"Mama?" I ask once we've completed the first few stitches. I tilt my head, adopting my best imitation of a child's inquisitive lilt. "Do you gots a mama an' papa too? Or mebbe some grandmams an' aunties an' such?"

Aislin's movements still for a moment, her pale eyes taking on a faraway look. "Well now, that's a question an' a half, ain't it?" she murmurs at last. A weary sigh escapes her cracked lips as she resumes her stitching, guiding my small hands with her own. "Truth be told, poppet, I ain't seen a one o' me own kin since I was wed to yer da all them years past. Only know me father perished o' the fever back when I was still a maid."

I nod solemnly, keeping my face a mask of childish sympathy despite the burning curiosity gnawing at me. So this primitive backwater of a village isn't even her native home, then? How utterly fascinating!

"We make our life here in Baile Rois now," Aislin continues, the words rolling off her tongue like the gentle lapping of waves on a distant shore. "But I was born to a folk from another part o' the land entirely, truth be told."

Baile Rois? I mouth the name silently, tasting the strange syllables as they tumble through my mind. What an utterly peculiar construction - could it be some debased offshoot of the ancient Goidelic stem *bally, denoting a landed estate or fortified homestead? Combined with the Norse suffix *rois, perhaps a bastardization of the Old Norse rois, meaning "small forest" or "thicket"? If so, the literal translation would render it something akin to "The Fortified Homestead of the Woodlands"...

"After me da passed from the fever when I was but eleven winters young," Aislin presses on, her voice pulling me from my reverie, "me poor ma had to beg Lord Eamonn's pity, ye see. Lassies starve quicker without a man's protection, so she arranged fer me to be wed as quick as could be."

I can't quite stifle the derisive snort that bubbles up at her words. As if this wretched existence under Oisin's drunken fist could be considered any sort of "protection"! The utter insanity of these mouth-breathers never ceases to astound.

"An' me two younger sisters went the same way soon after, from what I 'members," Aislin continues with a weary sigh. "Sold off like cattle to any man what would take 'em, just to keep food in their bellies. Me brother Sean was sent off soldierin' about that time too, bless his soul."

I gape at the woman, scarcely able to process the casual way she relays such horrific details. Her own flesh and blood, bartered away into sexual slavery before they'd even flowered - all to sate the whims of whatever mouth-breathing lout happened to cast a lecherous eye their way? I feel bile rising in my throat as the full extent of this depraved society's depravity washes over me in crashing waves.

How can any rational, feeling creature condone such monstrous injustice? To utterly strip women of any semblance of autonomy or human dignity from their very first breath? Surely even these ignorant brutes must feel some inkling that this way of life is an utter perversion of...of what, exactly? What grand paradigm am I struggling to recall here?

"So ye see, me wee Lile," Aislin murmurs, her voice pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. She leans in close, the sour reek of her unwashed body overwhelming my senses as she plants a tender kiss on my brow. "We're all what's left o' me sad story now - just yer da, me, an' my precious little lamb. The three of us, together as one."

I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill down my grimy cheeks. For all her ignorance and blind acceptance of this nightmarish status quo, I can't deny the genuine love and tenderness shining in Aislin's pale eyes as she gazes at me. In that moment, she is every inch the doting mother - her entire world condensed into the simple act of caring for her child, no matter how wretched our circumstances may be.

As Aislin guides my hands in completing the final stitches, I find myself utterly adrift - an entity struggling to perceive its own existence, let alone make sense of the depraved reality surrounding it. All I can do is play the role of the obedient child for now, soaking in every scrap of knowledge about this primitive world like a sponge.

Aislin picks up the tattered tunic from her lap, holding it up as she looks at me with a warm smile. "If we keep at this needlework, ye'll be a master seamstress afore long, me wee Lile."

I can't help but giggle at the thought, my tangled blonde curls bouncing with the childish motion. "Aye, mama! I'll be the best ever!" I chirp, widening my eyes innocently.

Chuckling softly, Aislin sets the tunic aside and begins gathering up the bone needle and sewing kit, placing them neatly on the rickety table. She then scoops me up from her lap, setting me down on the hard-packed dirt floor with a grunt of effort.

"There now," she says, rising to her feet with a weary sigh. "We'd best say our evenin' prayers afore cookin' up any supper, aye?"

I tilt my head quizzically, feigning the picture of childish curiosity. "Who're we gonna pray to, mama?"

"Why, to the Blessed Virgin herself, o' course," Aislin replies, as if it should be obvious. "The holy mother Mary Gwenhwyfar, bless her soul."

Mary Gwenhwyfar? That's an odd name I've never heard before. It almost sounds like some sort of pagan-Christian hybrid...

Aislin kneels down beside the pathetic excuse for a hearth, its smoldering coals casting flickering shadows across her sallow features. She pats the dirt beside her in a silent summons.

Obediently, I scurry over and sink to my knees next to her, my bare feet leaving dusty imprints on the floor. Aislin folds her hands and bows her head, murmuring a prayer in that same singsong lilt I've heard a thousand times from pious fools.

"Blessed Mother Mary Gwenhwyfar, holy virgin and queen of heaven, pray for us sinners..."

I mimic her posture and words dutifully, widening my eyes in an expression of childish piety despite the mocking laughter bubbling up inside me. This wretched existence is nothing but a cruel cosmic joke!

When the prayer finally concludes, Aislin leans over to plant a tender kiss on my brow. "Well done, me lamb," she murmurs. "The Holy Virgin shall surely bless ye for such devotion."

I bob my head enthusiastically, unable to resist a bit of playful cheek. "I hopes the Blessed Gwenhwyfar gives Lile a nice full belly too!" I chirp. "An' nothin' to worry 'bout neither!"

Aislin chuckles indulgently, rising to her feet with a grunt. "Aye, poppet, the Lord willin'," she says. "Now come along - I'll be showin' ye how to cook up a proper meal whilst we wait fer yer da's return."

With that, she crosses to the rough dugout cellar in the corner, disappearing down the crumbling steps. A few moments later, she reemerges carrying a sack filled with gnarled potatoes, onions, and what looks like a bundle of oats.

"Pay close mind now, lass," Aislin instructs, already turning towards the pathetic hearth. "Ye'll be wantin' to learn these skills proper if ye mean to keep a husband's belly full one day."

I nod obediently, widening my eyes as I shuffle closer to watch. This ought to be rich - watching a lice-ridden peasant wench prepare what will no doubt be a culinary masterpiece of rotten tubers and muck! I can hardly wait.

Aislin kneels before the smoldering coals, using a pair of crude iron tongs to stoke the meager fire into a slightly brighter blaze. She then begins peeling the gnarled potatoes and onions, tossing the papery skins into the flames as she works.

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The pungent aroma of charred vegetables soon fills the cramped hovel, making my nose wrinkle in disgust. Ugh, even the smoke from this pathetic cookfire reeks of poverty and squalor! How utterly revolting.

Once the vegetables are prepped, Aislin retrieves the battered iron pot from its hook over the hearth. She spits unceremoniously into the vessel, then begins layering in the potato and onion chunks along with a few handfuls of the dried oats.

"There now," she mutters, already reaching for the bucket of stagnant rainwater in the corner. "A proper peasant's pottage, this'll be!"

I watch in morbid fascination as she upends the entire bucket over the pot, the murky, scum-flecked liquid sloshing over the ingredients in a frothy deluge. No doubt that water is absolutely teeming with all manner of bacteria and parasites, if the foul stench is any indication!

"An' a wee dash o' salt fer flav'rin'," Aislin declares, plucking a pinch of gritty white crystals from a battered crock and sprinkling them over the concoction. She then sets the pot back over the coals, using the iron tongs to settle the blackened lid into place.

"There we are, lass!" she proclaims with a satisfied nod. "That ought to be a hearty enough meal to fill even yer da's belly once it's had a good simmer. We'll just need to let it steep a spell whilst we wait fer him to return from the fields."

I nod solemnly, keeping my face a mask of childish obedience despite the sarcastic commentary raging inside my head. Oh yes, I can hardly wait to sample this culinary delight of rotted tubers and giardia-infested swamp water! Truly, the pinnacle of haute cuisine in this benighted backwater.

"Aye, mama," I reply, unable to resist a bit of playful cheek. "I'm sure papa will be simply ravenous fer such a feast when he gets home!"

Aislin shoots me a reproachful look, but doesn't rebuke me further. Instead, she settles onto the bench with a weary sigh, her sallow face pinched with worry.

"I pray the good Lord sees fit to put yer da in an amenable humor this evenin'," she murmurs, almost to herself. "I've matters of import to discuss with him regardin' that Norseman, Colm..."

Colm, huh? Now there's a peculiar name for this supposed Norseman Aislin mentioned. Unless I'm sorely mistaken, Colm is an Irish moniker, not something you'd expect from the Viking hordes. It has to be some sort of alias or anglicized version, surely.

But enough pondering over semantics - what about that bizarre name Aislin uttered during her little prayer session? Mary Gwenhwyfar? That's an utterly nonsensical mash-up if I've ever heard one! The Virgin Mary I'm well acquainted with, but tacking on that extra Gwenhwyfar bit? It almost sounds like some sort of pagan goddess's name been crudely grafted onto the Christian iconography.

A merging of the old Celtic mythology with the new religious dogma, perhaps? If so, that would certainly track with the rampant ignorance and superstition endemic to this primitive, benighted era. Bunch of filthy peasants clinging to their heathen roots while giving the barest of lip service to the Church's teachings. How utterly depraved!

I sneak a sidelong glance at Aislin, watching as she murmurs yet another rambling entreaty to this so-called "Blessed Virgin." Her cracked lips move soundlessly, no doubt mouthing the same tired platitudes and folksy aphorisms she's regurgitated a thousand times before. The utter insanity of her childlike faith in such blatant falsehoods is almost pitiable.

And to think, this wretched existence of squalor and deprivation is somehow considered the natural order here? Where women are nothing but chattel, brutalized child-breeders kept in perpetual ignorance to better serve their masters? If this is the enlightened civilization these mouth-breathers have managed to erect after centuries of "progress", then I shudder to think what primordial darkness must have preceded it!

Surely this cannot be real. This entire realm must be some sort of lucid fever dream, a waking nightmare my subconscious has constructed to torment me. Perhaps I've been committed to one of the modern age's sanitation wards, left to languish in abject delirium as my mind slowly rots from the inside?

Yes, that must be it! Any moment now, I'll jolt awake from this hellish vision, blinking against the stark whitewashed walls and antiseptic reek of the asylum. The nurses will bustle in to restrain me as always, cooing empty platitudes while they prep the dosages of thorazine and electroshock treatments.

Any second now, this purgatorial existence will shatter like a soap bubble. My eyes will open, and I'll be back in the clean, sterile world of science and rationality where such backwoods superstition and brutality have been eradicated. Where the natural laws of physics and biology hold sway over the fevered rantings of religious zealots and folk mystics.

So chop-chop, brain! This twisted reverie has gone on quite long enough. Time to cast off the last clinging tendrils of this delusional farrago and rejoin the civilized world, hmm? I haven't got all century to waste trapped in the addled fantasies of some medieval peasant urchin, after all!

Aislin leans towards me, a conspiratorial glint in her pale eyes. "Ye know, poppet, I hear tell this Colm could make even a chaste nun go wanton with desire!"

She pauses, as if savoring the delicious gossip. "They say he's a giant of a man, towerin' over most folk with shoulders near as broad as an ox! An' his eyes - why, they shine like precious emeralds, so bright an' intense ye'd swear they could pierce yer very soul!"

I blink up at her owlishly, feigning childish fascination. "He sounds like a good guy, mama!"

Aislin nods, her chapped lips curving into a thin smile. "Aye, that he does, lass. A proper freeman, an' a wealthy one at that from what I gather."

She lapses into silence then, her brow furrowed as she stares into the smoldering coals. I fidget restlessly, my bare feet scuffing the hard-packed dirt as I wait for her to continue.

At length, Aislin seems to rouse herself from her reverie with a weary sigh. "I only hope yer da was able to snare us a grouse or rabbit last night," she murmurs. "We've naught but the same paltry pottage to break our fast again otherwise."

I pipe up eagerly at that. "We could cook up all them eggs I gathered today, mama! That'd make a right fine feast, it would!"

But Aislin merely shakes her head, her expression hardening. "Nay, poppet - those eggs must go to market on the morrow, same as any we gather in the days to come. We need what few coppers they'll fetch to pay our rent to Lord Eamonn."

I can't quite stifle my exaggerated sigh or stop my eyes from rolling dramatically. Aislin shoots me a reproachful look, but her features soon soften into a sad, resigned smile.

"Be patient, me wee lamb," she soothes, reaching out to pat my matted curls. "I aim to do whatever I must to see ye have a better life than this squalor, I swear it on the Blessed Virgin's name. Ye've me word on that."

Reaaaally now, a better life in this realm? Here? In this wretched backwater hovel reeking of filth and despair? I scoff inwardly at Aislin's naive optimism. Even if this Norseman Colm is some fabled adonis blessed with the wealth and status of a freeman, it wouldn't make a lick of difference to our plight. We're still trapped in this primitive, medieval realm devoid of even the most basic comforts or technology.

Unless...could this place somehow harbor actual magic within its borders? It would certainly explain the bizarre details I've witnessed so far - my own vivid yellow eyes, so inhuman and unsettling. And that drunken brute Oisin's gaze shines with the same eerie, amber luminescence whenever he leers at me with undisguised contempt.

We can't possibly be human, not in any sense I recognize from my previous existence. These forms we inhabit merely resemble the standard Homo sapiens phenotype on a superficial level. But there's something fundamentally other about our true nature, something preternatural lurking just beneath the surface.

I shake my head slowly, struggling to make sense of it all as Aislin continues murmuring her pious platitudes. Seriously, what a visceral and unsettling dream.

The crackling flames in the hearth cast flickering shadows across Aislin's sallow face as she rocks back and forth, her cracked lips moving in silent prayer. I fidget restlessly, my bare feet scuffing the hard-packed dirt as I study her features.

"Mama?" I pipe up, widening my eyes in an expression of childish curiosity. "How come papa's eyes is so yeller an' bright?"

Aislin pauses her murmurings, blinking owlishly at me for a moment before a warm smile spreads across her face. "Why, ye means to ask about yer da's eye color, do ye lass?"

I nod vigorously, my tangled blonde curls bouncing with the childish motion. "Aye, mama! His eyes is so bright an' shiny, like two little suns!"

A soft chuckle escapes Aislin's lips as she shakes her head indulgently. "Well now, poppet - did ye not notice yer own wee peepers shine just as bright?"

She leans forward, gently grasping my chin to tilt my face towards the meager light filtering through the window slits. "See fer yerself, child. Yer eyes blaze like molten gold in the sun's glow, same as yer da's."

I blink rapidly, taken aback by her words as realization blossoms within me. Of course - those haunting amber orbs staring back at me from the washbasin, their preternatural luminescence searing into my very soul. My eyes are just as vibrant and unsettling as Oisin's.

Aislin releases my chin, settling back on the bench with a contented sigh. "Such bright, bonny eyes ye both have - the Lord's blessin' on our folk, to be sure. Why, there's many others 'round the village born with just as unnatur'l a look about 'em!"

My brow furrows as I gape at the wretched woman, hardly daring to breathe. "Others...like us?" I echo slowly.

"Aye, that's right!" Aislin confirms with an enthusiastic nod. "Ol' Grainne Murphy's got hair the color o' fresh strawberries, an' her eyes shine pinker than a mornin' sunrise. An' young Caoimhe Fitzgerald's whole head be the most unnatural shade o' seafoam, with eyes to match!"[...]