As we approach the village center, familiar faces come into view. I spot the Doyles - Seamus with his perpetual scowl, Siobhan looking weary as always. The Quinns are huddled together, Brendan gesticulating wildly about something or other. Old man Ruairi Kennedy hobbles by, leaning heavily on his cane.

My eyes are drawn to the destroyed well at the center of the gathering. It's a sorry sight - stones scattered about, the wooden frame splintered and broken.

To the right of the well, I see Aislin, Maeve, and Oisin. Aislin's brow is furrowed with worry, while Maeve looks bored, picking at her nails. Oisin, predictably, has a sour expression on his face, like he's just bitten into a rotten apple.

To the left, I spot Ciara with her family - Cormac, Muireann, and Cathal. They're deep in conversation with Conall Devlin, their heads bent close together.

I tug on Erik's sleeve, my voice pitched high and childlike. "Can we go talk to them for a bit? I want to see how they are. And I want to talk to Ciara too!"

God, am I a creep? Here I am, eager to ogle a teenage girl. But damn it, it's not like I get many chances to just admire Ciara and chat with her. This fucked-up situation has to have some perks, right?

Erik nods, his expression softening slightly. "Aye, aye."

We make our way over, and I call out in my best imitation of childish excitement, "Hello, everyone!"

Ciara's head snaps up at the sound of my voice, and her face breaks into a radiant smile. Before I can blink, she's rushing towards me, her emerald hair streaming behind her like a banner.

"Lile!" she cries, enveloping me in a tight hug. I return the embrace, trying to ignore the way my heart races at her touch. Fuck, this body's hormones are going to be the death of me.

As Ciara pulls away, Conall Devlin appears at her side, his hand coming to rest possessively on her shoulder. His eyes narrow slightly as he looks at me, but his voice is friendly enough when he speaks.

"Well, if it isn't the little healer's wife," he says, a hint of teasing in his tone. "How fares married life, young Lile?"

I force a giggle, playing up the innocent child act. "Oh, it's grand! Erik teaches me all sorts of things about herbs and such."

Ciara's eyes light up. "Oh, that must be so exciting! I wish I could learn about healing too."

Conall's grip on her shoulder tightens almost imperceptibly. "Now, now, my love. You've more important things to worry about these days."

I tilt my head, feigning confusion. "What do you mean?"

Ciara blushes, her hand moving to rest on her still-flat stomach. "Well... Conall and I... we're going to have a baby!"

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Ciara, pregnant? At fourteen? Christ, I knew this world was fucked up, but seeing it happen to someone I... care about... it's different.

I plaster on a bright smile, hoping the turmoil I feel doesn't show on my face. "That's wonderful news! Congratulations to you both!"

Conall beams with pride, pulling Ciara closer to him. "Aye, 'tis a blessing indeed. Our first child, and not a moment too soon. With the troubles brewing, we need all the new life we can get."

As Ciara and Conall turn to leave, my eyes can't help but follow the gentle sway of Ciara's hips, the curve of her backside. God, she's beautiful. And completely off-limits.

Fuck this world. Fuck Gwenhwyfar. Why did I have to be reborn as a woman? Why couldn't I have been a strapping young lad, free to court Ciara properly? Or better yet, why couldn't I have just stayed dead?

Erik and I approach my family, who are huddled near the destroyed well. I force a cheerful tone, "Hello!"

Aislin startles, turning quickly. "Oh, Lile! I didn't notice ye coming. We were so deep in conversation, I..."

Maeve interrupts with a snort. "Aye, deep in gossip more like."

"What were you talking about?" I ask, tilting my head in feigned innocence.

Before they can answer, Oisin lumbers over to Erik. "Erik," he grunts, "might we have a word? Away from all this... commotion."

As the men move away, Maeve leans in, her voice low and teasing. "We were discussing who has the bigger cock. Oisin or Lord Eamonn. Though if ye ask me, I'd wager Eamonn's got the mightier sword, if ye catch my meaning."

"Maeve!" Aislin hisses. "Mind yer tongue! Not in front of the child!"

I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. "It's fine. I'm used to it."

Maeve's expression sobers. "Aye, well, there's more serious matters afoot. Word is, all the men might be off to war as early as tomorrow."

"Surely not," Aislin whispers. "They can't take all our men. Who'll tend the fields? Who'll protect us?"

"From what?" Maeve snaps. "The English? The monsters in the forest? Face it, sister. We're as good as dead either way."

"But what of the children?" Aislin asks, her voice trembling. "What of the babes not yet born? How are we to survive without our men?"

Maeve's laugh is harsh. "The same way we always have, I reckon. On our backs, spreadin' our legs for whatever scraps of food and protection we can get."

I feel my stomach churn but force myself to ask, "And what of Lord Eamonn? Will he be joining the war effort?"

Aislin gasps at my boldness, but Maeve just cackles. "Sharp tongue ye've got there, little one. But aye, even our illustrious lord must answer the call to arms. Though I'd wager he'll be safely tucked away in some command tent while the rest of our men bleed out in the mud."

"Will there be anyone left to protect us?" I ask, making my voice small and frightened.

Aislin pulls me close. "Hush now, my sweet. We'll find a way. We always do."

Maeve scoffs. "Aye, we'll find a way to starve slower than the rest, maybe."

"Surely the church will help," Aislin says, though her tone lacks conviction. "Father Brogan wouldn't let us suffer."

"The church?" Maeve spits. "They'll be too busy countin' their coin and prayin' for victory to notice us common folk wastin' away."

I look up at Aislin. "What about Erik? He's not going to war, is he?"

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Aislin strokes my hair. "I don't know, child. He's a healer, so perhaps..."

"He's a man, ain't he?" Maeve interjects. "They'll take him sure as the sun rises. Healer or no, they need every sword arm they can get."

"But he's not even from here," I protest. "He's Norse. Why should he fight for Ireland?"

Maeve laughs bitterly. "Ye think the king cares about that? A man's a man, and meat for the grinder all the same."

"Maeve, please," Aislin pleads. "You're frightening her."

I bite my lip, playing up the scared child act. "What... what will happen to us if all the men go?"

Aislin hugs me tighter. "We'll manage, love. The women of this village are strong. We've weathered hard times before."

"Aye," Maeve agrees, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "We'll band together, watch each other's little ones. It's not the first time war's come to our doorstep, and it won't be the last."

"But what if the English come here?" I ask, voicing the fear I know must be on everyone's minds.

A heavy silence falls over us. Finally, Aislin speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. "Then we pray, child. We pray like we've never prayed before."

Maeve's face hardens, her eyes taking on a steely glint. "We might survive if we work hard enough," she says, her voice low and determined. "But make no mistake, it'll be a dog's life."

I watch as she runs a hand through her tangled hair, her next words coming out in a rush. "In times of war, they take all the men above the age of twelve. We'll be left with naught but babes and greybeards. It'll fall to us women to hunt and toil in the fields, all while balancin' the brats on our hips and keepin' an eye out for wolves eyein' us as their next meal."

Aislin's grip on me tightens, her voice cracking as she speaks. "When will it end? Haven't we suffered enough? I wish... I wish the suffering would just stop already."

I feel her body shake with silent sobs, and for a moment, I'm overwhelmed by a wave of pity. These women, my "family" in this twisted reality, have known nothing but hardship their entire lives. Nothing but Fear and Hunger.

Maeve lets out a harsh snort. "Never," she spits. "It's God's will, ain't it? That's what the priests tell us. Our lot is to suffer and be grateful for it."

The bitterness in her voice is palpable, her next words dripping with venom. "It's always the same, ain't it? The high and mighty sittin' in their fancy halls, decidin' to start wars like it's some game. And who pays the price? Us. The common folk. They use our lives like pieces of flesh to be discarded."

She kicks at the ground, sending a spray of dirt into the air. "Our men die in their wars, our children starve in their famines, and for what? So some lordling can have a bigger piece of land to piss on?"

Aislin gasps at Maeve's crude words, but I can see the agreement in her eyes. "Maeve, please," she whispers, glancing around nervously. "Someone might hear you."

Maeve laughs, the sound harsh and humorless. "Let them hear! What more can they do to us? Take our men? Starve our children? They're doin' that already!"

I look between the two women, their faces etched with fear, anger, and resignation. It's a stark reminder of the harsh realities of this world, of the powerlessness of the common people in the face of those who rule over them.

"But what can we do?" I ask, allowing a tremor to enter my voice. "How can we stop it?"

Maeve's laugh is bitter. "Stop it? Oh, sweet child. We don't stop it. We endure it. We survive it. That's all we can do."

Aislin nods, her face a mask of grim determination. "Aye, we'll endure. We'll do what needs to be done. We don't have a choice."

"And pray," Maeve adds, her tone mocking. "Don't forget to pray. For all the good it'll do us."

I feel a surge of frustration, of helpless rage at the injustice of it all. But I force it down, reminding myself that I'm supposed to be a child, naive and unknowing. So instead, I ask, "But why? Why do they do this to us?"

Maeve's eyes soften as she looks at me. "Because they can, little one. Because to them, we're not people. We're just... things. Tools to be used and discarded."

Yeah. I knew that. Nothing ever changes. It's always the same. It seems I have to commit world wide genocide of these pigs again.

Aislin makes a soft sound of protest, but doesn't contradict her sister. The silence that falls over us is heavy with unspoken fears and bitter truths.

A hush falls over the crowd as the sound of hoofbeats approaches. I turn to see Lord Eamonn riding towards us, flanked by a group of soldiers. Erik and Oisin hurry back to our side, their faces grim.

Lord Eamonn cuts an imposing figure atop his massive black stallion. His corpulent frame is draped in rich velvet robes of deep crimson, trimmed with ermine fur. A heavy gold chain glints around his thick neck, and atop his balding pate sits a circlet of polished silver. His face is a mass of ruddy flesh, with small, pig-like eyes that seem to gleam with a mixture of cruelty and cunning. A meticulously groomed beard, streaked with gray, does little to hide the multiple chins that quiver with each movement of his head.

I think this one will be the first one I'll torture and butcher when I come back here. If he survives the war, that is.

As he draws near, the stench of expensive perfumes mingles with the earthy smell of horse and leather. He reins in his mount, surveying the assembled villagers with an air of detached superiority.

"Good people of Baile Rois," he begins, his voice surprisingly high and reedy for such a large man. "I come bearing news of great import. War is upon us."

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. Aislin's grip on my shoulder tightens painfully.

"In one week's time," Eamonn continues, "all men above the age of twelve, save for the greybeards among you, will march to the frontlines against the English dogs who dare threaten our lands."

I feel Oisin stiffen beside me, his face a mask of barely contained fear. Maeve mutters a string of curses under her breath.

"In my absence," Eamonn announces, gesturing towards Erik, "Colm here will assume leadership of the village. You will afford him the same respect and obedience you show to me."

Erik nods solemnly, his face unreadable.

"Now," Eamonn's thin lips curl into what might be an attempt at a fatherly smile, "I strongly advise you all to get wed and start having fun in bed as soon as possible. We'll need strong sons to replace those we're sure to lose in the coming conflict."

I have to bite my tongue to keep from voicing my disgust at his casual disregard for human life.

"On a brighter note," he continues, "the isolation of Baile Rois has been lifted. The plague hasn't been sighted in years, so you're free to trade with other villages once more."

A murmur of excitement ripples through the crowd at this news.

Erik steps forward, his voice steady as he addresses Eamonn. "My lord, what of the witch hunters guarding Baile Rois? Will they be drafted as well?"

Eamonn's piggy eyes narrow slightly. "All but one will be called to serve. The dangers of war outweigh the threat of supernatural mischief, wouldn't you agree, Colm?"

Erik nods, though I can see the tension in his jaw.

"Should any dangers arise," Eamonn adds, his gaze sweeping over the assembled villagers, "I expect you all to seek refuge in my manor. It's a fortified enclosure, capable of housing the entire village if need be."

How generous of him.

He pauses, his expression growing serious. "Your task, good people of Baile Rois, is simple. Survive until winter. That is when we shall return, God willing, victorious and laden with the spoils of war."

With that, he wheels his horse around, preparing to depart. But not before adding one final, chilling remark: "And remember, every child born, every field tended, every day you survive is a blow against our enemies. Do not disappoint me."

As Lord Eamonn's figure recedes into the distance, the villagers turn to Erik, their faces a mixture of confusion and anger. Seamus Doyle, his weathered face creased with worry, is the first to speak up.

"What's this about ye being our leader, Colm? When did this come about?"

Erik straightens his back, his emerald eyes scanning the crowd. "Aye, 'tis true. Lord Eamonn has appointed me to oversee the village in his absence."

A chorus of angry voices erupts from the gathered villagers. Brendan Quinn, his face red with indignation, shouts over the din, "And why aren't ye being drafted like the rest of us? Ye're as capable as any man here!"

I watch as Erik's jaw clenches, his patience clearly wearing thin. Before he can respond, Oisin steps forward, his bulk intimidating even in this agitated crowd.

"Shut yer gobs, the lot of ye!" Oisin bellows, his voice cutting through the noise. "At least one man capable of taking care of the womenfolk and greybeards remains in the village. Would ye rather leave us all defenseless?"

The crowd quiets for a moment, but the tension remains palpable. I spot Ruairi Kennedy, his aged face lined with concern, pushing his way to the front.

"Colm," he says, his voice quavering slightly, "what of the village with just one witch hunter guarding it? What of the wolves and other beasts that'll attack our fields and cattle? How will we handle it while the men are gone?" His rheumy eyes scan the faces around him. "I want something to come back to from the war, not dead children, women, or famine."

A murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd. Erik raises his hands, trying to calm the growing unrest.

"Peace, good people," he says, his voice firm but reassuring. "I understand your concerns. 'Tis true that we face many challenges, but we are not without resources."

Maeve, never one to hold her tongue, pipes up from beside me. "Resources? What resources? Unless ye're planning to fight off wolves with yer cock, we're proper fucked."

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at her crude remark. Erik's face flushes slightly, but he presses on.

"We may be short on men, but we are not without strength," he continues. "The women of this village are hardy and capable. With proper training, they can help defend our homes and fields."

Yeah right, more like our motley crew of me, Dumitra, Ioana, Virginia, Erik and whoever remains between Sean, Cedric and Ingvar will be the ones pulling their weight.[...]