The girl and the old woman

CONTENT NOTICE AND DISCLAIMER:

1.FANTASY AND ENTERTAINMENT: This story is a work of fiction and recreational fantasy for adults. It is intended solely for the entertainment of mature individuals. The author does not endorse or recommend engaging in these activities in real life.

2.ADULT CHARACTERS: All characters in this story are fictional and 18 years of age or older. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental or they live in a parallel reality.

3.EXPLICIT CONTENT: This work contains scenes of an explicit sexual nature, submission, and simulated harm. If you are under 18 or are offended by these themes, please do not continue reading.

4.SETTING AND 3D ARTWORK: Geographical environments are used solely to set the plot in the near future or in a parallel world or reality. No real people or events were used in the creation of this story or for the 3D-generated images. No models suffered actual damage in the process.

5.TRANSLATION: The author’s native language is not English. An automatic translator is used to share this work internationally. We apologize for any inconsistencies in language.

Author’s note:

While looking for places to visit in Sweden, I discovered the interesting history of the Tre Museum. Kronor in the depths of the Royal Palace of Stockholm, the images of the museum led me to investigate more about the history and suddenly the idea was born in my mind to create a time travel story with the island as the setting in a time before the founding of the city of Stockholm during the 8th century.

When writing the story, I set the narrative in a parallel world four years in the future of Sweden. The protagonist seeks tranquility in the depths of the palace, and by chance or fate, she crosses a threshold that transports her to a spring before the construction of the Tre fortress. Kronor .

This story is written using a lot of imagination and fantasy, respecting the history of Stockholm and its citizens of the past, present and future; I hope you enjoy it.

The heat from the lights in the grand hall of the Royal Palace in Stockholm felt so dense that night, almost suffocating, trapped between the gilded moldings of the ceiling and the incessant murmur of a hundred muffled voices. It was spring 2030, and for Princess Estelle, who had just turned eighteen, the evening had become an exercise in mental and physical endurance. The ball gown, a haute couture piece in an imposing bone white, weighed on her shoulders with the rigidity of armor. The fabric was laden with intricate gold embroidery and embellishments that rustled with her every movement, limiting her breathing to short, calculated gasps.

Around her, protocol unfolded with its usual leisurely pace. Career diplomats, ambassadors from distant nations, and court officials moved across the dance floor with stiff elegance alongside their escorts. Estela tried to maintain her official smile, that perfect, polite demeanor she had been taught since childhood, but inner weariness was creeping in. The orchestra’s music, a predictable waltz that echoed off the marble walls, seemed to stretch on endlessly. The worst part, without a doubt, was the footsteps. She had had to share the dance floor with a couple of veteran, elderly ministers of diplomacy whose feet moved with the clumsiness of those who had long since forgotten their sense of rhythm; each misplaced step on the tips of her high heels sent a sharp pain through her, which she had to immediately conceal with a blinking eyelash and a polite greeting.

When the last piece of music in the set came to an end, Estela knew she had fulfilled her duty. At court, at eighteen, she was still regarded with the indulgence of youth; no one expected a girl her age to endure the midnight toast with the most solemn dignitaries. She needed no explanation, no permission, no elaborate excuses. She simply took advantage of the ebb of the crowd moving toward the refreshment tables to slip back, gliding with the agility of a shadow through the heavy velvet curtains that led to the rear service doors. To the rest of the ballroom, to her parents, and to the guard at the main entrances, the Crown Princess had simply retired to spend the night in the tranquility of her private chamber.

But Estela did not go to her chambers.

As soon as the heavy paneled door closed behind her, abruptly silencing the murmur of diplomatic conversations, the air shifted. She entered the service corridor, an internal artery of the palace illuminated by a much dimmer, more functional light. Estela didn’t hesitate: she bent down slightly, unfastened the clasps of her high heels, and slipped them off. Holding the shoes by the straps in one hand, she placed the soles of her feet flat on the floor. She briefly stretched her toes and flexed them to articulate a voice of freedom as she walked barefoot down the corridor behind the palace walls.

Walking barefoot was something she did whenever protocol allowed her a break. She knew the palace’s secret geography by heart, its hidden shortcuts, and the feel of every surface. The smooth, cool stone of the hidden passageway transmitted an immediate freshness from the soles of her feet to her knees brought her back to life. It was a physical relief, a release of tension that made her straighten her back for the first time all night. She began to move forward with firm steps, unhurried, enjoying the freedom of her footsteps no longer producing the slightest echo in the dimness.

She turned toward one of the private passageways that connected the upper floors with the lower levels of the building. They were old, narrow corridors where modern marble gave way to the solid, rustic stone blocks that formed the complex’s core. Estela began to descend the spiral staircase, voluntarily sinking into the depths of the subsoil, toward the area where the old Tre Museum was housed. Kronor .

With each step she descended, the distant echo of the orchestra above grew more blurred, a muffled vibration that eventually vanished completely. In its place, the absolute silence of the underground enveloped her like a dense blanket. The air down there was different: cooler, with a constant touch of humidity and that unmistakable scent of ancient dust and stone that had withstood the passage of centuries. Her bare feet now rested on the original rocks that had survived the great fire of 1697. Estela walked with complete ease in the dimness of the cellars closed to the public, feeling like she owned a space where time seemed to have frozen long before cities were born. Knowing that no one would look for her down there, she advanced with a confident stride toward the deepest corner of the museum, straight toward the old altarpiece that fascinated her so much.

Tre Museum Kronor pierced the basement’s gloom with precise, yellowish beams of light, designed to protect the most delicate pieces from the ravages of time. Before Estela stood the oldest altarpiece in the collection, a dark, gnarled wooden structure that seemed to absorb the ambient moisture. She stopped a few inches from the piece, the soles of her feet firmly planted on the cool flagstones of the archaeological floor. There was no hurry in her movements. The silence of the place allowed her to concentrate on the details she had so often observed from afar during official visits to the old archaeological complex.

The painting depicted a rural scene of the original hilltop, free from the baroque walls that now enclosed it. In the center of the composition were carved the figures of two women. Estela fixed her gaze on the old woman, whose features reflected a serene old age, her wrinkled hands holding sprigs of plants. Then, she shifted her eyes to the figure of the young woman beside her. Under the direct light of the museum spotlight, the resemblance became undeniable; the shape of the jaw, the sloping shoulders, and the expression in the eyes were identical to her own. Driven by a mixture of pure curiosity and a desire to examine the aged pigments on their faces, Estela stepped forward and placed the palm of her right hand directly on the edge of the thick wooden frame.

The frame gave way with a dull, almost imperceptible creak that vibrated through her fingers. There was no pop or flash, but a smooth, mechanical movement. The entire altarpiece panel pivoted forward, revealing an opening the exact size of a cupboard door hidden in the original stone wall of the medieval fortress. Estela, without hesitation and driven by her natural instinct to explore, ducked her head and stepped across the threshold, entering the enclosed space that opened on the other side.

The space was a small underground cellar, a round stone hut with a thick thatched roof, half-buried in a hollow of the land. It was the very same place where the altarpiece had stood, only now it was a large piece of wood, devoid of any artistry and as plain as any other old wooden door hewn from a large tree trunk in the area. At first, the dimness inside prevented her from noticing the change in her own body, but the weight of the fabrics alerted her. She didn’t feel the stiff touch of the haute couture embellishments or the tightness of the corset against her ribs. Looking down, taking advantage of the light that was beginning to filter through the gaps in the woodwork, she discovered that her off-white ball gown had been completely transformed. Now she wore a thick, rustic linen nightgown in a natural grayish hue. The garment was worn, naturally torn at the edges, and so short that it ended well above her knees, leaving her long legs bare. Her shoulders were also bare, free of modern seams. She wore no shoes, no stockings, no trace of palace undergarments; the rough fabric fell directly onto her clean skin. Her hair, previously styled for the gala, now fell loose, its dark brown hue completing her blend into the surroundings.

Before I could process the archaeological storage room, another rustic wooden door—where the museum hallway leading to the old archaeological hut should have been—swung wide open. The clear, dazzling light of the spring morning flooded the stone and earthen space at once. Silhouetted against this brightness, the figure of an old woman appeared. She wore old clothes, soiled and worn from daily use. Upon entering her home, the old woman showed neither surprise nor alarm at seeing the barefoot young woman in the middle of the room. Her eyes, clear with age, scanned Estela’s figure. There were no confused questions or suspicions of intrusion. The old woman simply offered a faint smile, recognizing the pattern of the clothing and the girl’s origin. The old woman, who had already visited the future through that same cupboard in her younger years before choosing the peace of her own century, closed the wooden door behind her, establishing from that first second a direct, natural and complicit relationship, like that of a grandmother who receives her granddaughter after a long journey.

The old woman placed the heavy wicker basket she had carried from the forest on the rough wooden table and turned to face the young woman who had just crossed the threshold of the cupboard. Her eyes, half-closed, moved forward, seemingly focusing on the figure with profound calm. There was no disturbance in the half-buried hut. The woman ran a gnarled, dirt-covered hand over her ragged apron, examining the figure before her. Seeing the texture of the clothing and the way the girl looked around, a faint smile touched her wrinkled lips. She spoke in a raspy voice, yet imbued with a familiar warmth, using a rustic Swedish with a closed phonetic quality that was perfectly clear.

“I see the cupboard has brought me a visitor from the other side,” said the woman, smoothing her gray hair. “I am Liana, the plant gatherer of this islet. Who are you, girl?”

The girl stepped forward, firmly planting the soles of her bare feet on the soft earth. Despite being dressed in a short, tattered nightgown with bare shoulders, she straightened her back with the dignity that was ingrained in her very being. The stiffness of her formal attire had vanished, but her voice was clear, measured, and carried the weight of her rank, adapting with astonishing ease to the woman’s dialect.

“I am Princess Estelle of Sweden, Duchess of Östergötland and heir to the throne,” she introduced herself with all her official titles, looking her straight in the eye. “I knew the palace cellars held ancient ruins, but I never imagined I would find a door that led me to… Where are we?”

Liana wasn’t intimidated by the royal titles. On the contrary, she let out a short laugh, which sounded like dry leaves rustling together, and nodded like someone fitting the last piece of an old jigsaw puzzle. She sat down on a short wooden bench, running her fingers over a large flagstone on the floor, right where her late husband’s name, Ergan , was carved with a rudimentary chisel.

" Hmm … a princess from distant lands,” Liana murmured, glancing sideways at the wooden frame of the cupboard. “That wood has a will of its own. When my Ergan died and I was left alone on this hill, grief made me search the dark corners of the cupboard. That’s how I discovered the tear you found. I, too, crossed over many years ago. I saw that future from which you come; there I learned that the monarch was Carl XVI Gustaf, as his daughter explained it to me when she saw my confusion . I saw the horseless carriages, the tall chimneys belching smoke, and the bridges spanning the waters of the Grand Canal.”

The old woman paused, breathing in the sweet smoke from the hearth, and shook her head slowly, recalling the experience.

“But that place wasn’t for me. There were too many crowds. A deafening noise of people rushing about and carts roaring by. It weighed heavily on my chest and took my breath away. I preferred to return to my cabin, to the tranquility of my home, where the sun and the seasons set the rhythm and the earth can be trodden without haste. That’s why I closed the cupboard and stayed here, gathering my herbs and waiting for the day they bury me next to my old Ergan ,” the old woman says, pointing to the stone with his name carved into it.

Estela listened in silence, deeply moved by the woman’s simplicity. She understood the sentiment perfectly; she herself had just fled the stuffy crowd on the upper floor of the 21st-century Baroque palace to seek tranquility in its basement. The bond between the eighteen-year-old princess and the elderly woman was sealed in that instant, eliminating any social distance and transforming into a direct, fluid, and intimate interaction, like that of a grandmother welcoming her granddaughter into her kitchen, but 780 years before the Royal Palace of Stockholm even existed.

Liana struggled to her feet and pointed to a heavy bundle of coarse linen tied with rustic leather cords that lay in the corner of the cellar. The pungent scent of dried bark, forest roots, and medicinal leaves permeated the cabin.

“My legs no longer have the strength they once did to travel back and forth to the village,” the old woman explained, arranging the bundle with practiced skill. “The merchants who work for the monks at the monastery are expecting this spring shipment. Since you’re here and still young, take it to the merchant’s house on the islet opposite. Trade these plants for a month’s worth of provisions. I need bread, grain, and dried fish for the larder.”

Estela nodded with a willing and sincere smile. Liana helped her slip the leather straps over her shoulders, adjusting the load directly onto her bare back. The rough linen of the tattered nightgown cushioned the weight, which was unfamiliar to the excellent physical condition of an eighteen-year-old accustomed to exercise and long walks.

Pushing open the outer door of the cabin, the clear spring morning light hit her face, momentarily blinding her. Once her eyes adjusted to the brightness of the morning light, free from car exhaust fumes, and she breathed in the truly fresh air, she descended the hollow of the untouched hill. Her first step outside was a sensory delight: the cool, damp mud of the season seeped between her bare toes, a dense, clean texture she knew from her private strolls through the royal gardens. She walked leisurely through the undergrowth and green shoots until she reached the canal bank, where the waters shimmered with the purity of a deep blue mirror, untouched by modern boats or the pollution of the 21st century.

Beside the rudimentary dock of tied-together logs, the old, rickety rowboat bobbed gently. Estela placed a bare foot on the damp wooden floor, balancing herself with the ease of someone rowing recreationally for pure enjoyment. She left the cargo in the center, sat on the transverse bench, and took the heavy, roughly hewn wooden oars. With a sharp, coordinated push of her legs and back, the boat pulled away from the shore and headed west along the open channel toward the islet, traveling nearly a kilometer before turning toward the village, located directly across from old Liana’s islet.

The journey was swift. Estela knew the canal’s currents and skillfully navigated a perfect diagonal to take advantage of the water’s flow. As they approached the muddy dock of the fishing village, a young man, the local merchant’s assistant, was cleaning nets on the bank. He was astonished by the clean technique, strength, and confidence with which the dark-haired girl handled the rustic boat. It wasn’t common to see a young woman move with such mastery through the canal.

Estela maneuvered the boat alongside with precision and jumped into the mud of the dock, sinking up to her knees in the thick mud of the shore. The assistant, recovering from his astonishment, hurried to help her secure the old rope mooring to a wooden post, assuming from the casualness of her tattered clothes and grimy feet that she was the granddaughter of the solitary old woman from the hill.

“Did you bring Liana’s weeds?” the boy asked, slinging the bundle of plants that Estela was handing him by the edge of the boat over his shoulder.

“Yes, it’s the spring harvest for the merchant,” she replied, wiping the mud from her hands on her short nightgown with complete indifference. Then she asked, “Do you know how to get to the merchant?”

He looked at her and said, “Follow me!” They both followed the dirt path that climbed from the dock, walking through puddles and melting slush in the alleyways. The village was a simple collection of wooden and stone huts with thatched roofs that smelled of wood smoke and smoked herring. For Estela, the murmur of the locals haggling and the sounds of the village weren’t very different from those of the market in her present; human activity retained the same vital pulse she already knew, with only the slightest difference being the people’s clothes—it was the same as always.

They entered directly into the merchant’s house, a larger building located in the center of the village. The interior was cool and dark, with smoky wooden beams and sacks stacked in the corners. A couple of local customers, villagers from the village, waited their turn in a corner of the room. The merchant, a robust man with a courteous and rustic manner, received the shipment on his oak table and untied the leather ties to carry out the mandatory inspection.

Estela stood to one side, observing silently. With her haughty eyes and basic knowledge of botany, she immediately noticed that some of the roots and leaves had lost their freshness due to the poor storage conditions of the time, prone to dampness in the cellar. However, for the merchant and the people of 1250, this loss of quality was completely normal; the man smelled the barks, checked the weight with his hands, and nodded in agreement, paying a fair price for the shipment without suspecting that the product might have been in better condition.

Since trade was based on direct barter of goods, the merchant gave an order to his assistant. The boy began to separate the equivalent payment for the old woman and her granddaughter: sacks of barley grain, rye flatbread, and a good quantity of dried and smoked fish—a considerable volume that would fill half the small boat and ensure provisions for a whole month in the hut.

The assistant and Estela made a couple of trips along the muddy path, carrying the heavy sacks between them from the merchant’s house to the dock. The boy, who knew the routine he used with old Liana, arranged the provisions in the bottom of the boat with practiced ease, distributing the weight in the middle to ensure the rickety wooden vessel wouldn’t capsize on the return journey. Estela gazed at the loaded boat, thanked the assistant with a kiss on the cheek that made the boy blush, and prepared to take up the oars again, ready to begin the journey back to the hill under the afternoon sun.

The return journey to the hill demanded a different cadence, a steady rhythm that Estela readily embraced, thanks to her excellent physical condition. With the boat half-loaded with sacks of barley, flat rye loaves, and the heavy weight of smoked fish, the wooden hull sat much lower on the surface of the crystal-clear water. The merchant’s assistant had done a good job distributing the loads in the center, allowing the young woman to maintain her balance without the bow pitching excessively. She took the heavy, rough-hewn wooden oars and, drawing on her knowledge of the currents she had observed on the outward journey, traced the diagonal path back, pushing with her legs and pulling with her arms in a smooth motion. The physical exertion under the mild afternoon sun didn’t exhaust her, but rather provided a supremely pleasurable release of energy.

As the boat pulled up alongside the rudimentary dock of logs tied together at the bottom of the hollow, Liana’s silhouette was already visible on the shore, leaning on her gnarled wooden cane. Despite the gray mist in her eyes, the old woman craned her neck at the sound of the oars splashing and the keel scraping against the rocks. Noticing the volume of cargo crowding the bottom of the boat, a long, resonant sigh escaped her wrinkled chest, transforming into a smile of profound relief that spread across her face. She knew that sustenance for a whole month was assured in the larder thanks to the vigor of her new companion.

Between the two of them, carrying the sacks by hand up the hillside path, they moved the provisions to the safety of the half-buried cabin. The fresh spring mud seeped between Estela’s bare toes again, a thick sensation she had grown quite accustomed to. Once the fish and grain were settled in the dry corners of the cellar, the young woman prepared the space to rest after the day’s work.

Driven by pure 21st-century hygiene instinct, Estela’s first action was to take a clay pot, fill it with water from the canal, and place it directly on the glowing embers of the central hearth. She waited patiently for the heat to do its work until the water began to bubble thickly and release clean steam inside the cabin. Kneeling on the soft earth, she used the boiling water to scoop up a long, steady drink from a wooden bowl, then began to meticulously wash her hands.

Liana, who watched her from her short bench with her head tilted to one side, frowned with obvious puzzlement. The villagers didn’t usually waste time heating water unless it was to prepare porridge or a thick stew.

“Why are you doing that, girl?” asked the old woman, pointing at the steaming pot with the tips of her gnarled fingers. “The canal water comes clean; it doesn’t need fire to quench thirst.”

Estela placed the wooden bowl on the oak table and sat down on the earthen floor, near the woman’s knees. She searched for the simplest and most direct words in the local dialect, avoiding convoluted terms or scientific explanations that would have been meaningless in the 13th century.

“Where I come from,” Estela explained in a calm, clear voice, “we know that water harbors tiny things, invisible to the naked eye, that can cause fevers and stomach aches if drunk directly from the canal. Fire purifies the water completely and makes it safe for the body. And it’s not just for drinking, Liana. If we use this same heat to dry and air out medicinal plants on high shelves, away from the dampness of this cellar floor, the leaves and roots won’t rot so quickly. They’ll retain their potency and fragrance for many more moons, and the merchant won’t pay you less for a spoiled shipment.”

The old woman remained silent for a few moments, trying to understand the girl’s words. She couldn’t quite grasp the existence of those invisible elements the young woman spoke of, but she nodded slowly. She knew that life in the future was far more advanced and that the health of people in that time was superior, so she accepted the advice without the stubbornness common to the elderly.

“People are stubborn when it comes to changing what they’ve always done,” Liana admitted with a gentle smile, “but your proposal makes good sense. We’ll try your methods with the next root harvest.”

As night fell, absolute darkness enveloped the archipelago. Without electricity or the artificial lights of the modern palace, the world of the past faded completely with the last light of the sun, leaving behind a profound silence broken only by the spring breeze rustling through the pines on the hill. When it was time to rest, Estela demonstrated the nobility of her character. The only straw mattress in the cabin, covered with old furs, belonged to Liana; the young woman flatly refused to let the old woman sleep helpless elsewhere.

Estela took off her rustic linen nightgown to air it out and lay down directly on the packed earth floor, completely naked, next to the embers stoked by a thick log in the central hearth. The warmth of the fire cooled the skin of her back as she absorbed the immense peace of a night without the drone of car engines on the highways or airplanes flying over the city. She slept soundly, feeling the subtle softness of the earth beneath her body.

At dawn on the second day, the clear morning light filtered through the cracks in the door. There were no royal plans or agendas to keep for the heir to the throne. Estela dressed again in her short linen garment, leaving her long legs and shoulders bare, ready to spend the day helping the old woman with her daily chores. They set off together into the thick virgin forest that covered the hill, a terrain dense with scrub, tall pines, and a ground carpeted with dry leaves and spring dampness.

Walking barefoot through the undergrowth, Estela advanced with a confident stride, adjusting the soles of her feet to the roughness of the shallow roots and the cool touch of the damp moss. The day quickly transformed into a highly interactive lesson in ancient botany. Liana, armed with her walking stick and her prodigious sense of smell and touch, became the perfect “teacher” for the princess.

“Don’t touch that three-pointed green leaf, Estela, it’s just weeds that make your mouth bitter,” the old woman warned, bending down swiftly to pull a gnarled root from the ground. “Look for the hairy-stemmed plant that grows in the shade of the oak trees. That’s the one that soothes fishermen’s wounds when they cut themselves on the hooks. Smell its bark; you must learn to recognize it by its aroma before you cut it.”

Estela knelt in the forest mud, digging her fingers into the living earth to unearth the bark and leaves Liana indicated, absorbing the gatherer’s ancestral knowledge. Hours passed as they collected the next month’s supply, completely blending into their surroundings, transforming the future queen of Sweden into a ragged , dirty village girl, yet simultaneously into a diligent student of the land’s wisdom in the heart of a wild hill. For the next four weeks, the young woman devoted herself entirely to this daily routine, walking barefoot in the late spring sun until she learned to recognize every herb, root, and medicinal bark that grew on Liana’s islet.

As the weeks passed, spring gave way to a summer of open skies and luminous dawns, transforming the pristine hillside and islets into a canvas of vibrant greens and shimmering waters. Estela settled into this reality with the naturalness of someone who had always belonged to the land. There were no palace agendas, no prepared speeches, no guards watching her every move. Her life was reduced to the purity of the daily cycle: the smell of woodsmoke in the mornings, the feel of mud drying between her bare toes, and the immense freedom of answering to no one. She became a ragged figure, with dark brown hair and long, bare legs, moving through the neighboring villages with the ease of any local.

The summer sun shone with a gentle brilliance on the canal waters, heralding the height of the warmest months of the Scandinavian year. That morning, Estela sat on one of the rocky banks of the islet, taking advantage of the clear daylight to wash her only linen garment in the river’s pristine current. When she had finished, she hung the tattered nightgown on the low branches of a Scots pine to dry in the sun and sat on the flagstones, completely naked, enjoying the cool air and the sun on her skin. For her, walking and resting unclothed under the open sky had become a new and profound delight; an absolute physical freedom that the chambers and baroque walls of her future palace had always denied her, and which she now embraced without the slightest trace of guilt or decorum.

The silence of the riverbank was broken by the rustling of branches and the heavy thud of hoofed boots on the fallen leaves. Turning her head, Estela discerned the gleam of metal and the engraved insignia on the shields of the newcomers, instantly recognizing Governor Birger Jarl ’s entourage . It was in that split second of surprise that her diplomatic training kicked in with cold calculation: instead of giving in to panic, fleeing in shame, or rushing to change into her damp garment, she made the firm decision to remain exactly as she was on the stone slabs. She understood that the vulnerability of her own skin, displayed with unyielding sovereignty, would be the best weapon to disarm the pride of the men-at-arms, seize the initiative in the negotiations, and ensure that the old woman would never be driven from her home.

Any other young woman would have fled in panic to take cover at the sight of the men, but Estela was no ordinary villager. With a composed mind, the crown princess, trained in diplomacy, stood on the flagstones without the slightest haste. She held the governor’s gaze with an overwhelming confidence that completely unnerved the soldiers, forcing them to halt their advance and avert their eyes out of pure chivalric respect. Then, dictating the timing of the meeting herself and without a hint of embarrassment, Estela walked regally to the pine tree, took her damp linen nightgown, and slipped it on with a fluid movement. Although the wet fabric immediately clung to her figure, revealing her curves, the young woman was formally dressed according to the strict Nordic customs of the time, using this disarming truth as a natural throne to seize total control of the negotiation from the very first second.

“My lord Governor,” Estela spoke, her voice measured but firm, rising above the lapping water. She used the local dialect with the respect due to her high rank. “You have found us just as the land has left us on this islet, without riches, without weapons, and without ulterior motives in your presence. I am well aware of your reputation as a just legislator and that you have come to strengthen the defense of this channel.”

Birger Jarl , emerging from his initial bewilderment at the girl’s composure and the solemnity of her words, stepped forward. The contrast between the damp cloth clinging to her figure and the reverent dignity of her speech made him realize that he was not facing a mere frightened village girl, but a noble spirit who understood the laws of men and of God.

“You speak with the prudence of a chieftain and the respect of a vassal, my girl,” replied the governor, crossing his arms over his heavy leather and woolen torso, as he ordered his escort to keep their distance. “This hill belongs to the kingdom by right of arms now. We need to build the wall where the waters narrow.”

Estela, standing calmly by the flagstones, bowed her head gracefully before unfolding her negotiation strategy; a perfect political move that intertwined chivalrous morality with the cold pragmatism of the military leader.

“My lord, the wisest place to establish the heart of that fortress is precisely where my grandmother Liana’s hut stands,” Estela suggested , gracefully extending her hand toward the hollow. “The stone foundations of that underground cellar are ancient, solid, and welded to the bedrock of the hill. For your master stonemasons, utilizing that strong base will mean immense savings in manpower and hauling of stone. Your main tower will rise twice as quickly, allowing your men to secure the channel and take shelter long before the first frosts of winter freeze the earth.”

Birger Jarl narrowed his eyes, analyzing the proposal with the mindset of a strategist accustomed to weighing the cost of men against the value of a fortified position. The girl’s logic was impeccable.

“And what tribute does the hill demand in exchange for giving up its foundations?” asked the governor, intrigued by the poise and cunning of the deal.

“Let the crown take the elevation for its tower, but let your master builders leave the habitable hut as it is, integrated and protected beneath the fortress walls,” Estela stipulated firmly, ensuring with that gesture that no one would destroy or discover the secret of the magic cupboard. “My grandmother Liana and I will continue to live under your protection on this islet. In return, we offer you a gift of great value to your rule: she will instruct the clerics and envoys you appoint in the secret art of the medicinal plants, roots, and barks of this region, so that the kingdom may possess this monopoly on healing. I ask only one oath, my lord: that when the old woman’s time is up, she be allowed to be buried in this very land, right beside the stone of her late husband, Grandfather Ergan , so that her body may rest where he already rests.”

Old Liana, who had silently approached from the bushes leaning on her cane, listened to the end of the speech with a proud and knowing smile on her wrinkled lips. She let her “granddaughter” take the reins of the negotiation entirely, marveling at the young woman’s shrewdness.

Birger Jarl regarded the young woman proposing the perfect agreement with the poise of an equal. The deal was ideal for his purposes: it resolved the issue of the location for his watchtower, secured loyal inhabitants for the settlement, and granted him a monopoly on invaluable medical and botanical knowledge for his clergy, without conceding a single thing in the process.

“It’s a fair and just bargain, my girl,” Birger Jarl declared , nodding his head with genuine respect. “The cellar’s foundations will be respected, and the old woman will have her eternal rest on this soil. My honor and my faith seal the pact.”

The agreement was sealed under the ancient laws of a promise, with hands clasped in a sign of truce, forever securing the fate of the hill, as well as the exact location of the time gate, under the protective shadow of the new royal fortress.

During the warmer months, Estela spent the seventh day traveling from one islet to another in the old, rickety wooden boat, crossing the distances that separated the settlements. In the fishing and small-farming villages, she volunteered for the farm work. She helped the women clean fish on the shore, carried bales of dry straw to thatch the sheds, and got her hands directly into the damp earth to help with the seasonal agricultural tasks. The locals accepted her without the slightest suspicion; to them, the girl was simply a young woman from the region, somewhat quiet, but with strong arms, who wore a gray, tattered linen dress identical to that of their own daughters.

The clear water channel, untouched by the industrial activity of its present, became her favorite spot during the height of summer. Estela, who possessed excellent nautical skills, took advantage of the sweltering midday heat to dive headfirst into the crystal-clear currents. It was on these days that she discovered, to her surprise, that the vast majority of the village children had a fearful respect for water; in the 13th century, swimming was not a common skill, and many fishermen were afraid of the deep channels. With patience, the princess dedicated herself to teaching them to float and move in the clear water, breaking down the fear of the youngest among them. The village children followed her like an older sister, splashing in the muddy banks as they learned to master the current under her guidance. Her presence in the region was woven with threads of natural, everyday affection.

As summer deepened, the silence of the islet with the cabin was broken by the arrival of historical progress. Stonemasons, carpenters, and laborers sent by Governor Birger Jarl landed on the shore with barges laden with tools, heavy timbers, and massive stone blocks. The construction camp was set up atop the rise to begin work on the permanent outpost. Estela observed the entire process from a respectful distance, a silent and awe-inspiring witness to the birth of the place that, eight hundred years later, would be the site of her own birth. She watched as the men dug trenches and laid the first foundations of solid rock right around the hollow where the cabin stood sheltered.

True to her decision not to interfere in the history of the time, Estela remained aloof from technical decisions. Nor did she exchange a word with the governor’s envoy, an educated clergyman who spent his afternoons sitting outside the cabin, meticulously noting on parchment the names and properties of the medicinal plants that Liana dictated to him. To the priest and the laborers sweating under the sun, Estela was nothing more than a ragged local girl helping with the housework. When the heat intensified and the young woman went down to the river to wash her only linen garment, she would stand naked on the rocks at the riverbank waiting for the fabric to dry in the sun, a perfectly normal custom for young women in the countryside at that time. The stonemasons passed by carrying blocks of stone and regarded her with the natural respect of someone seeing just another neighbor going about her chores, without the slightest trace of morbid curiosity or malice.

During those weeks of open skies, Estela’s relationship with the merchant’s young assistant became a haven of absolute complicity. In the eyes of the village, their romance was a public and natural fact; they were seen walking barefoot through summer storms, laughing with thick mud covering their legs as they shared the dock work with the carefree abandon of their youth. However, it was in the hidden intimacy of the straw mattresses in the sheds that Estela found a completely new delight. Stripped of the rigid brooches and stilted protocol of her century, these private, guilt-free encounters became her best school of diplomacy: exploring emotions with this rustic boy allowed her to learn, for the first time, how ordinary men felt, feared, and loved, accumulating a human and empathetic wisdom about the common people that she could never have acquired within the baroque walls of her palace in the future .

Autumn arrived with gusts of cold wind that tinged the hilltop forests with shades of ochre, gold, and red. Patches of fine snow began to appear on the peaks, and entire villages prepared for the celebrations of the year’s final harvest. Estela enjoyed the communal festivities in the villages, sharing freshly baked rye bread, mild barley beer, and the locals’ circular dances around the large bonfires that warmed the dark nights. She watched the sparks rise toward the starry sky, feeling in her body the physical weariness and the fullness of having lived through three complete seasons in absolute communion with the origins of her people, while out of the corner of her eye she saw how the first stone tower of the royal fortress was already etching its massive silhouette against the northern horizon.

In the weeks following the pact, the islet became a hive of rustic activity. While stonemasons chipped away at the granite blocks and laid the foundations for the first defensive tower encircling the hollow, a monk from the nearby missions commissioned a local artist from another village to immortalize the alliance’s origins. The painter worked for days inside the underground cellar, using natural pigments extracted from earth, berries, and bark. As his canvas, he used the very wooden door from the cupboard. One of Birger Jarl ’s stonemasons , using his fine chisels, reshaped the rough wooden frame around the door, carving clean reliefs until it resembled a beautiful picture frame, perfectly fitting the structure of the secret entrance.

The finished painting was a scene of poignant beauty. It depicted the islet’s hill bathed in the golden spring sun, with old Liana seated on her short wooden bench, her wrinkled hands preparing bundles of medicinal plants. Beside her, portrayed with astonishing fidelity, stood the ragged, grimy girl with dark brown hair, her bare legs exposed beneath her tattered dress, her filthy feet helping the old woman prepare the bundle of fresh roots and bark for bartering. Every morning and every evening, at the end of the day, Liana would approach the hearth, bend down with difficulty, and touch with her fingertips a large stone slab embedded in the earthen floor; the name Ergan , her husband, was carved into the rock with a chisel. It was her private sanctuary, the corner where she held onto the hope of being buried and resting in the same patch of earth where her partner already slept.

With the first icy blizzards of winter upon us, the cold became biting across the archipelago. Estela knew it was time to return to her own time. She said goodbye to Liana in the privacy of the cellar, promising to return as soon as the weather permitted. The old woman, squeezing her hands tenderly, asked her in a hushed voice to come back someday. Estela crossed the threshold of the pantry, leaving the 13th century behind. As she passed through the dimly lit altarpiece, she felt a shiver run through her body. Looking down, she discovered that her sumptuous off-white ball gown was completely restored, intact, clean, and with all its haute couture embellishments firmly in place.

Barefoot, carrying her high heels, she strolled calmly up the private corridors of the archaeological palace. As she ascended, she began to hear the orchestra’s music in the distance, floating with the same intensity as when she had left. Driven by curiosity, she made her way to the hidden balconies of the grand ballroom. Peering behind the curtains, she was stunned: the official party with the diplomats and ambassadors was still in full swing, at exactly the same point. She glanced at the large clock on the wall and grasped the magnitude of the mystery: while she had lived through three full seasons in the past, only one hour had passed in her 21st-century timeline.

The shock of the temporal shock made her heart race. Without a second thought, Estela whirled around and hurried through the stone passageways, descending the dimly lit steps into the depths of the museum. She crossed the altarpiece for the second time that night, again feeling the instantaneous transformation of her clothes into the tattered, rustic linen nightgown. Opening the cellar door, she discovered with astonishment that the time distortion had placed her back in the following spring of the 13th century, but the scene inside the cabin was critical. Liana lay on her cot, weakened by the years and living her last day in this world. From the old woman’s perspective, time hadn’t changed in any strange way; her beloved “granddaughter” had simply kept her promise to return and had come back the following spring.

Liana opened her tired eyes and smiled as she saw the silhouette of the dark-haired young woman approach the bed. She was able to bid the child farewell in peace, comforted by the finished altarpiece she had seen on the cupboard, knowing that her story and that of her hill would be preserved for centuries to come. After she breathed her last in an atmosphere of absolute serenity, the stonemasons from the fortress respectfully entered the hut to fulfill the pact made with the governor. They dug the grave directly in the earthen floor of the cellar, right next to Ergan ’s slab , placing a carved stone bearing Liana’s name upon the new tomb. The village monk was present, solemnly performing the funeral rites appropriate to the time.

After the prayers ended, Estela was left alone with the cleric in the dim light of the cabin. Overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment, the princess decided to reveal the absolute truth about the cupboard door and the vertical painting. The monk listened patiently, but a disbelieving smile crossed his face, attributing her words to the fantasy or the grief of a village girl who had just lost her grandmother.

“It’s just a large cupboard for storing food, girl,” the monk told her in a compassionate tone.

Estela didn’t argue. In her left hand, she already held a lock of gray hair she had cut from Liana, the sole and most sacred physical reminder of their journey. She turned toward the altarpiece, opened the painted wooden door before the open eyes of the cleric, and crossed the threshold. The monk froze as the girl’s figure vanished into thin air. His heart racing with mysticism, the man lunged at the cabinet and tugged at the textured frame, trying to follow her; but to his eyes and his faith, the space remained as it had always been: a large, dark, and completely empty cupboard.

Estela emerged back in the year 2030, immediately feeling the familiar, pristine weight of her off-white ball gown, fully restored and immaculate upon her body. The distant murmur of violins from above no longer bothered her. She crouched in the dim light of the old Tre Museum Kronor placed her palms directly on the 800-year-old stone slab resting on the archaeological floor. Her eyes moist, she gazed at the centuries-worn names of Ergan and Liana, carved side by side into the bedrock. For a few moments, filled with reverence and a sense of human maturity, she looked at the vertical altarpiece where she herself was depicted as the ragged village girl. She tucked a lock of hair between her fingers and stood. With a firm, confident step, her soul transformed by the lessons of the land, she began to climb the stairs back to the hall, ready to embrace her life as the future Queen of Sweden.

End.