I nod slowly, my mind racing to process this new information. The days still bear their pagan names - a telling sign of how primitive this era truly is. "And what month of the year are we in?" I ask cautiously.

Aislin resumes eating, seemingly unbothered by my odd line of questioning. "The harvest month, Lunasa. The one after Iuil."

Iuil...that must be their word for July, I realize with a start. And Lunasa is clearly August by that reckoning. My heart begins to pound as the pieces fall into place, an ominous sense of dread coiling within me.

I set down my spoon, the dull clatter drawing Aislin's gaze. "What year is it?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She glances at me sharply, brow furrowing once more. "What's with these odd questions, lass? Are ye feelin' unwell?" When I shake my head, she shrugs and continues. "Well, the monks claim 'tis the year of the Lord three hundred."

Aislin crosses herself quickly, but I scarcely notice - my mind has ground to a halt, a yawning pit of horror opening up to swallow me whole. The year three hundred? As in the year three hundred AD? As in over sixteen centuries before my own time?

What. The. Everloving. Fuck.

I gape at Aislin, mouth working soundlessly as her words sink in like a lead weight in my gut. This has to be some sort of sick cosmic joke, right? I mean, getting reincarnated as a filthy peasant brat is bad enough - but being hurled over a thousand goddamn years into the past as well? You've got to be shitting me!

I glance around the cramped, squalid interior of the hovel, taking in the crumbling mud walls and packed dirt floor with new eyes. No electricity, no plumbing, no modern amenities of any kind. Hell, I'd wager good money these mouth-breathers have never even heard of the germ theory of disease!

My gaze falls on the pathetic excuse for a hearth, little more than a ring of blackened stones with the smoldering remnants of last night's fire. A thin tendril of acrid smoke coils upward, stinging my nostrils. I can only imagine the kinds of archaic, inefficient heating and cooking methods employed here. Probably hauling logs and stoking flames like a bunch of freaking cavemen!

I shudder at the thought, my mind reeling as the full reality of my situation sinks in like a lead weight. No modern sanitation, no medicine beyond a few folk remedies, not even the most basic concepts of hygiene! I'm essentially trapped in the literal dark ages here - a nightmarish land of filth, disease, and rampant superstition.

Just...fan-fucking-tastic. As if being crammed into this lice-ridden sack of a body wasn't cruel enough, the universe has seen fit to strand me over a millennium in the past as well. I can already feel the bubonic plague germs festering in my grimy pores, the cholera bacteria multiplying in my intestines with every mouthful of gruel I choke down.

I'm going to die of dysentery or some other horrific medieval malady, aren't I? Wasting away in this reeking cesspit, shitting out my intestinal lining as rats gnaw off my face. What a stellar way to begin the next grand adventure of my cosmic journey - as a plague-ridden peasant urchin doomed to expire before puberty!

I shovel the last few bites of gritty, lukewarm porridge into my mouth, grimacing at the bland, pasty texture. Ugh, this slop tastes like wet dirt mixed with sawdust - utterly revolting! I have to fight back the urge to gag as I force the vile mush down my throat.

Across the table, Aislin smiles at me with those cracked, pale lips. "There's me good lass," she says in that saccharine tone mothers use to praise their young. "Ye ate it all up proper-like."

I nod obediently, giving her my best impression of a pleased child as I pat my distended belly. Inside, I'm desperately willing my roiling stomach to settle, terrified I might vomit up every last morsel all over this rickety table.

Aislin finishes her own bowl, rising from the bench with a weary sigh. She begins pacing around the cramped hovel, peering into every nook and cranny with increasing franticness. "Blast that Oisin!" she suddenly cries, slapping a palm to her forehead. "He's not told me where he's hid the tax coins this time. The king's men'll be here on the morrow to collect their blasted tribute!"

My brow furrows in confusion at her words. Tax collectors? Coming to this pathetic peasant village to demand coin from the likes of us? I can scarcely fathom the notion. "Who's the king?" I ask in my best childlike lilt, cocking my head to the side. "An' why's he wantin' our pennies?"

Aislin pauses in her frantic search to frown at me, those pale eyes narrowing. "Why, 'tis King Brian Boru of Eire himself, bless the good Lord," she chides, as if I'm some dimwitted babe. "Surely I've told ye this afore, lass. He's the one what finally drove them Norse devils from our lands after years o' fightin'. Though the war took grievous toll, so 'tis only right we pay tribute to fund the rebuildin' of what was lost."

I blink at her owlishly for a moment, struggling to keep my face blank despite the utter absurdity of her words. Brian fucking Boru? The legendary High King of Ireland from over a millennium ago? And this backwater peasant shithole is somehow under his rule and being taxed to fund his kingdom's restoration in the year 300 AD?

Yeah, pull the other one, you ignorant wench! This has to be some sort of bizarre jape. Everyone knows Boru didn't rise to power until the 11th century, long after the Viking Age was in full swing. Hell, by the 4th century the island was still a fractured mess of warring clans and petty kingships squabbling over tiny patches of territory. The very notion of a centralized Irish monarchy levying taxes on its subjects is utterly laughable!

Still, best to play along with the silly peasant woman's delusions for now. Wouldn't want to arouse suspicion by letting my extensive knowledge of ancient Irish history slip, after all. I'm just a filthy urchin brat who should know better than to question her betters on such weighty matters of statecraft and warfare.

"Oh aye, I 'members now!" I chirp with an exaggerated nod, widening my eyes in mock realization. "The good King Boru an' his fight 'gainst them nasty Norsers, I 'members ye tellin' me 'fore!" I pause, feigning a look of childish concern as I glance around our squalid little hovel. "But...if we ain't got no pennies fer the tax mens, ain't they gonna take our house 'way? Or put us in a dungeon fer not payin' the king his monies?"

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting into laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Tax collectors coming to imprison a family of dirt-poor people for failing to pay their feudal obligations? In this literal medieval shithole where we're all one step above indentured slavery? Oh, the utter insanity! These delusional peasants are too much...

Aislin pauses, shooting me an exasperated look over her bony shoulder. "Nay, poppet, no dungeons, just lashin'. 'Tis Lord Eamonn's collectors who'll be callin' on the morrow, not the king's men direct. But they speak fer Boru hisself, same as our good lord does in these lands."

A lord? Here in this pathetic peasant village? The very notion seems utterly absurd. I blink owlishly at the wretched woman, struggling to keep my expression one of innocent curiosity rather than outright skepticism.

"An' why's the lord wantin' our coppers so bad?" I ask, cocking my head in feigned confusion. "We ain't got much more'n a few pennies to rub together, even after sellin' eggs at market."

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Aislin resumes her search, peering under the rickety bench and table as she speaks. "Lord Eamonn wants strong lads to train as soldiers fer his ranks, same as any good lord providin' men fer the king's armies. But we've only ye, a useless daughter what can't fill his quotas."

I nearly choke on my own spit at her words, eyes bulging as I gape at the mad woman. Soldiers? Ranks? Quotas for providing literal child conscripts to some feudal asshole's military? This has to be some sort of sick jape!

"Who...who's this Lord Eamonn fella?" I manage once I've caught my breath. "An' why's he wantin' wee bairns to be fightin' in his soldier games?"

Aislin shoots me another withering look, as if I'm some dimwitted babe questioning the divine order of the cosmos itself. "Lord Eamonn MacRuarc is the magistrate what rules these lands in good King Boru's name," she explains slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dense child. "He showed us mercy after them Norse devils burned our fields, an' took any lads big enough to grip a stick fer trainin' as warriors in return."

Her pale eyes take on a distant, faraway look as she continues. "Me own brother Sean was one o' the first lads taken, soon as he could walk proper. Lord Eamonn saw his fire an' spirit, even as a wee bairn..."

"Mebbe one day ye can watch the lads at their drillin' an' see fer yerself, aye? But not 'til ye've grown some an' proven ye can mind yerself proper around men, mind."

I nod obediently, doing my best to school my features into an expression of childish acceptance. But inside, I'm utterly seething at the absurdity of it all. This is supposed to be some enlightened Christian utopia in the year 300 AD? Where peasant families are expected to sacrifice their toddler sons to the local feudal lord's ranks like lambs to the slaughter?

If this ridiculous charade is what passes for an ideal society in the so-called "Dark Ages", it's no wonder the Roman Empire eventually crumbled into dust! Christian values and ethics, my arse - this whole setup is about as enlightened and civilized as a pack of rabid jackals devouring their own young!

Aislin halts her frantic pacing abruptly, her sallow face pinched into a scowl as she whirls to face me. In three quick strides she's looming over my tiny form, bony fingers tangling in my matted blonde curls as she gives a sharp yank.

"Ye were wanderin' 'bout afore proper wakin' this morn, weren't ye lass?" she demands, pale eyes narrowing to accusing slits. "Did ye take the bag o' coppers, then? Out playin' some silly game whilst I slept?"

I shake my head frantically, wincing as the movement tugs painfully at my hair still caught in Aislin's white-knuckled grip. "No mama, I din't touch no coins!" I protest, adopting my best childish lilt. "I been a good girl, I swears it!"

But the wretched woman seems unconvinced, her free hand twisting the tangled strands tighter until I can't stifle a whimper of pain. "Ye sure o' that, ye wee scrap?" she presses, leaning down to glare directly into my upturned face. "Ye din't take 'em outside to play some silly game with the chickens, did ye? 'Twould serve ye right if they gobbled up every last one!"

I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill down my grimy cheeks. "No mama, I swears it!" I insist, my voice rising to a childish wail. "I ain't took nothin', ye hurtin' me!"

Aislin releases me with a frustrated sigh, turning away as her foot scuffs against the rough sack of turnips beside the pathetic excuse for a hearth. The burlap sack tips over with a dull thud, scattering the gnarled roots across the hard-packed dirt floor in a clatter...along with a small cloth bag that spills open to disgorge a handful of dull copper coins.

"Lord above!" Aislin gasps, snatching up the spilled coins with a look of naked relief. She clutches the recovered bag to her faded bodice like a lifeline, sinking to her knees beside me with a tremulous smile.

"Oh, thank the Blessed Virgin ye din't take 'em, poppet," she murmurs, reaching out to grasp my tiny hand in her calloused one. "Forgive yer foolish mother, aye? I was near mad with fear o' what Oisin would do if the coppers went missin' again."

I nod obediently, still sniffling from the lingering sting of her rough treatment. But my mind is already racing, analyzing the implications of her words with a sense of dawning horror. If the mere loss of a few paltry coins could drive this wretched peasant to such frantic desperation...what fresh hell would that monstrous brute Oisin unleash upon his own family?

Aislin gives my hand a gentle squeeze, her pale eyes taking on a haunted look as she continues in a hushed tone. "If I'd not found 'em 'fore yer da returned...he'd've taken a blade to me throat fer certain, poppet. Mounted me head outside on a pike to rot, as warnin' to other disobedient wives."

I gape at her in dawning horror. She speaks so matter-of-factly about her husband mutilating and publicly displaying her severed head. Can such brutality truly be commonplace here?

Aislin gathers the wooden trenchers from the rickety table, the rough-hewn planks creaking beneath her touch. "Come along now, poppet," she says, her voice soft yet weary. "Can ye help yer ma wash these up proper?"

I nod obediently, my tangled blonde curls bobbing with the childish motion. "Aye, mama," I reply, adopting my best imitation of a young girl's lilt. I clamber to my feet, trailing after Aislin as she crosses the cramped room to the washbasin.

Aislin leads me over to the crude wooden bucket crammed into the corner, little more than a splintered tub filled with stagnant, scum-flecked water. I wrinkle my nose in revulsion at the rancid odor wafting up in musty tendrils - the unmistakable reek of human waste and mold.

This is to be our "washbasin"? The very thought of submerging my hands, let alone my face or any other part of my body, into that putrid soup fills me with visceral disgust. These destitute louts haven't even the most basic grasp of sanitation or hygiene!

Aislin kneels beside the bucket, dipping the first trencher into the scum to begin scrubbing away the congealed dregs of porridge. I watch in morbid fascination as streaks of grime and filth swirl away in the murky depths, no doubt teeming with all manner of fecal coliforms and parasites.

"Here now, lass," Aislin murmurs, handing me the sodden trencher. "Ye give it a good rinse while I start on the next."

I accept the dripping bowl, grimacing at the slimy film coating its rough surface. Pinching my nose against the stench, I plunge it back into the stagnant water, sloshing it about in a vain attempt to rinse away the last clinging remnants.

I eye the grimy wooden bowl bobbing in the foul water, my lip curling in distaste. What fresh hell is this? I'm meant to clean my eating utensils in the same vile, bacteria-ridden cesspool where we no doubt defecate and dispose of all manner of filth?

The very notion is so utterly revolting, so antithetical to even the most rudimentary principles of germ theory and disease prevention, that I can scarcely believe it. Have these ignorant peasants learned nothing over the centuries? Do they not grasp the fundamental link between squalor, poor sanitation, and the spread of deadly plagues?

Clearly not, if the rampant fleas, lice, and other parasites infesting our very bodies are any indication. I grit my teeth, fighting back a wave of nausea as I reluctantly submerge my hands in the tepid, murky water. If this is what's required to maintain my childish facade and avoid drawing undue suspicion, so be it.

By the time we've finished cleaning both trenchers, my hands are pruned and reeking of that foul, brackish water. Aislin takes the bowls and tucks them away on a narrow shelf carved into the crumbling mud wall, the rough-hewn nook already overflowing with an assortment of battered cookware and tattered rags.

As she straightens, smoothing her hands over the frayed fabric of her dress, I tug insistently at the hem. "Mama?" I ask, widening my eyes in a look of childish curiosity. "How old is you?"

Aislin pauses, her brow furrowing slightly as she considers my odd question. "Why, I'm eighteen summers now, poppet," she replies after a moment. "Just a young lass still, though feelin' twice me age some days."

I nod slowly, my mind racing as I ponder the implications of her words. Eighteen years old, yet already married with children? The very notion seems utterly abhorrent to my modern sensibilities.

"An'...an' when did ye have me?" I venture cautiously, cocking my head in a picture of girlish innocence. "Was I yer first bairn, mama?"

Aislin's pale eyes take on a haunted look as she reaches out to pat my matted curls. "Nay, lass, ye weren't me first," she murmurs, her voice heavy with sorrow. "I...I had two other wee ones 'fore ye were born. But the babes didn't make it, bless their souls."

She draws a ragged breath, her chapped lips twisting into a pained grimace. "I birthed ye when I was but fourteen summers myself, Lile. Ye were the only one of me children to survive the ordeal, thank the Blessed Virgin."

I gape at the wretched woman, scarcely able to process the casual way she speaks of such horrific trauma. Fourteen years old and already forced to endure the agonies of childbirth not once, but three times? With two of those poor infants perishing before they'd even drawn breath?

And she relays this grim tale with all the emotional investment of reciting a bloody recipe for mutton stew! As if bearing and losing multiple children as a mere girl herself were simply the natural order of things in this depraved, primitive world.

My mind reels in utter revulsion at the thought. Is this entire godforsaken nation populated by pedophiles and child rapists? What manner of sick, twisted society celebrates the sexual exploitation and mutilation of its own young girls on such a horrific scale?[...]