Bruce stared upward through eyes that struggled to focus. Wooden beams loomed overhead, ancient and warped from years of smoke and rain. Cold seeped mercilessly through the threadbare blankets wrapped around him, cutting into his tiny bones. Winter had come swiftly—silent, ruthless, unforgiving.
He tried to sit up again, muscles trembling with effort, barely able to support the weight of his oversized head. His limbs flailed weakly beneath the blankets, accomplishing nothing but tiring him further.
Damn it.
No matter how fiercely he commanded them, his arms and legs betrayed him, quivering uselessly. A small hand poked out from the tattered cloth, wobbling unsteadily.
He sighed deeply, but it came out as a helpless gurgle.
Great. Just great.
In another life, he'd fought gangsters, stormed drug dens, taken bullets without flinching. Now, even raising his head felt as monumental as bench-pressing a car.
Days blurred together, measured only by bitter cold, damp straw, dim firelight, and his mother's exhausted sighs. Each morning, pale sunlight seeped weakly through cracks in the cottage walls; each night, icy wind hissed angrily between loose boards, chilling them to the marrow.
Winter nights were harshest. The wind moaned relentlessly, seeping through every crack, wrapping mother and child in endless shivers. His mother, Lili, would gather him close, pressing him gently against her chest beneath their single threadbare fur. Her heartbeat, steady yet fragile, lulled him into uneasy sleep.
Bruce hated how much he relied on that gentle rhythm.
Initially, he refused to cry—his stubbornness stronger than his infant instincts. But soon, helplessness overwhelmed him. He sobbed at unpredictable intervals—when hunger gnawed painfully, when dampness soaked his rough linen diaper, or when his mother, exhausted herself, didn't notice his distress.
And each time, he despised himself a bit more.
Then, one bitter afternoon, staring up at warped wooden beams through tear-blurred eyes, he made a decision:
If I can't walk or speak yet—I'll train. Somehow, I'll get stronger.
He set tiny, incremental goals. Flexing small fingers, stretching toes, clenching fists. He strained with every muscle, every nerve, to lift his heavy head even slightly from the blankets beneath.
His first success—raising his head a shaky, pathetic inch—filled him with pride, quickly followed by exhaustion as he collapsed, breathing hard.
One inch today, two tomorrow.
And again, he pushed—weak gums clenched, determination flaring within him.
As Bruce struggled to strengthen himself, his mother quietly battled winter itself. He watched her through unfocused eyes, tracking her every movement as she hobbled painfully around their little world. She broke ice from the bucket with raw, cracked hands, harvesting frozen berries and wilting herbs from their tiny, half-frozen garden. Her frail body shivered visibly each time she returned, yet she always found enough strength to gently stroke his cheek with trembling fingertips.
Her chores never ended: feeding the chickens scraps, scattering sparse seeds, pulling stubborn weeds, and patching endless gaps in the cottage walls—even as frost turned her fingers painfully blue.
Each day she returned thinner, weaker, her once-bright eyes now darkly shadowed, sunken into pale, hollow cheeks.
Bruce's chest tightened painfully each time he saw her suffer. He longed desperately to help, to do anything useful. He strained fiercely, trying to roll over, to crawl—anything—but his infant limbs remained indifferent, useless.
His mother's milk grew thin and sparse, reflecting her own dwindling strength. Bruce recognized that painful truth—each sip stolen from her body weakened her further, deepening his guilt. Still, she never complained, never withheld herself from him.
Yet something strange began happening. Despite the harsh conditions, Bruce felt oddly resilient. Scrapes healed quicker, fevers never lasted, and hunger pangs—though sharp—didn't seem to weaken him as they should. He chalked it up to luck or stubbornness; perhaps babies were tougher than he remembered.
Either way, it was the only silver lining to his frustrating helplessness.
Weeks passed, then months, while snow piled heavily around their isolated cottage, sealing them off from the world entirely. Even their chickens grew subdued, huddled miserably in their corner, rarely laying eggs.
But Bruce persisted, training fiercely in his tiny way. Gradually, he grew stronger—not much by adult standards, but noticeable progress nonetheless. He raised his head steadily, though it wobbled like a drunken sailor. His skinny legs began kicking purposefully, pushing stubbornly against blankets as if performing primitive leg-press exercises.
It burned and hurt—but each tiny success stoked the fire of determination within him.
Anything beats being helpless.
He also found himself absorbed by tiny details around him. Hours passed studying spiders weaving webs, insects burrowing into cracks, counting straw pieces sticking from the roof, or following dust motes drifting in thin firelight.
Among the chickens, one stood apart—the rooster, fierce and vigilant, aggressively dispatching spiders or bugs that ventured near. Bruce studied him intently, feeling odd kinship with that proud aggression.
Terminator, he named the rooster silently, amused and satisfied at reclaiming some small form of control—even if he couldn't voice it yet.
Yet even as he grew stronger, his mother's condition deteriorated sharply. By late winter, she moved slower, trembling visibly each time she stood, pausing often to clutch at her chest as though something vital inside her was breaking beyond repair.
Bruce recognized that look—the haunted eyes, the weight of despair. He'd seen it too often in his previous life, reflected bitterly in his own mirror.
But each time she held him, she managed a small, exhausted smile, whispering tender encouragement, "You're growing strong, little one… Maybe someday you'll find a better life… The gods might finally favor you."
Bruce longed desperately to speak words of comfort, to reassure her somehow. Instead, he reached up with immense effort, grasping her finger weakly. Her eyes widened, surprised, before softening warmly into a true smile, however brief.
Winter inevitably loosened its cruel grip. Icicles melted, dripping rhythmically from eaves, and the thick snow began receding, revealing cold mud and stubborn greenery beneath.
A sense of urgent hope blossomed painfully within Bruce. He'd survived his first brutal winter, helpless yet alive, in conditions that should have ended him.
Perhaps now, he could do more.
He flexed tiny limbs determinedly, feeling faint but undeniable muscles beneath his baby fat responding to his commands. Something small and gentle stirred briefly deep in his chest, a warmth unlike anything he'd felt before.
He paused, confused.
What was that?
Before he could fully grasp it, the warmth faded back into quiet nothingness, leaving only his steady heartbeat.
Bruce stared at familiar warped beams above, sunlight now slanting warmly through cracks for the first time in months, determination hardening within him.
Next winter, I won't be helpless. I'll protect her.
He closed weary eyes, drifting into exhausted sleep, dreaming of strength still out of reach—yet not unattainable.
As winter gradually loosened its hold, Lili's small world slowly expanded.
Walking was still beyond her reach. Her legs were fragile and unsteady, trembling beneath even her modest weight whenever she tried to stand. But crawling—crawling was something she could manage with stubborn determination.
One bright morning, with snow finally melting and dripping softly from cottage eaves, Lili forced herself onto shaking hands and knees. Her limbs trembled with exertion, but her determination burned strong.
Today, I'm going outside.
Her mother sat quietly nearby, patching a stubborn hole in the cottage roof. Absorbed in her work, she didn't notice her daughter's slow, clumsy movements until Lili had nearly reached the doorway, crawling steadily toward sunlight.
"Oh, Lili!" her mother gasped, nearly dropping her sewing. "You—you're moving!"
She rushed forward, scooping Lili into her arms and holding her tightly. Tears shimmered in her weary eyes, though she quickly blinked them away.
"Careful, little girl. You'll hurt yourself."
Lili hesitated, feeling a strange but gentle warmth rise within her. She'd always bristled internally at being called "little girl"—but now, hearing it in her mother's soft, loving voice felt comforting, reassuring.
Fine, she thought quietly, meeting her mother's anxious, tired gaze. I'll be Lili for you.
She made a small, accepting sound, and her mother smiled warmly, holding her closer. For once, Lili allowed herself to feel comforted by it.
From that moment, exploring the outside world became Lili's fierce obsession.
Each morning she would crawl stubbornly from her mother's arms, determined to explore their tiny surroundings. Her progress was slow, painstakingly awkward, but resolute. At first, her mother watched nervously, ready to intervene. But slowly, observing Lili's stubborn resolve, she allowed her daughter more freedom—remaining within sight but not interfering.
The chickens quickly became Lili's first friends.
Initially, they ignored her—treating her small form as just another obstacle in their daily search for food. But Lili soon discovered an irresistible method to earn their attention: bugs.
Determinedly crawling through mud and patchy grass, she began uncovering worms, grubs, and beetles, offering them clumsily but earnestly to the curious hens.
In short order, the chickens learned to anticipate her movements, gathering eagerly whenever Lili appeared in the garden, awaiting treats from her tiny, dirt-stained fingers.
Yet among the chickens, it was the fierce, brooding rooster—Terminator—who fascinated her most. Proud, aloof, always vigilant, he rarely joined the hens' scrambling for food, preferring watchful distance.
Instinctively, Lili knew gaining his respect required more than just food—it required mutual understanding.
One chilly morning, she uncovered a particularly large, wriggling grub and held it aloft, locking eyes defiantly with the rooster.
"Bah," she commanded firmly—her closest approximation of authority.
Terminator tilted his head skeptically, then cautiously stepped forward on powerful legs, snatching the grub swiftly from her tiny grasp and swallowing it with dignified ease.
To her own surprise, Lili laughed—a bright, joyous giggle bubbling unexpectedly from within.
Terminator regarded her carefully, cocking his head slightly as if considering something important. After that moment, a curious bond formed between them. Lili hunted insects, and Terminator stood vigilantly beside her, swiftly dispatching pests and watching carefully for threats. Slowly, a silent language of gestures and tone emerged, the rooster seemingly understanding her intentions and responding accordingly.
He became her shadow, protector, and companion.
Together with Terminator, Lili began exploring the small garden behind their cottage. Winter had ravaged it harshly—what remained was little more than a muddy patch scattered with rotting leaves, wilted herbs, dead beans, and brittle raspberry canes.
It made her heart ache. This garden represented something she'd always secretly wanted—a symbol of peace and growth, even in her past life. Now, seeing it neglected and dying stirred determination deep within her small chest.
If this is going to be my home, I'll make it worthy.
Ignoring cold mud and discomfort, she crawled methodically around the garden, carefully clearing away dead leaves, debris, and stubborn weeds with tiny, numb fingers. It was slow, painstaking work, but she refused to stop. Bit by bit, the garden gradually reclaimed a semblance of order.
Her mother watched from the cottage door, astonished but silently proud. For the first time, Lili experienced a quiet pride she couldn't quite name—something deeply satisfying.
Instinctively, she understood the soil needed nourishment. One day, watching chickens scratching at dirt and leaving droppings everywhere, she pointed urgently at the mess, babbling insistently until her mother—bewildered but patient—finally gathered chicken manure into a bucket and spread it around their struggling plants.
Satisfied, Lili beamed, though her mother merely shook her head in amused confusion.
Inspired further, Lili pointed stubbornly to her own used cloth diapers, determined that even her embarrassing moments should count toward something beneficial.
Her mother hesitated, then chuckled softly, shaking her head gently. "Well… the soil won't complain, will it?"
Their small waste became nourishment—turned into something productive, hopeful.
Days lengthened, growing warmer and brighter. With steady practice, Lili's crawling improved. She explored eagerly, digging for bugs, gathering berries, and examining every patch of dirt or plant she encountered. Terminator shadowed her vigilantly, feathers puffed protectively, his presence now indispensable.
Her mother, though still frail and thin, seemed quietly rejuvenated by Lili's persistent energy and stubborn optimism. She began smiling more frequently, speaking softly to Lili as they worked side by side in their garden.
"You're becoming quite the helpful little girl, aren't you?" her mother said one gentle afternoon, tenderly brushing dirt from Lili's face. "Thank you, Lili."
Those words warmed Lili deeply, in ways she couldn't fully articulate. Reaching instinctively upward, she pressed her small palm softly against her mother's cheek.
Her mother's eyes brimmed softly with tears, and she kissed Lili's forehead with gentle gratitude.
Slowly, the garden changed. New green shoots emerged through rich, fertilized soil. Strawberries and raspberries revived, timidly sprouting buds. Beans began climbing new supports, stubbornly reaching upward again.
Watching life gradually return filled Lili with quiet joy. She'd transformed mud and decay into beauty, through stubborn effort and patient determination.
This new kind of strength felt unfamiliar—not the brute force of her previous life—but something softer, gentler, more meaningful. And yet, oddly, far more rewarding.
Resting in the garden, exhausted but deeply content, Terminator perched proudly beside her, feathers ruffled comfortably in warm sunlight. She reached out gently, stroking him affectionately.
"You did good, buddy," she babbled softly. Terminator half-closed his sharp eyes, tolerating her touch with quiet dignity.
Her mother stood silently by the doorway, astonished yet profoundly grateful. Watching quietly, she whispered softly in Norse, "Perhaps the gods haven't forgotten us after all."
Warm sunlight bathed Lili gently as she closed tired eyes, slipping toward peaceful sleep. She felt something unfamiliar—a true sense of belonging, peace, acceptance.
She'd dreamed of having a garden once, long ago. Now it thrived beneath her small hands. She had a gentle mother who loved her, hens who trusted her, and Terminator—a guardian who understood her like no other.
Quietly, she admitted something she'd resisted until now:
Fine, I'll be Lili. I'll be her, for you.
Her new name felt suddenly earned—soft, gentle, deeply true.
Drifting softly toward sleep, she felt her mother's gentle gaze, heard soft humming from the doorway. Beside her, Terminator stood vigilantly, feathers fluttering gently in a warm breeze.
Spring had arrived, and for the first time, Lili felt truly at home.
Days blurred into anxious, relentless repetition. Hunger became their constant companion, ever present and impossible to ignore. Lili crawled between the cottage and the dwindling garden with slow, painful determination, tiny knees bruised by rough earth, hands raw and aching from digging through cold, unyielding soil and sharp debris. Each day was a desperate search for nourishment, for anything to keep her and her mother alive.
Eggs from the hens grew scarce, the chickens themselves weakened and lethargic from insufficient feed. Berries vanished quickly, the bushes reduced to empty branches. Lili's mother ate sparingly—only enough to keep breathing—and spoke even less, her voice fading to a ghostly whisper, her breath shallow, strained beneath the ragged blanket.
Still, Lili moved forward, driven by quiet desperation and fierce determination. She had made an unspoken promise: She must protect Mama. Survival was not a choice—it was her only purpose now.
Yet, with each passing day, survival became less certain, their strength fading into quiet desperation.
Late one evening, as deep shadows fell silently around the cottage, Lili crawled alone along the garden's edge, searching in fading twilight for any overlooked berry or lost egg. Something moved abruptly in the nearby darkness, rustling leaves harshly.
Instinctively, Lili froze, her heart suddenly hammering with primal dread.
From the shadows, a reddish-brown blur exploded forward—a starving fox, eyes wild with desperation and hunger, fangs bared, racing straight toward her.
Terror surged violently through Lili's small body, paralyzing her completely. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound escaped her tight throat.
Just as the fox lunged, feathers and talons erupted furiously from the darkness—Terminator charged with a fierce, piercing shriek, wings outspread like a knight's cape, talons clawing viciously at the startled predator.
The fox yelped sharply, stumbling backward in shock, snapping uselessly at empty air as Terminator attacked mercilessly, feathers flying, his sharp beak stabbing again and again with relentless fury. The startled fox retreated swiftly into the dark woods, shrieking its frustration, chased away by the valiant, fearless rooster.
In that instant of raw fear and overwhelming gratitude, something burst from Lili's lips—a word, clear and strong, driven by sheer instinct:
"Terminator!"
Her first word echoed in the silence.
Breathing heavily, heart still racing, Lili crawled hurriedly toward her feathered protector. Without thought or hesitation, she reached out with trembling hands, gently cupped the rooster's head, and impulsively kissed his sharp, battle-hardened beak—a purely instinctive, heartfelt gesture of gratitude.
Terminator stood quietly, feathers ruffled, eyes fierce yet calm, regarding her curiously. After a moment, he tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the gesture, before turning his vigilant gaze protectively back toward the darkening woods.
Inside the cottage, her mother had seen everything. Feverish and weakened, she had propped herself up, eyes wide with awe and profound gratitude. Trembling fingers reached weakly toward her daughter, her voice shaking with quiet reverence as she whispered fervently in her native Norse:
"Lili… min lille mirakel… du er sendt fra gudene selv." Her voice was thin, barely audible, yet full of fierce emotion. "Du er min velsignelse, barnet mitt."
Lili crawled slowly toward her mother's bedside, heart still hammering, cheeks flushed from adrenaline and emotion. She stared up uncertainly, confused by the stream of words tumbling earnestly from her mother's lips, feeling only their deep warmth and importance.
Her mother's voice grew softer, urgent now, as if needing to impart something vital before the chance slipped away:
"Du må vite dette, Lili—din far er hertugen selv. Hertug Leo, den store herskeren over disse landene. Jeg ble tatt fra hjemmet mitt da han plyndret våre landsbyer i nord. Han tok meg som slave—men han kan ta deg tilbake som sin datter. Finn ham, Lili. Gå nordover… finn slottet hans. Du bærer hans blod, og han vil kjenne deg igjen. Du er hertugens datter, en prinsesse av hans blod—glem aldri det…"
Lili tilted her head slightly, brows furrowed gently in confusion. The words made no sense to her young mind, yet the tender intensity in her mother's voice was unmistakable, moving her deeply despite her lack of comprehension.
"Mama…?" Lili whispered softly, questioningly.
Her mother reached out with shaking fingers, gently stroking Lili's soft hair, eyes glistening with fragile tears. She smiled softly, painfully, sensing the child's confusion but lacking the strength to clarify further.
"Min lille Lili…" her voice broke gently, exhaustion overcoming her once more. "Mitt alt… min kjærlighet… tilgi meg…"
Her whispers faded gently into silence as she sank wearily back against her thin bedding, her eyes drifting shut, breathing shallowly once more.
Lili pressed close against her mother's side, holding onto her thin, trembling fingers, silently confused, yet profoundly moved. She did not understand the foreign words, their deeper significance lost on her infant mind. Yet she felt the emotion behind them profoundly, sensed instinctively their great importance.
She rested her small head gently on her mother's chest, listening quietly to the weak rhythm of her breathing. She knew instinctively something important had just passed between them—something precious, beyond her understanding, but deeply meaningful.
As darkness wrapped gently around their small cottage, all Lili clearly remembered was the word she had uttered, her first word—a small yet precious victory won from helplessness and fear:
"Terminator."
She held onto that word fiercely, quietly repeating it in her mind as sleep overtook her, gripping it tightly as proof that perhaps, somehow, she was not entirely powerless.
Outside, Terminator stood vigilant, feathers gently rustled by the night breeze, sharp eyes fixed protectively on shadowed forest depths, ready to defend against whatever threats might return.
Within the cottage, mother and daughter drifted into an uneasy sleep, their fragile bond deepened by danger, confusion, and quiet determination. Their future remained uncertain, survival a daily struggle—yet their shared resolve to face another day together had grown stronger than ever before.