I swallow hard, giving a jerky nod. "Y-yes, Mama. I'll be a good girl, I promise."

Aislin's shoulders slump with relief. "There's my sensible lamb." Beckoning me over, she gestures to the crude hand mill tucked in the corner beside the hearth. "Now help me grind some oats for our supper pottage before your father returns. We've much work still ahead."

Obediently, I trail after her and take my place at the rickety mill as she pours the first measure of grain. The rhythmic creak and clatter of the wooden gears fills the cramped interior as we work in silence.

The rhythmic creaking of the hand mill fills my ears as Aislin and I work in tandem, grinding the last of the oats into a fine powdery meal. Beads of sweat trickle down my brow from the exertion, stinging my eyes. Aislin finally steps back, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.

"There now, that should provide a fine pottage at least," she says, surveying the mound of pale yellow flour.

I grimace, my scrawny arms aching from the labor. "This grinding is such hard work, Mama. Why can't we just buy the meal from old Bran instead?"

Aislin snorts derisively as she stacks the empty burlap sacks in the corner. "And what coin would we use to purchase it, silly girl?" She fixes me with a pointed look. "Do you think coppers simply grow on trees for peasants to pluck?"

My shoulders slump. Of course not. We're as penniless as the field mice scurrying beneath the floorboards.

"We've no choice but to toil for every scrap, lamb," Aislin continues in a softer tone. "Hard labor is what keeps us alive in this world."

She nods toward the smoldering hearth. "But come now, we'd best get those oats bubbling before your father returns with an empty belly and foul temper."

Aislin swings the battered iron cauldron over the meager fire, stoking the glowing embers until flames lick hungrily at the blackened pot. I slide onto the rough-hewn bench, my stomach rumbling in anticipation as she scoops several handfuls of the powdery oats into the vessel.

"We must ration our food carefully so it lasts until winter's end," Aislin murmurs, almost to herself. "Though I shall try convincing Oisin to snare a rabbit on the morrow if the Lord is merciful."

I watch her resentfully, hating the deprivation that casts a perpetual pall over our lives. Aislin seems to sense my brooding, for she fixes me with a weary look.

"There's no use grumbling over what cannot be helped, Lile. Best save your energy for the morrow when we shall wash weeks of grime from our flesh in the stream."

I perk up slightly at this rare prospect of bathing. Aislin's expression softens as she notes my interest.

"Aye, a treat for us both after such endless toil. But mind you stay close by my side, understood?" Her voice takes on a stern edge. "We cannot have your father returning early from the fields to find us gone. There's no telling what rages he might fly into then."

Aislin's voice trails off bleakly. I shudder, all too familiar with Oisin's mercurial temper and propensity for violence. Seeming to shake off her dark reverie, Aislin straightens.

"Now go check on the chickens, Lile. See if our scrawny layers have gifted us any more eggs while we worked."

I nod obediently and make my way outside, bare feet slapping against the hard-packed dirt. The stench of the cramped chicken coop assaults my nostrils as I creep inside, nose wrinkling in disgust. Kneeling, I peer beneath the crude nesting boxes - and my eyes widen in surprise. There, nestled in the filthy straw, lie three more speckled oval treasures.

"Well I'll be..." I murmur, gently scooping up the warm eggs and cradling them against my chest. This many in just one day? It's nearly unbelievable!

I straighten, frowning down at the scrawny flock of feathered beasts pecking listlessly in the bare dirt. How can these pathetic creatures be so prolific in their laying? It defies reason...unless someone has been slipping extras into the nests while we work?

My gaze falls upon the proud rooster perched atop a fencepost, his iridescent plumage gleaming like jewels in the sunlight. As if sensing my scrutiny, he turns one beady black eye toward me and lets out an ear-splitting crow of challenge. I jump, nearly dropping my fragile cargo in surprise.

Shaking my head, I turn and hurry back inside where Aislin awaits. Her eyes light up as I proffer my small bounty.

"Well now, the Lord's blessings upon us!" she exclaims, quickly retrieving an empty sack and lining it with fresh straw. She nestles the eggs inside with utmost care before tying off the top.

My stomach rumbles again, loud as an angry beast as I slide back onto the bench. Aislin chuckles at the unmistakable sound.

"Patience, poppet. Our pottage will be ready to break your fast before too long..."

The gnawing ache in my belly has become an ever-present torment, a relentless emptiness that consumes my every waking moment. I'm so hungry, so endlessly ravenous all the time. Yet that drunken pig Oisin hoards what little food we produce, gorging himself while allowing Aislin and I to slowly waste away from starvation.

I can scarcely believe the depravity I've sunk to, but feeling this constant, unbearable hunger - this utter malnourishment of both body and spirit - makes me understand on a visceral level why the starving masses of Africa once resorted to eating mud pies just to fill their bellies. Anything, no matter how unpalatable or demeaning, becomes a tempting delicacy when the agony of an empty stomach is your constant companion.

The sour reek of smoke and filth from the guttering hearth fire hangs like a miasma, assaulting my nostrils and turning my stomach though I've long since grown numb to such sensory assaults. My eyes burn from the stinging fumes, but I dare not let the tears fall. Oisin would surely mock me for such weakness, calling me a sniveling babe unfit to be born his get.

So I sit in silence, shoulders hunched inward as I try to make myself smaller, less of a target for his drunken rages. The rough wooden bench grates against my bony backside, but I've grown accustomed to such minor discomforts. What's one more dull ache to add to the cacophony of deprivations?

My gaze drifts listlessly to the battered iron pot suspended over the anemic fire. Thin tendrils of steam rise from the simmering pottage, its pale, gruel-like consistency utterly unappetizing. Yet my stomach rumbles loudly at even this meager promise of sustenance. I'm so hungry...

I stare blankly at the cracked mud walls of this wretched hovel, my mind swirling with confusion and despair. This cannot be a mere dream - the sensations are far too visceral, too overwhelmingly real. The itch of lice crawling through my matted hair, the gnawing ache of hunger in my shrunken belly, the stench of smoke and filth assaulting my nostrils...no, this nightmarish existence is my new reality.

I want nothing more than to flee, to run as far as my scrawny legs can carry me from this squalor. But I'm trapped, a prisoner in the frail, malnourished body of a four-year-old peasant girl. If I dare venture beyond the village boundaries, I'll be easy prey for the savage beasts that roam the forests - wolves, bears, or even the fabled werewolves and vampires that Oisin raves about. My only tenuous grasp on safety lies here amongst the mud hovels and superstitious turnip farmers who view me as a soulless, subhuman creature.

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Oisin's drunken rages and this society's oppressive cruelty have already stripped me of any lingering hope. What future can I possibly have as a female in this primitive backwater? I'll either be sold off as a child bride to whatever slack-jawed lout can meet my bride price, or end up a battered, starving crone eking out an existence in perpetual terror. Unless...unless I can somehow endure the coming years and make it to adulthood intact.

I glance down at my bony arms, ribs protruding obscenely beneath taut, sallow skin. My tangled blonde tresses are little more than a crawling nest of vermin. This is no life for any creature, human or otherwise. I'm an utter wreck of a being, devoid of any sense of self or purpose. How did I come to be trapped in this waking nightmare? What sins could I possibly have committed to deserve such torment?

Anger simmers beneath the surface, a slow burn of impotent rage with no discernible target. I want to lash out, to vent this roiling storm of emotions on someone...but who? Oisin, for his cruelty? Aislin, for her resigned acceptance of our degradation? Or perhaps the very gods themselves for inflicting this twisted joke of an existence upon me?

Who?

The warped wooden door creaks open, and Oisin's hulking form fills the cramped entrance, his ruddy face twisted in a scowl of drunken rage. The reek of sour ale and unwashed male wafts in with him, assaulting my nostrils.

"Good eve, husband," Aislin greets meekly from her place by the hearth. She doesn't turn around, simply hunching her shoulders further. "Shall I dish you a bowl of the pottage?"

Oisin grunts dismissively and lumbers over to the rough-hewn bench, his considerable girth making the weathered planks groan in protest. He plops down heavily beside me, his meaty thigh jostling my bony frame.

"So what coin remains after ye fed half the damned village from our stores, woman?" he demands, fixing Aislin with a baleful glare.

She flinches visibly but keeps her back turned, stirring the bubbling pot. "Just...just the five coppers from selling the last of our garden bounty at market today, husband."

A sly, almost proud look flits across her careworn features as she adds, "But the hens were quite productive - they laid three fine eggs besides."

The words have scarcely left her lips before Oisin slams a massive fist down on the table, making me jump. "Damn those useless feathered beasts!" he bellows, spittle flying. "We've barely enough coin to purchase seed for the spring planting as is!"

Aislin whirls around, clutching the small silver crucifix at her breast like a talisman. "Forgive me, husband," she whispers, eyes downcast. "I did the best I could with what little we had. Please, do not be wroth with your faithful wife."

Oisin heaves an aggrieved sigh, running a hand through his lank hair. "Well, I managed to get Hamish the tavern keeper to lend me two coppers at least. Should be paid for my labor in a few days, making it seven total."

He snorts derisively. "Enough to keep us eating for a week, I suppose."

Aislin's face lights up with a relieved smile. "Oh, I'm glad to hear it! I already purchased some grains to bake bread for our meals."

But her expression falls as Oisin fixes her with a withering look. "Well don't just stand there gawping, woman! Where's my bloody ale?"

Chastised, Aislin scurries to the crude cellar entrance and disappears down the steps. I can hear her rummaging about amidst the dank, musty air before she reemerges clutching a clay jug. With deft motions, she fills a wooden mug and presents it to Oisin with a respectful bob of her head.

As he takes a long, greedy pull from the vessel, I find myself wondering just how potent this home-brewed swill truly is. Surely no sane man could imbibe such vast quantities of full-strength alcohol day after day without succumbing to liver failure? This piss-weak grog must be little better than the gruel we subsist on.

Oisin lowers the mug, wiping his mouth with the back of a filthy hand. "Five of those coppers go to the bastard priest on the morrow for tithes," he grumbles. "Leaves just the two Hamish lent to keep our bellies full until my next wages."

He snorts again, louder this time. "Well, 'tis enough for a few days at least."

Aislin's face splits into a radiant smile, as if my drunken lout of a father just bestowed upon her the greatest of gifts. "You're such a good husband, thinking of your family's needs like that!" she gushes.

But Oisin's mocking chuckle cuts her off. "Don't be daft, woman. Those coppers are for my own vittles, not wasting on you useless leeches."

He takes another long pull from the mug, amber liquid dribbling down his matted beard. "I already ate my fill of good meat at the tavern earlier. But I suppose I'll suffer whatever slop you've boiled up as well."

Anger and hunger war within me at his callous words. Gathering my courage, I tug insistently at the filthy fabric of his tunic. "Please Papa, I'm so very hungry," I plead, widening my eyes beseechingly. "Can't I have just a small bite to eat?"

Oisin's bloated face contorts in disgust as he turns toward me. A thick gobbet of phlegm and spittle suddenly arcs from his mouth to splatter across my cheek. "Bugger off, you worthless brat!" he snarls. "Damn me for only whelping a useless girl child!"

I recoil from the foul expectoration, tears of shock and humiliation stinging my eyes. Sliding off the bench, I frantically wipe at the viscous spittle with my tattered sleeve, only succeeding in smearing it further across my face.

Aislin is at my side in an instant, wrapping her thin arms around my shuddering form. "Shh, shh now lamb," she murmurs, patting my tangled curls. "Best not provoke your father's ire further. You know not to ask him for anything when the drink's upon him."

I nod mutely, swallowing back the angry retort burning my tongue. But inside, a maelstrom of hatred and resentment toward this vile excuse for a patriarch rages unchecked.

Aislin gently wipes the foul spittle from my cheek with the hem of her tattered dress, her touch tender yet trembling. The acrid stench of Oisin's phlegm lingers, making me gag. I want to scream, to claw at my face until the filth is gone. But I remain still, swallowing hard against the bile rising in my throat.

"There now, lamb," Aislin murmurs, tucking a lank strand of hair behind my ear. "All cleaned up for our guest."

She rises stiffly and shuffles to the hearth, ladling a portion of the pale, lumpy pottage into a wooden trencher. The meager fare steams faintly, its aroma doing little to rouse my appetite. Aislin carries the bowl to Oisin with a deferential bob of her head.

Oisin grunts acknowledgment, already shoveling the gruel into his mouth with his usual lack of decorum.

"That Colm heathen should arr-"

A sharp rap on the warped door cuts him off. We all freeze, eyes swiveling toward the sound. Oisin heaves himself off the bench with an aggrieved sigh, his considerable girth making the rough planks creak in protest.

He lumbers to the entrance and flings it open, the hinges protesting with a piercing shriek. There in the doorway stands the towering figure of Colm himself, his powerful frame silhouetted against the dying evening light.

"Good eve, Oisin," the giant rumbles in that exotic cadence of his. "Might I trouble you for a brief word?"

Oisin blinks stupidly for a moment before remembering his manners. "Aye, aye, come in then," he mutters, stepping back to allow Colm entry.

The Viking healer ducks his head slightly as he crosses the threshold, his piercing emerald eyes sweeping over the cramped interior. I can't help but shiver at the intensity of that smoldering gaze when it alights briefly on me.

"Be welcome in me humble home," Oisin says with an awkward attempt at hospitality. He gestures toward the rough bench. "Here, have a seat and try some of me wife's pottage while it's hot."

Colm's nose wrinkles almost imperceptibly as he eyes the trencher of pale gruel. "You are most kind, but I shall have to decline," he replies, voice rich as velvet. "I would not wish to deprive your own family of sustenance."

Oisin snorts derisively at that. "Bah, there's plenty more where that came from! But suit yerself."

He plops back down on the bench, shoveling another mouthful between his lips. I can't tear my gaze away from the rivulet of broth dribbling down his whiskery chin.

Colm remains standing, those powerful arms crossed over his broad chest. His striking features harden slightly as he surveys our wretched surroundings.

"This...dwelling could use a thorough cleansing, it seems," he remarks, nose wrinkling again. "The odors are quite overwhelming."

A flush creeps up Oisin's ruddy cheeks. He jabs an accusing finger at Aislin, who flinches.

"Well, ye can thank this useless sow for that!" he snarls. "She's too damned lazy to do aught but birth dead babes and scrawny lice-bait!"

My heart clenches at the cruel words. But Colm's eyes narrow dangerously.

"Peace, man," he rumbles in a tone that brooks no argument. "I'll thank you to tone down such crudeness whilst in my company. I've no patience for seeing women demeaned so."

Oisin blinks, clearly taken aback by the Viking's commanding presence. An uneasy silence stretches between them before he clears his throat.

"So...I take it ye've an interest in the girl, then?" he asks, nodding toward where I still crouch on the dirt floor.

Colm's burning gaze settles on me once more, making me shiver. "Aye," he says at last. "I would replace my long-dead wife with this child, if amenable terms can be struck."

Oisin barks a harsh laugh at that. "Ye want this scrawny brat for a bride? Why not take yer pick of the older unwed lasses in the village instead?"

"Because I desire Lile for her...unique attributes," Colm replies evenly. "Though I've no intention of breeding her until she's seen at least sixteen summers. You have my word on that."

Oisin guffaws again, bits of pottage spraying from his lips. "Aye, and I'm sure ye'll remain a perfect gentleman until then!" he sneers. "Quit yer prattlin' and speak plain - how much coin are ye willin' to pay for the whelp's maidenhead?"[...]