yet my father remained steadfast.

I understood his motives all too well. He needed a heir, and in the absence of a son, his stubborn and determined daughter seemed the logical choice. He'd often remark on my sisters' supposed softness and reservation, contrasting it with my own tenacity. Somehow, my mischievous antics in the kitchen convinced him of my suitability to inherit the estate. How he arrived at that conclusion remains a mystery to me to this day, especially considering I was only the middle child.

So, there I was, attempting to mold myself into his ideal successor. Each day was a whirlwind of sword-play training sessions with him and his ex-general-like buddy that had eyes that wandered more and more the older I got. I delved into the nitty-gritty of estate management, soaking up everything from finances to overseeing operations. It was like cramming for the ultimate exam, except this one determined my fate beyond mere grades.

I tried.

I tried so hard.

But… I wasn't happy.

It felt like déjà vu, a relentless reminder of my previous life.

Been there, done that, and yup, I was totally self-absorbed.

Selfish.

So…I ran away.

I bolted like a coward, solely consumed by my own selfish desires. Five years slipped away like coins dropped into a wishing well, wasted and lost in the depths of my idiocy.

And living on your own wasn't easy. It was an endeavor in character-building, that was for sure.

The initial six months alone were a real trial by fire. I nearly caved and scurried back home with my tail between my legs. During that time, I swiftly mastered the art of disguise, masking my true identity behind a facade of a pubescent lad whose voice hadn't yet cracked, conveniently concealing the fact that I was, indeed, a young woman. Turns out, men weren't too keen on dealing with the fairer sex—or in my case, a very young girl.

I also shed quite a few pounds in those first couple of months, but once I got the hang of the trading game, I managed to bulk up a bit again.

As I journeyed, I relished the opportunity to witness firsthand the joy my culinary concoctions brought to those I traveled with. They were so enamored that they even tossed extra coins my way as a token of appreciation. Yet, what truly intrigued me was the vibrant spice trade bustling around me. Spices were in abundance, yet it baffled me why so many folks failed to integrate them into their daily meals. Perhaps they simply lacked the know-how. Thankfully, the traders I bartered with were more than happy to exchange cheap goods for these prized spices, often scoring me a sweet deal in the process.

After a solid ten months of wandering, hopping from Ireland, my homeland, over to Scotland, I stumbled upon a maritime-loving caravan that preferred the open sea to solid ground. This nautical journey eventually led me to the enchanting islands nestled between Iceland and Scotland, where I continued my trade and basked in the radiant smiles my food brought to all those I encountered.

It became a bit of an obsession, really. The more smiles I elicited, the more I hungered for them. So, when I learned that my trusty caravan mates were bound for a return trip to Scotland, I couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. I yearned to venture farther, to witness new faces and engage in fresh conversations with unfamiliar souls, as well as new faces savoring my food.

Then there was this inexplicable pull toward Iceland, like some cosmic magnet was tugging me in its direction. It was a sensation entirely foreign to anything I'd experienced in any of my lifetimes. And damn it, I just had to heed the call.

So, in a moment of what some might call sheer lunacy, I did something utterly reckless.

I splurged on a rickety little boat, shelling out more coin than it was realistically worth, and set sail for Iceland, with the help of the caravan pulling me out to sea so I didn't have to row out by myself. Miraculously, the winds decided to play nice, sparing me the agony of rowing my stupid self all the way there. And in all honesty, I didn't have the muscle to row that far to begin with.

What was supposed to be a quick three or maybe four-hour journey turned into an epic twelve-hour saga. Blame it on the ever-changing, deceitful winds that forced me to ditch the sail and ride the sluggish currents, especially with winter creeping in.

As darkness cloaked the horizon and the island loomed ahead, I braced myself for the inevitable alarms that I would set off sailing in so late into the night. So, I did what any sensible person would do—I pretended to doze off, hoping to blend into the night. No one would bat an eye at the sight of a shrub nonchalantly perched beside the mast, its presence a testament to my ingenuity during those endless days aboard the caravan's boat, if I do say so myself. With ample time on my hands and little else to occupy my mind, I crafted this ingenious disguise. It(I) sat there, a silent observer, seemingly minding its(my) own business, despite lacking the telltale signs of life.

Yet, irony had its way with me as I awaited for the island to draw nearer, and I actually nodded off, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the waves.

Instead of waking up to a picturesque island view, I found myself in the less-than-enviable position of engaging in a life-or-death struggle to stay above water, courtesy of the ocean's impromptu dunking session.

My rickety boat, it would seem, sunk, and I was still in it.

And just like that, I stumbled into my current predicament: marooned on a frostbitten island, freezing my tits off, pondering whether my current state surpassed the infamous chill of those proverbial witch's tits all the older women loved to joke about in my former life.

The locals were surprisingly welcoming, almost unnervingly so. When I arrived last night, their apparent leader jumped at the chance to help, a refreshing change from the apathy I'd encountered elsewhere. After retrieving my belongings from the wreck, we headed to his place. His wife greeted us warmly, and I found myself cozied up by the fire. Despite limited conversation, I was offered a night's stay at Thor's, their assumed chief, with a casual reminder that it was just for the night, until further notice.

I sensed he was eager to catch some shut-eye before dealing with me, and honestly, I couldn't blame him. Yet, as the night wore on and I found myself lying on furs in the heart of their living area, sleep eluded me entirely. It was as if an unseen presence lingered, casting an unsettling gaze upon me throughout the night.

In Thors, I could sense he embodied both fatherly devotion and strong leadership, but his unwavering gaze, lingering through the night, gave me serious goosebumps.

And then morning came.

"Who's the strange girl?" Thorfinn, Thors' son, asked upon waking.

"Just passing through," Thors replied, already gearing up for the day's tasks, tying on his boots near the hearth and fully clothed in his winter tunics.

"But why's she here?" Thorfinn, still half-asleep, rubbed his eyes and scratched his belly, while I, too, fastened my leather boots meticulously, reminiscing about the painstaking efforts to master their military-style lacing back home with whatever materials I could scrounge up. It definitely did not take me three months to figure it out.

"That is what we're going to find out." Thors then looked to me, the dark circles matching my own beneath his eyes. Standing at his full, tall height, he asked, "Erik has gathered the men of our village for a gathering. If you would care to join us, we'd like to know your story, Fiadh."

I blinked back at him, rising from my seat near the hearth, clad in a cozy winter tunic kindly provided by Helga while my belongings were still drying over the hearth. "Naturally. Wouldn't dream of keeping secrets," I quipped, hand unconsciously reaching to scratch the back of my head as I regarded Thors with a hint of bemusement. "And honestly," I added, "I'm still amazed you're not making me sleep tied up after my unexpected midnight arrival."

Thor merely grinned in response to my inquiry. "Yes, well, I'm sure you have your reasons."

"Not in particular, no," I confessed, averting my gaze and folding my arms. "Truth be told, my arrival tonight was more a product of a peculiar hunch than any rational motive."

"A hunch?" Thor echoed, intrigued.

"Yeah, it was like the universe had me on a leash, dragging me here against my will," I joked, shrugging, then looked back up toward him. "But hey, I'll do my best to spin this cosmic tale at this gathering of yours."

Thors' gaze bore into me, sending shivers down my spine, but not the unsettling kind. His intense brown-eyed stare seemed to penetrate to the core of my being, as if he could discern truths about me that I hadn't yet fathomed myself.

As if his spectral presence had secured front-row seats in the theater of my conscience, ready to critique my life choices with the gusto of a seasoned critic at a one-star play.

The sudden intensity in his eyes caught me off guard, and I felt myself tense from his scrutiny, my chin lowering as I stared at him dead on, but it quickly softened into his usual blend of kindness and restraint, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding in. "Just be honest, and they'll embrace you wholeheartedly," he reassured me with a comforting tone.

What the hell was that?

I could only nod, finding it hard to form words after witnessing that intense state of his. Did he know what I was? Was it because of my stupid comments from last night, my mention of rum and it not being invented yet going to be my downfall? No. No he couldn't have understood what i meant. I needed to calm down. And even if he did, that only meant he was the same as me…

"What are you guys even talking about?" Came Thorfinn's young voice. He too was changed and geared in his winter wear, how he did that so quickly without me noticing was worth praise, in my opinion, no longer looking groggy from waking up.

"Nothing but the mundane, Thorfinn," Thors said. "Now, before you embark on your grand adventures today, ensure you've conquered the chores mountain first, lest Ylva unleashes her wrath upon you once more."

As Thors swung the door open, Thorfinn bolted like a lightning strike, his voice trailing behind in a blur, "Got it, got it, no need to nag!"

As we stepped outside, Thors and I shared a silent exchange, witnessing Thorfinn vanish into the stables like a whirlwind. Thors released a weary sigh, and I couldn't help but interject, "Sweet kid."

"He's a good kid, just a tad adventurous."

"Not necessarily a bad thing. He might end up being the first to discover new frontiers." His name was familiar to me, but I couldn't remember for the life of me where I read it from.

"If that's his journey, then it'll be one worth living," Thors concluded. I looked at him curiously, but he was already stepping away and making his way down the path. I followed, preparing myself for what seemed like an impending marathon discussion to make my point.

'I come in peace' probably won't resonate the same as someone one thousand years into the future.

"So, you fancy yourself a wandering…what did you call it? A wandering chef?" Erik asked, his fingers dancing across his sturdy mustache like a pair of nimble acrobats. His visage was that of a man hewn from granite, with a square countenance to match his solid frame, adorned with a cascade of brown hair, eyes, and beard. Yet, beneath his rough exterior lurked a twinkle of mischief, a playful spirit waiting to be unleashed. He was a timeless reminder not to judge a tome solely by its weathered cover.

"Sounds Frankish," Leif quipped from his seat in their circle. His arms were crossed, but he was looking at me with a strange light in his eyes. Now he sported the look of someone whose middle name was mischief, a man with a heart as mischievous as a child's on a sugar high.

"Well, one might argue it carries a certain je ne sais quoi. Although, 'wandering cook' might encapsulate my aspirations more accurately," I retorted from my corner of the circle where the meeting was held with six men, and a woman who was Erik's wife. This meeting was held in his home.

"What does jenni sasquatch mean? You know what? Nevermind. I don't care. All I really want to know is why exactly do you want to be this wandering chef/cook?" another man asked from their group. I didn't remember his name, but he had plain, unremarkable features. "And just how many years have passed for you, my dear? Surely not more than a little over a decade and a half?"

I met his gaze head-on. "I'm sixty six years old."

"Come now, let's have a bit of seriousness," he huffed as the hearth's light flickered across his face, clearly done with my antics from my story telling of how exactly I got here. I didn't leave much out, and I do get a little extra in my story telling.

I only smiled, but conceited with, "Fourteen years this body had endured."

"At just fourteen! What drove you to leave the home so early, especially as a girl? Do you realize how fortunate you've been to avoid any untoward situations?"

"That's exactly why I dress and behave like a boy, among other reasons," I started, crossing my arms. "I'm no fool. I understand the risks; if I'm not careful, some asshat could take advantage," I finished seriously. I appreciated his concern, but he didn't need to lecture me on the dangers faced by young women in this era—I was well aware of them, perhaps even more so than he was. "But I am careful." Hence the weed poncho in case I need to hide.

I had to chuckle inwardly, reminding myself that education for women in these times was about as common as finding a pearl in a coal mine. Especially those born into the upper echelons of society—they were likely kept in the dark about more than just the latest gossip. At least, that seemed to be the case in Ireland; who knows, maybe the Icelanders had a different approach.

"And how long do you plan on embarking on this endeavor of yours?" Leif asked.

"As long as I can, probably. Or when I grow tired of traveling. But I don't think that will come to pass." It didn't in my other life. "I enjoy watching everyone's reaction to eating my food. It's an addiction."

"An addiction, you say? Care to elaborate?" Thors interjected from his position in the circle, seated to my right. His gaze held that familiar earnestness, a determination etched into his features. Yet, there was never a hint of hostility in his demeanor.

"I'm not sure I can fully articulate it," I began, unfolding then refolding my arms across my chest and casting my eyes towards the ceiling before closing them. In that moment, I allowed myself to drift back to the countless faces I'd encountered on my travels, recalling the emotions stirred within me during those encounters and their aftermath. A gentle warmth crept into my cheeks as I continued, "It's a peculiar joy, really. Witnessing the sheer delight my cooking brings to people—it's intoxicating. And I don't know how to say it, but there's something driving me to spread that happiness far and wide, regardless of the strange feeling of something brewing over the horizon. So long as I can touch just one soul and ignite a smile, every trial and tribulation becomes inconsequential."

In a beat of silence, I glanced down at the faces before me. All eyes were fixed on mine, except for one dude who seemed to have dozed off mid-meeting. Their expressions ranged from total shock to utter amazement. What exactly amazed them, though, I didn't quite understand. Was I making a weird face or something? Usually I was pretty good at controlling my facial expressions.

Leif was the first to speak up. "Then the next course of action is to try this cooking of yours, what does everyone else say?" His words danced through the air, weaving a tapestry of anticipation that enveloped us all. In a harmonious chorus, nods of agreement rippled through the group, even Thors, the stoic, joining in. I couldn't help but feel a warmth spread across my cheeks, a blush so delightful I wore it proudly. "So it's settled. We look forward to trying your food, Fiadh."

"And I look forward to making it!" I declared, rising from my seat with a resolve that could rival the fiercest warriors. My hand found its way to my hip, a gesture of determination. "Lead the way, then," I proclaimed, my gaze fixed on the task ahead, unseeing as I stared at the wall. "Where shall my culinary conquest begin?"

Thors, ever the gracious host, extended his offer with a generosity befitting a nobleman. "Your items are at my home, so you can use whatever you need there," he proposed, his words a comforting assurance.

"Time waits for no chef!" I declared, striding purposefully towards the door and swinging it open with a flourish, ignoring the wide eye states everyone was giving me. "Let the culinary adventure commence!" A giggle bubbled up from within me, escaping like a mischievous sprite. "Get ready to have your taste buds dazzled, folks!"

"She's a ball of energy," Erik's voice floated to my ears as I closed the door behind me, my excitement trailing in my wake.

I lingered outside, welcoming the chill as it tempered my bubbling excitement, mindful not to let exuberance compromise my culinary endeavor. Yet, despite my efforts, a squeal of delight escaped as I found myself leaping with joy. Up and down, up and down, the snow crunched beneath my shoes. And then…

I suddenly found myself sprawled face-first into a billow of soft snow, ass in the air and my pride slightly frayed.

By nightfall, I resolved to concoct a dish that danced on the edge of familiarity and novelty, ensuring it wouldn't send my guests fleeing in terror at its alien nature. Enter: the humble risotto fish stew, a comforting staple with a twist. I sprinkled in a medley of unfamiliar ingredients and spices, confident that the hearty thickness of the stew would cloak them, enticing even the most finicky of palates to take a daring plunge.

As the merry throng descended upon Thor's abode, my excitement threatened to spill over like an overfilled goblet of mead. I stood in the middle of Thors' home, near the fire, and with each scoop of food offered to every person who filled in, my hand trembled with overwhelming anticipation. Leif, the troublemaker, insisted on a collective first bite until all had their share, sending my nerves into a chaotic skirmish with anticipation, a battle I feared might leave me conquered by sheer suspense.

But Ari, who either didn't hear Leif's earlier order or just didn't care, brought the bowl to his face, drawing my attention. He sniffed the contents of his bowl and said to his friends that took up a small corner of the lodge, "Not exactly foul, but smells utterly unfamiliar." I watched intently as he maneuvered the spoon: dipping into the bubbling stew, emerging victorious with a payload of stew, the anticipation mounting as it traveled to his lips, and the moment of truth as he savored the enigmatic spoonful.

"Um, Miss, is there something wrong?" asked one of the villagers, eyeing his empty bowl while my ladle full of stew hovered in limbo over his bowl. Ignoring the query, I was entranced by the spectacle unfolding before me: Ari's face transformed into a kaleidoscope of delight, joy, and sheer wonder, his cheeks flushed with excitement and eyes glistening with tears of culinary revelation.

"It's a flavor explosion!" Ari exclaimed, diving headfirst into his meal with the enthusiasm of a kid in a candy store. My heart swelled with pride as I witnessed his unabashed delight.

With Ari leading the charge, his comrades marched in lockstep, each succumbing to the rapturous ecstasy of flavor. Heads tilted skyward, they reveled in the gastronomic symphony unfolding upon their palates, each bite a revelation akin to discovering the Holy Grail of cuisine. It was as if they had stumbled upon the elixir of life itself, leaving them with a newfound zeal for the culinary arts and a lifetime of tales to regale future generations.

Or so I liked to imagine as they gushed over my dish with fervor that made me happier than ever.

"What did I say about waiting for everyone else to get their share!?" Leif chided from behind me, standing in a circle of the same men who were at the meeting earlier, watching the group of teen boys gush over my food with disappointment.

Thors, standing tall beside Leif, couldn't contain his amusement, letting out a hearty laugh. "Well, well, it appears our dear Fiadh wasn't spinning tales after all. I must admit, the aroma wafting from your creation is positively tantalizing."

Leif, with a sly grin playing on his lips, peered down at his bowl, his brow arching in mock disbelief. "Well, it seems our little decree has fallen on deaf ears. Might as well dig in ourselves," he said, his tone sounding rather amused, all things considered. With a daring spoonful, I watched as Leif and Thors embarked on a gustatory adventure, their expressions transforming from skepticism to sheer delight in a matter of seconds. Leif, who looked unable to contain his astonishment, erupted with sudden fervor, exclaiming, "By the gods, this is a revelation! The pinnacle of flavor!" Like eager schoolboys, they indulged in spoonful after spoonful, their faces glowing, making mine glow in return.

Grinning from ear to ear, I couldn't help but bask in their happiness. "It warms my heart to see you all relishing in what I cooked for you," I confessed, genuine joy radiating from every word.

Amidst the chorus of praises, a teen boy's exclamation cut through the air like a beacon to my delighted ears. "Life-changing indeed!"

"This is too good to be real!" another chimed in, echoing the sentiment with equal fervor.

However, a less reassuring comment followed, as one brave soul declared, "My tongue is tingling!" Hoping it was merely a sensation of excitement rather than an allergic reaction, I mentally crossed my fingers.

Undeterred by the possibility of spice-induced tingles, the clamor for seconds began. "More, please!" they pleaded, their enthusiasm undiminished. With a flourish, I extended my ladle as they lined up again, refilling their bowls with gusto. After all, in the realm of culinary delights, generosity knows no bounds.

This moment was an absolute thrill ride! My heart was bursting with happiness, like, seriously overflowing with joy.

After dishing out the last of the stew, I dipped out from the crowd, leaning against the doorframe with my own bowl in hand, taking slow sips as I observed the scene. People chattered away, spooning up the goodness as if it were the last meal on Earth.

In the wake of my stew's success, and my own internal fanfare, I relaxed into the background, my unfiltered emotions playing across my face without a care. Blame it on a year spent hidden behind masks, but I couldn't be bothered with pretense anymore.

With each warm gulp of stew, I plotted my next moves, content with what I have accomplished so far.

As I listened to the relentless snowfall through the door currently blanketing the Icelandic landscape, I couldn't help but ponder my options. Sure, there were probably other settlements worth exploring on this island, but with the snow piled high and more falling by the minute, it seemed I might be in for an extended stay. My gaze drifted to Thors, deep in conversation with Leif while Thorfinn hovered nearby, bouncing from one foot to the other, his hand tugging on his pant leg, clearly eager to share some tidbit of information. Tomorrow, I resolved, I'd pick Thors' brain about other settlements, pondering the logistics of winter travel—likely by sea, I surmised.

But for now, nestled among this hearty band of Icelanders, I decided to relish the moment. They were a good bunch, and I couldn't shake the notion that I'd like to return someday, if only to stroke my own ego again.

After all, I was a selfish bastard.

Author's note: You can also find this on AO3 and wattpad.

Might make some slight changes to this chapter as I'm not super happy about it, but I also don't hate it. I think I successfully showed how...eccentric...Fiadh gets when people are trying her food, but I also feel like I concentrated on that too much to where I missed out on adding details on the world outside of what is going on in her head, if that makes sense.

I'm also debating about having Thors tie up Fiadh for the night, or moving the meeting to before they all go to sleep, but I somehow convinced myself that Thors can tell Fiadh is "good" by either her smell, or how he's able to dive into a person and see them for who they are, and he can see Fiadh isn't a killer, at the very least. So he didn't want to wake up the men in their settlement for a reason he didn't believe needed to be addressed urgently... I dunno, what do you think?

Regardless, hope you enjoy!