The morning sun lit the field like a quiet blessing. I stood at the edge of it, arms folded, just... admiring it. Rows of raised beds neatly lined the once-empty stretch of land, the dark earth rich and warm, crisscrossed with shallow trenches and quiet potential. It looked nothing like it had weeks ago. It looked alive.
Einar had returned not long after I started the first round of trenching. He'd taken one look at what I had done and blinked. Just blinked. Not a word of praise, not a question. Just that classic furrowed-brow expression that always meant his brain was trying to decide if this was magic or just really efficient farming.
Then, without so much as a grunt, he turned and said, "Didn't get enough wood. Dig up the rest. Even the old rows."
I stared at him for a second, half-expecting him to take it back. But no. He meant it.
He was asking me to remake the entire field—including the areas he had already planted with his own hands. That was when I realized how serious he was. How much he believed in what we were doing. Or, at the very least, how willing he was to bet on me.
Over the next several days, we worked. with dirt and wood flying around like some possessed spirit had taken up residence in our homestead. Einar brought logs in steady armfuls from the treeline, always freshly chopped, sometimes still dripping with sap. He never asked questions about how I moved the earth so quickly, how I had done so much with only a shovel. y'know, I think he might be on to me.
But he just kept chopping.
By the time the last row was sown and the final mound packed down, I was sore in places I didn't even have names for. But it was done. An entire field, sculpted in secret, powered by spellwork and sweat, and reinforced by a quiet understanding between a man who trusted his daughter and a girl who hoped this would work on a larger scale than she had tested.
Thankfully, we didn't get any onlookers until the flying dirt and hovering logs had stopped. A few neighbors came by, curious as crows, more than once asking what we were doing, and why we had suddenly stopped letting our land rest.
Einar had been there when they came. He stood solidly at my side, voice level and calm when he answered. "Saw a method down south. A traveler swore by it. Said it feeds the land faster than resting ever could. We're testing it. If it works, we'll share."
He didn't say my daughter dreamed it up, or the girl figured it out. He didn't throw me under the cart. But he also didn't claim credit. He played it safe. Smart.
I was sure he thought it would succeed. But I could understand if he was hedging his bets. If this did fail, if we lost the entire field to rot or bad drainage or some unforeseen curse of soil and sun, then come winter, we would be short. Maybe desperately so.
Maybe Einar was leaving himself room to ask for help later, to explain why we needed to borrow grain or meat. Maybe he was buying political cover.
But even with all that, I liked that he trusted me enough to gamble our food independence. I liked that he didn't need to say it outright.
And I really, really hoped it wouldn't come to that.
The fields were done. Rows of raised mounds arched across the soil like sleeping serpents, their bellies full of logs, compost, and hope. Hügelkultur. The strange German word rolled through my mind with the texture of mulch and memory.
It had worked.
Against all odds—and every skeptical glance Einar had thrown my way—the plants had taken. The composted core had warmed the soil even in the chill of early spring, and green shoots already poked through the layered mess like they were eager to see what I'd do next.
I wiped my brow and leaned against the haft of the shovel I still carried, breathing in the earthy scent of our success. That was when it hit me.
How had I remembered it all?
The layering, the types of wood that would decay safely, the need for nitrogen balancing… all of it had poured from me like I'd just finished watching a documentary the night before. I hadn't, obviously. Not in years. Not even close.
And then came another memory. Not of dirt or decomposition, but a similar feeling of dejavu. of Leofric—his name, its etymology, the odd warmth I'd felt when I whispered it for the first time. Beloved ruler. I hadn't looked it up in this life. I just… knew.
And there was Lindisfarne. I'd recalled the year 793 AD when listening to the priest nearly a year ago. Just casually, like it was common knowledge.
But I'd never been good with dates. The broader details and map changes, but never dates. Hell… I was just as bad with names..
As my breath stilled in my chest, I narrowed my eyes and turned my gaze toward the horizon. If I was right—if there was more to this—I needed to be sure.
I sat on a nearby log, pressed a palm to my temple, and muttered, "Alright, let's see if I'm crazy."
The test had to be impossible. Something no sane person would carry around for fun, not even me.
"The rulers of England," I whispered to myself. "In order."
I closed my eyes.
"Egbert. Aethelwulf. Aethelbald. Aethelbert. Aethelred I. Alfred the Great..."
The names kept coming. Decades. Centuries. Normans, Plantagenets, Tudors, Hanoverians.
"George VI. Elizabeth II. Charles III."
My eyes snapped open.
"I had been in Qatar when Elizabeth II died," I murmured. "I remember... the heat. The muted televisions on the darkened OPS floor showing the BBC…"
Ping!
~~~~~~~~
System Message:
Congratulations! Secret skill discovered!
"Down the Rabbit Hole"
Flawlessly recall information studied in the Drengr's past life. Information accessible when need arises.
~~~~~~~~~
I sat very still, lips parted. Not everything was accessible all at once. It wasn't like some massive library in my mind I could browse at will. No, it had to be triggered. Like falling into a conversation. Like chasing curiosity down a spiraling tunnel of thought until it clicked into place.
A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth.
"Well," I said softly, "thanks Wikipedia…"