Just what fresh hell of a realm have I stumbled into here? This can't be anything but a lucid nightmare cooked up by my subconscious after eating too much Gorgonzola before bed. Any second now I'll wake up back in the 22nd century, probably drooling all over my sleep pod as the VR suite disconnects from jacking straight into my brainwaves.

But until that glorious moment arrives, I'm trapped in Peasantville - a rustic little burg where the village idiots literally believe werewolves and vampires stalk the woods waiting to make a meal out of their dumb turnip-picking asses! I'd pay good money to watch Countess Fangypants try sinking her pearly whites into Oisin's scabby neck. That rancid pisshole probably hasn't bathed since the Crucifixion, so one chomp and she'd be puking up turds for a fortnight!

As for the werewolf crowd, I'm sure that feral mutt would take one whiff of Mother's chunky beef stew and start gagging up hairballs. These illiterate bog-trotters wouldn't know hygiene if it crawled out the arse-end of their only pig and started lecturing them in ancient Greek! I'd pay solid silver just to see their slack-jawed expressions as a tiny soap sliver did its damnedest to fumigate this whole blighted mudpile.

Yep, any second now I'll wake up back in the present day, probably to my smart-home A.I. scolding me for drooling all over the bedsheets again. "Lile, darling, you've soiled the 2000 thread-count Egyptian cotton linens with your grotesque peasant night terrors! What ever shall we do?" To which I'll reply, "Shut your artificial cake-hole and fetch me a bidet, Jeeves! This wench needs a right proper power-washing after the night I've had slumming it with the turnip-munching rabble!"

"Lile?" Aislin's voice cuts through my wandering thoughts. "Why aren't you eating, child?"

I blink slowly, refocusing on the simple wooden trencher before me piled with pale yellow fried eggs. "I...was just daydreaming, Mama," I murmur, cheeks flushing.

Aislin tsks disapprovingly and gestures at my plate. "Well, no more woolgathering now. Those eggs'll turn to stone if you don't eat up."

Obediently, I spear a forkful of the glistening curds and shovel them into my mouth, barely tasting the rich flavor as I bolt them down greedily. Aislin watches me with a bemused expression, reaching over to sprinkle a few precious grains of salt onto my rapidly diminishing portion.

"Slow down there, poppet," she chides gently. "You'll choke at that pace."

But her warning falls on deaf ears. Within moments, my trencher sits scraped clean, not even a stray smear of golden yolk remaining. I lick my fingers noisily, savoring every last morsel as my belly rumbles for more.

Aislin chuckles indulgently at my messy display. "Saints preserve me, I'd swear you were raised by the pigs, not me!" She dips a corner of her apron into the bucket, dampening the cloth before leaning across to dab at a smudge of egg on my chin.

I eye her own trencher longingly, stomach clenching at the sight of the remaining fried eggs glistening with rendered pork fat. But Aislin merely shakes her head with a weary sigh, pulling the wooden plate closer.

"I wish I could give you more, lamb," she says apologetically. "But we must save what's left to sell at market if we want coin for winter stores."

Disappointment crashes over me in a bitter wave. Of course - I'd forgotten today was our village's weekly trading day when peasants could barter their paltry surplus for a few scant coppers. Aislin rises briskly from the bench, her rough linen skirts swishing.

"Up with you now, Lile," she instructs, already moving toward the crude shelves lining the far wall. "Time and tide wait for no woman, as my own mam liked to say."

I slide reluctantly from the bench, bare feet slapping the hard-packed dirt as I shuffle closer. Aislin is busily gathering our meager garden harvest into a large reed basket - a few gnarled carrots and onions, several small cabbages, and a handful of wizened potatoes. Not much to show for weeks of backbreaking labor tending the scraggly plants.

"But Mama, why do I gotta come along?" I whine petulantly. "I wanted to stay home and play with the baby chicks instead!"

Aislin halts her bustling, fixing me with a quelling stare from beneath her linen headscarf. "You'll do as you're told, young lady," she says in a tone that brooks no argument. "Now hush that lip before I put the strap to it."

I subside into sullen silence, scuffing my toes in the dirt as Aislin finishes packing the baskets - one heaped with our paltry vegetable offerings, the other cradling the morning's meager clutch of eggs. She hefts both awkwardly, grunting with the effort.

"Let's be off then," she says briskly, already heading for the crooked doorway. "With any luck, we'll fetch a fair price at market for this lot."

"But I don't wanna go!" I protest, dragging my feet as she strides ahead. "Can't I please stay and mind the chicks, Mama? I'll be ever so good, I swear it!"

Aislin halts, shoulders stiffening as she slowly turns back to face me. "Lile Ban," she says in a low, dangerous tone. "If you don't cease this foolish whinging right now, I'll put these baskets down and beat you here and there until that sassy tongue smarts for a week!"

My mouth snaps shut, eyes widening at the naked threat in her voice. Aislin's faded blue eyes bore into me, jaw set in grim determination. I know better than to test her resolve when she gets this way.

"I...I'm sorry for being a bad girl, Mama," I mumble contritely, ducking my head. "I'll come along quiet as a lamb, I swear it."

Aislin holds my gaze a moment longer before giving a curt nod. "See that you do," she says gruffly, already turning to resume our trek down the rutted dirt path winding through the village.

I trail meekly behind, unable to shake the sense that Aislin's life is unutterably hard despite her brusque peasant mannerisms. What unseen burdens must she shoulder beyond the daily grind of chores and drudgery? I cannot begin to fathom the weary resignation etched into the lines of her careworn face.

As Aislin and I make our way down the dirt path winding through Baile Rois, I can't help but gaze around at the other hovels clustered together. Women and young girls tend to their meager gardens or carry bundles of sticks for fires, some with babes clinging to their breasts as they work. It's a scene of such destitution and yet...most seem relatively well-fed compared to Aislin's gaunt frame and my own bony limbs.

Is Oisin truly the only lout starving and beating his family in this miserable mudpile? I sneer inwardly. If so, he's doing a fine job upholding the village's reputation for drunken, abusive peasant filth.

Glancing around, I notice the distinct lack of men anywhere to be seen. Ah yes, the mighty lords of the turnip patch have all scurried off before first light to slave in the fields until dusk like the beasts of burden they are. I snort derisively. If only they weren't such worthless, cruel pigs, I might actually pity their wretched existences bound to the soil.

My thoughts turn to Colm - the supposed "healer" who may prove my salvation from this stinking hovel. I skip up alongside Aislin, tugging at her skirts.

"Mama, is Papa really going to ask Colm about me today?" I ask, widening my eyes innocently.

Aislin nods, shifting the heavy baskets in her arms. "Aye child, if the good Lord wills it. Yer father aims to seek out the gentleman healer this very morn to discuss ye."

She smiles wanly. "And pray he's struck by yer strange visage, for tonight Colm may come to look upon ye himself as a potential new bride!"

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I can't contain my glee, skipping and twirling in the rutted lane as we continue on, kicking up little puffs of dust.

"Oh, I hope he likes what he sees!" I trill, clasping my hands together. "I'll be the most bestest wife ever for Colm, you'll see!"

Aislin chuckles indulgently at my antics. Emboldened, I press on with an impish grin.

"So when does Colm get to put his man-thing in my privates, Mama? Before or after I start flowering?"

Aislin halts so abruptly I nearly careen into her, the baskets swaying precariously. She slowly turns to face me, brow furrowed with worry.

"Lile Ban!" she scolds. "Where did ye hear such coarse, sinful talk? Certainly not from yer poor mother's lips!"

I simply blink up at her with wide-eyed innocence, feigning confusion. Aislin's shoulders slump as she realizes I'm serious.

"Ye don't understand the meanin' behind those words, lamb," she sighs. "Once a maid's first flower blooms, she becomes a woman grown - ready for the marriage bed and bairns."

I wrinkle my nose theatrically. "But what if I don't want some stinky peasant putting his man-thing anywhere near me? That sounds awful!"

Aislin shakes her head, resuming our trek as I scamper alongside. "Ah, but 'tis a wife's sacred duty to accept her husband gladly into her marriage bed, no matter how unpleasant the act may prove."

She rests a hand on my tangled curls. "Still, I shall pray this Colm is a tender, gentle soul. Mayhap ye'll find joy in the marital act despite yer misgivings now, poppet."

I gag loudly, sticking out my tongue. "Ew yuck! Boys are nothing but gross stupid poopers!"

Chuckling again, Aislin simply shakes her head as we continue down the lane toward the market clearing...

The realization hits me like a sledgehammer to the gut as I trudge alongside Mother down this dusty village path - this benighted era has no fucking concept of childhood whatsoever! The minute a girl starts bleeding, she's magically transformed into a "woman" in the eyes of these turnip-munching peasants. Fair game to be auctioned off to the first slack-jawed yokel who can scrape together a handful of coppers for her bridal price.

Christ, if I'm lucky this Colm character will be a decrepit, toothless old coot on the verge of expiring from the grippe or some other delightful medieval malady. At least then I might avoid getting pumped full of his rancid seed until my prolapsed uterus finally gives up the ghost after birthing his dozen squalling offspring! This whole primitive era makes the Duggar clan seem positively enlightened by comparison.

I halt abruptly in my tracks, the realization crashing over me in waves of nausea. Surely I can't be understanding this correctly? Are these degenerate fuckwits actually telling me that rutting with prepubescent children is only frowned upon rather than a hanging offense? I need to get some clarification from Mother on this one before my brain completely snaps...

"Mama," I begin hesitantly, my small voice barely audible over the crunch of our bare feet on the hard-packed dirt path. "What happens if a grown man tries...bedding a young maid before her flower blooms?"

I hold my breath, watching Aislin's weathered face closely. She sighs heavily, tendrils of lank hair escaping her linen cap to frame her sunken features.

"Why, 'tis a horrible sin in the Lord's eyes, child," she replies grimly. "And if the vile deed were discovered, both man and maid would face public lashings for their wickedness."

My lips part soundlessly as horror washes over me in icy waves. Lashings? For the 'crime' of being sexually abused as a child? I cannot fathom the injustice of punishing innocents thus.

Seeming to sense my dismay, Aislin quickly adds, "But ye need not fret over such evils, lamb. Once ye have a husband, he shall take proper measures to safeguard yer honor and virtue as a Christian wife ought."

She grasps my shoulders firmly, pale eyes boring into mine with zealous conviction.

"Remember, 'tis a wife's sacred duty before God to accept her husband's husbandry with grace, no matter how difficult or demeanin' the act may prove. We must endure all with humility for the Lord's glory."

I force a tremulous smile, nodding obediently as we resume our trek down the rutted lane. Aislin mutters something about my strange behavior, but I barely register her words.

My mind reels, struggling to process the casual manner in which she discusses child rape and marital subjugation as simply more hardships for women to suffer stoically. Do these wretched peasants truly view sexual violation as no worse than a stubbed toe - an inconvenience to be borne with Christian forbearance?

We soon arrive at the bustling market clearing, a ramshackle collection of wooden stalls and awnings clustered along the main village path. The air is thick with a cacophony of shouts, lowing livestock, and the ever-present reek of wood smoke mingling with animal dung and unwashed bodies.

Aislin quickly locates an empty spot between two stalls selling bolts of rough linen and iron tools. Setting down her heavy baskets with a grunt, she cups her hands around her mouth and begins bellowing at the top of her lungs.

"Turnips! Carrots! Onions for sale, fresh from the fields! Eggs too, laid just this morning by my own hens!"

I cringe at her strident tone, certain the entire village can hear her hawking our paltry wares. But Aislin seems oblivious, adopting a cajoling singsong as the first potential customers begin drifting over - a cluster of women clutching coin purses, several young girls herding smaller children, and a few gangling boys eyeing the eggs hungrily.

"Two coppers for a dozen onions, good folk! Freshest veg in the whole shire, I swear on me own mam's grave!"

One wizened crone squints at the baskets before spitting contemptuously in the dirt. "Bah, yer prices are robbery, Aislin Ban! And them carrots is naught but sticks - me pig wouldn't eat such scrawny fare!"

Another woman, heavy with child, wrinkles her nose as she pokes through the turnips and potatoes. "Aye, and half this lot's gone soft and mouldy besides. Ye'd do better sellin' it for pig slops, I reckon."

Aislin's shoulders slump briefly before she plasters on a bright smile, undeterred. "Well then, what if I threw in a handful o' fresh parsley to season yer pot, Widow Mallory? Just two coppers for the lot!"

The bartering continues for what seems an eternity, with Aislin wheedling and haggling over every root and leaf while I stand silently by, watching the sordid spectacle unfold. Some customers depart with full baskets, others with nothing but muttered curses about thieving peasant women.

Finally, as the sun crests the horizon to beat down mercilessly, the last of our meager harvest is sold. Aislin quickly counts out the tarnished coppers, her face falling.

"Thirty only," she murmurs, crossing herself swiftly. "Praise Jesus for His mercy, but 'twill scarcely fill our bellies come winter's lean times."

She glances heavenward, clasping her hands fervently. "Oh Lord, I beg Thee take pity on Thy wretched servants! Send us a miracle to spare us from starvation's cruel grasp!"

I watch her impassioned plea with a sneer twisting my lips. Of course the deluded fool prays for divine deliverance from want and hunger. Yet I've no doubt her worthless mate Oisin will gorge himself on the village's best while we subsist on crumbs, as ever.

Rage simmers in my veins as we begin the long trudge back to that festering hovel. This 'starvation' Aislin dreads will doubtless apply only to her and myself, not the drunken bastard who squanders our paltry earnings on ale...

My mind seethes as I trudge along the dirt path beside Mother, bare feet scuffing through the dust. How does this wretched feudal society even function? The rigid gender roles are painfully apparent - women and girls like us are relegated to endless cycles of household drudgery, tending the meager garden plots and birthing babies. Meanwhile, the men toil endlessly from dawn until dusk laboring in the fields and trades.

Yet women are forbidden from owning property or coin in their own right. Every copper we manage to produce from peddling our paltry surplus at market goes straight into the patriarch's coffers, be it Oisin's or Lord Eamonn's. We are naught but unpaid servants slaving to fill their purses.

Worse, girls like me are considered the least profitable offspring to have. Our only value lies in the bridal price a father can demand when selling us off into loveless marriages, usually before we've even flowered. Boys, however, represent a potential income stream through their future earnings and labor obligations to their lords.

The very existence of a market square with coin-based trade indicates this feudal system has progressed beyond mere subsistence barter between serfs. Hard currency is involved, meaning what little surplus the peasantry can produce gets siphoned away by the nobility rather than directly traded for life's necessities.

I sneer inwardly at the realization. Manorialism, the grand economic system underpinning this entire primitive way of life! How quaint that the men exhaust themselves in the fields and forges from first light to dusk, paid in a few paltry coppers by their lords...only to have those meager earnings promptly stripped away again through obligatory tithes to the church and bridal prices for their daughters. The vicious cycle continues unbroken, generation after generation of peasant families trapped in perpetual debt servitude.

They cannot even enjoy the paltry fruits of their relentless labors! Every coin gets horded by the ruling classes under the guise of religious obligations and property rights over women's very bodies. The mind boggles at such an exquisitely designed system of economic and social subjugation.

A bitter chuckle nearly escapes my cracked lips. Please, let these downtrodden fools wake from their deluded slumber and revolt against their oppressors! Overthrow the corrupt clergy bleeding you dry with tithes. Defy the petty warlords who claim divine rights over your women and children. Burn this whole wretched feudal system to the ground and start anew!

As we trudge along the dusty path leading back to our wretched hovel, Mother suddenly nudges me with her elbow. "Look there, Lile," she murmurs, nodding ahead. "That tall man with the flaxen hair - I'd wager my last copper that's the healer Colm himself."

I squint, shielding my eyes from the rising sun's glare. Sure enough, a powerfully built figure strides towards us, his broad shoulders swaying with each confident step. Even from this distance, I can make out the man's sun-kissed complexion and thick golden mane spilling over the shoulders of his fine green tunic.[...]