I stare intently at the old wooden bucket in the corner, trying to will it to levitate with my mind. But then I remember what that strange pale woman Gwenhwyfar told me - that any special abilities I might have are being kept dormant for now, until some kind of trauma activates them.

I wonder what sort of awful trauma could possibly unlock these supposed powers. Surely I've already endured enough psychological torment in this nightmarish existence to activate any dormant gifts tenfold? Unless it only counts from that disturbing visitation a few months ago when Gwenhwyfar forced me to drink her bizarre crimson blood...

"What are you doing over there, lamb?" Mother's voice breaks my reverie. I glance over at her sitting on the bench, her hands busily mending a tunic.

"Just playing, mama!" I reply with a bright smile, feigning childish innocence.

Mother laughs softly, shaking her head in amusement as she continues her needlework. I can't help noticing how much healthier and less skeletal she appears these days, her cheeks regaining some plumpness thanks to the provisions Erik has been supplying during our visits to his cottage.

A chill draft sweeps through the hovel, causing me to shiver. I quickly pull my luxurious emerald cloak tighter around my small frame. "You should move closer to the hearth fire to keep warm, poppet," Mother advises. "The chill will only worsen unless your father finally sees fit to properly patch the holes in these walls."

I resist the urge to scoff, thinking that if that drunken oaf Oisin did bother repairing the hovel, we'd likely suffocate from all the thick smoke trapped inside with no ventilation.

Instead, I tilt my head innocently and ask, "When is your birthday, mama?"

Mother blinks at me, momentarily dumbstruck by the childish query. "Why...the first day of the year, I believe," she replies after a pause. "Though we shall have to check with Father Donall at the church today, as the priests keep better track with their calendars."

Calendars? What an astonishing concept for these primitive peasants! I feel a flicker of envy at the idea of being able to accurately mark the passage of time.

"What about me, mama?" I continue, feigning curiosity. "When was I born?"

"You entered this world on the twenty-fifth day of Deireadh Fómhair, my little lamb," Mother says with a fond smile.

I frown slightly, trying to make sense of her words. "And...what month is it now?"

Mother's brow furrows as she ponders. "Why, it should be the tenth month of the year at present."

I giggle at her confusion, amused by my secret knowledge. If Mother's birthday truly falls on the first day of this year 300, and mine was the twenty-fifth of the tenth month, then she must be a Capricorn. And I, a Scorpio in this bizarre new life.

"What about Father?" I ask next. "Do you know when his birthday is?"

Mother hesitates, chewing her lip. "I...cannot recall the precise day. Though I believe 'twas sometime around the ninth of Bealtaine, if my memory serves."

I raise my eyebrows, quickly doing the calculations in my mind. So Oisin must be a Taurus, how quaint.

Of course, using something as unscientific and pseudoscientific as astrology to try analyzing personalities is about as reliable as using a chia pet to predict the weather. But I suppose in this primitive era, before the enlightenment of modern psychology and rigorous clinical studies, the zodiac can provide a basic cosmic cheat sheet for stereotyping the types of people you're dealing with.

So far, my astrological assessments do seem to align with the personality archetypes I've observed. Aislin, the long-suffering yet pragmatic mother figure, certainly fits the classic profile of an industrious, responsible Capricorn - the zodiac's consummate workaholic and parental archetype. While Oisin's boorish, stubborn, and indulgent behavior screams textbook Taurus energy - bullheaded, gluttonous, and prone to sensual overindulgence.

As much as I dislike relying on astro-stereotypes, they do seem to align with the core personalities I've encountered here. Kind of like using the Enneagram types or Myers-Briggs to quickly assess the major motivations and hang-ups of the people around you. Aislin is likely a Type 6: Security-Seeking and Oisin is...well, he's the human embodiment of the "Is It Cake?" meme - you think there's substance there, but nope, just an angry, frosted confection waiting to give you salmonella. I'll have to be cautious about letting my guard down around that one.

Though I must admit, the idea of the mighty bull Taurus manifesting as that bloated, feckless lout Oisin is almost insultingly on-the-nose, zodiac-wise. He's basically a walking cautionary tale about the dangers of rampant hedonism and toxic masculinity. The poster child for "Taurus Gon' Taurus." Astrologers could use him as a case study for how NOT to channel your zodiacal archetype.

Mother looks up from her needlework and smiles warmly at me. "Did you know tomorrow is a special day, my little lamb?"

I tilt my head curiously. "Special how, mama?"

"Why, 'tis the anniversary of the day you graced this world with your presence five years ago!" she exclaims. "Your birthday, poppet. And I shall make certain to do something extra special to celebrate my precious girl's arrival."

My eyes widen with childlike delight at the prospect. "Really? Like what?"

Mother chuckles softly. "Now that would be telling, wouldn't it? You'll just have to wait and see the surprise."

I can barely contain my excitement, bouncing eagerly on the dirt floor. "Oh please mama, at least give me a tiny hint!"

She pretends to consider this for a moment before shaking her head. "Not a chance, you little rascal. But I'll tell you this - I still remember clear as the dawn that blessed morn you first opened those big yellow eyes and spoke your first words."

Mother's face grows wistful. "Clear as a bell, you looked up at me and said 'Mama...love.'"

I'm stunned by this revelation, warmth blooming in my chest. Before I can respond, a violent coughing fit suddenly wracks my small frame. I double over, hacking and wheezing as flecks of crimson spray from my lips.

Mother's expression turns to one of fear and concern. In an instant she's at my side, cradling me against her breast as I continue to cough up mouthfuls of blood.

"Oh lamb, your ail still hasn't passed," she murmurs, rocking me gently. "That cursed lung-fevered cough plagues you still..."

I hack and wheeze, flecks of crimson spraying from my lips as the coughing fit wracks my small frame. Mother's face contorts with panic, her eyes wide with fear as she rocks me urgently.

"Hush now, lamb," she croons, voice trembling. "Breathe deep, that's my good girl."

But the coughs keep coming, each one feeling like shards of glass tearing through my chest. Mother stands abruptly, cradling me tight as she spins in frantic circles, unsure what to do.

At last, the spasms subside and I sag limply against her breast, panting harshly. Mother sinks back to her knees, relief flooding her features.

"There, that does it," she murmurs, planting a kiss on my sweat-dampened brow. "We must get you to the healer straight away. Those herbs he gave are doing naught to ease your ail."

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

I nod weakly, managing a faint smile. "Erik...will help Lile feel better?"

"Aye, poppet," Mother says, already moving to gather scraps of linen to wrap her bare feet. "He'll set you right, I'm sure of it."

She finishes her makeshift shoes and scoops me up, my small body dwarfed in her protective embrace. Pushing through the warped wooden door, she emerges into the chill winter air, shivering violently with each pained step.

I tighten my arms around her slender neck. "Love you, Mama," I whisper.

Mother's eyes glisten with unshed tears as she presses onward. "And I you, my precious lamb."

The rasping wheeze of my labored breaths and the fiery ache lancing through my chest with every shallow inhalation leave little doubt - I am afflicted with a severe case of pneumonic plague. The herbs Erik prescribed - lungwort, coltsfoot, and elecampane - have proven utterly ineffective against this virulent respiratory infection ravaging my young lungs.

In the modern era, such an illness would hardly warrant a second thought, the causative pathogens swiftly eradicated by a simple course of broad-spectrum antibiotics. But here, in this primitive backwater of the 4th century, bacterial pneumonia remains a death sentence for countless children each year. With no understanding of germ theory or access to antimicrobial drugs, the peasant leeches are powerless against the onslaught of the invasive microbes proliferating in my lung parenchyma.

I can feel the inflamed alveolar sacs filling with viscous pus and proteinaceous fluid, the consolidation steadily conquering more of my pulmonary territory with each wracking cough. Soon, my entire respiratory system will be a necrotic, liquid-drowned battlefield as the infection rages unchecked. Hypoxia, sepsis, respiratory failure - the harbingers of my imminent demise loom ever closer.

Yet, strangely, I find myself greeting this grim prognosis with a sense of relief, even eagerness to finally escape this wretched existence. No more fighting the sadistic whims of alien overlords, no more mortal struggles against the dark supernatural forces that stalk these benighted lands. Perhaps in death, I can at last find respite from the endless cycle of torment and rebirth that Gwenhwyfar so delights in inflicting upon me.

If this pneumonic scourge does indeed mark my final curtain in this latest farcical drama, so be it. I welcome the cold embrace of oblivion, where I need no longer play act the role of a hapless peasant child. Let the alien viewership feast upon the piteous spectacle of my tiny lungs drowning in their own tainted humors. I don't feel like fighting an uphill battle.

The forest path winds through a dense thicket of gnarled oak and towering pines, their skeletal branches clawing at the iron-gray sky. Each rasping cough that tears from my chest prompts Mother to quicken her pace, her boots crunching over the carpet of brittle leaves and frozen mud. Icy wind knifes through the thin fabric of my cloak, making me shiver violently.

"Hold on, lamb," Mother pleads, her voice quavering. "We're nearly to Erik's cottage now. Just hold on a wee bit longer."

I manage a feeble nod, struggling to draw enough air into my ravaged lungs. The coppery tang of fresh blood coats my tongue with each wet, hacking spasm.

At last, the trees part to reveal Erik's quaint cottage nestled in a small clearing. Mother rushes forward, fumbling with the latch of the wooden gate. It swings open with a creak and she dashes up the path, her boots slapping against the hard-packed earth.

Reaching the heavy oak door, she raps frantically with her free hand. "Erik! Erik, open this blasted door!"

No response. Mother's face contorts with desperation as she kicks the unyielding wood.

"Damn you, Erik! Open up before my wee lamb perishes!" She punctuates each word with another vicious kick. "You feckin' bastard, show yourself!"

I cough weakly, specks of crimson dotting the soft velvet of my cloak. "Mama...Erik's not...home today..."

"No!" she cries, pounding her fists against the door now. "That son of a whore better be home! Erik, you filthy shite-licker! Open this gods-cursed portal before I batter it down!"

Just then, the door creaks open to reveal Erik himself framed in the doorway, a simple towel knotted around his waist. Rivulets of water glisten on his broad chest and muscular arms.

"What fresh hell is this?" he rumbles, emerald eyes narrowing. "Have you gone utterly daft, woman?"

His gaze falls upon me and I convulse with another spasm of coughing, flecking his feet with scarlet droplets. Erik's expression shifts to one of concern.

"Inside, quickly!" he barks, ushering us over the threshold. "Has the wee lass been taking her draughts as I instructed?"

Mother nods frantically as she lays me upon the heavy oak table. I writhe and gasp, feeling as though I'm drowning in my own tainted humors.

"Save her, Erik!" Mother shrieks, clutching at his arm. "Save my precious lamb or I swear by Christ's wounds, I'll fling myself into the river this very instant!"

Erik leans over me, his brow furrowed as he takes in my flushed cheeks and labored wheezing. At last, he shakes his head grimly.

"The corruption has progressed too far, I fear. No mere herb or poultice can halt its insidious march now." He meets Mother's frantic gaze. "She will not see the spring, Aislin. The child is beyond my humble arts."

"No!" Mother wails, sinking to her knees. "You lying, monstrous wretch! You should have taken her as your ward moons ago when I first begged you!"

Tears stream down her face as racking sobs shake her slender frame. Erik watches her impassively for a moment before speaking.

"There...may be a chance to preserve the lass's life. But it will require unorthodox means."

Mother's head snaps up, her eyes wild with desperate hope. "Anything! Name it and it's done!"

"The village priests, Father Brogan and Timothy," Erik says slowly. "They know the rites for inscribing certain...markings. Potent wards against corruption and disease."

"Tattoos?" Mother's brow furrows in confusion. "You speak of having my babe inked like a criminal?"

"Not mere ink," Erik clarifies. "But infusions of mageblood, ritually inscribed. Such markings can channel immense power - enough perhaps to purge the child's affliction."

He shakes his head, mouth set in a grim line. "But even that may prove insufficient. For the rites to succeed, I would need to procure a far more...potent vitae than any mage can provide."

Mother stares at him, eyes brimming with a mixture of fear and fragile hope.

"What manner of blood, then?" she whispers. "Whose vitae is mighty enough to save my Lile?"

Erik meets her gaze steadily, his expression unreadable.

"That of the Tuatha themselves," he replies. "The sacred bloodline of the Fae folk...the blood of the Danann."

"The...Tuatha...what?" Mother asks, her brow furrowed in confusion.

Erik whirls on her, his emerald eyes blazing with urgency. "I have no time to waste on explanations, woman! Pray to your God that those feckless priests have a vial of vampire blood lying about, else your wee lamb is as good as dead!"

He spins and sprints into the bedchamber, the sound of frantic rustling and thumping noises echoing out. I hack and wheeze, struggling to draw each shallow breath as my lungs drown in their own tainted humors.

Erik bursts back into the main room, a leather satchel clutched in one hand. Without preamble, he scoops me up into his powerful arms, cradling me against his broad chest.

"Erik, please! Let me come with you!" Mother cries, scrambling to her feet.

But Erik shakes his head curtly. "Nay, this is no place for your eyes, Aislin. You should not even know of such matters."

"I beg you, Erik!" she pleads, clutching at his arm. "Do not shut me out from my child's plight!"

Erik's jaw tightens and he fixes her with a stern glare. "Force not this issue, woman. Wait here within my cottage and serve yourself from the stew pot - take what mead you can find in my cellar to steady your nerves. But you shall remain behind."

Mother tugs insistently at his tunic, tears streaking her cheeks. "Please, I must-"

With a growl of frustration, Erik shoves her away, making her stumble. "Enough, damn you! The lass has not the time for your womanly hysterics!"

Mother's shoulders slump in defeat. "If...if you do not return with my Lile..." she whispers brokenly. "Then I shall take my own life, Erik. I swear it."

"You addlebrained fool!" Erik roars, his face flushed with rage. "If the child perishes, 'tis a death sentence for me as well! Now cease this idiocy at once!"

Clutching me tightly, he spins and sprints for the door, flinging it open with enough force to make it bang against the wall. I catch a glimpse of Mother crumpled on the floor, sobbing, before Erik bursts outside into the chill winter air.

He dashes down the garden path and through the gate, his boots pounding against the hard-packed earth as he races toward the village church.

As Erik sprints down the path, his boots thundering against the frozen earth, I can't help but snort inwardly. Heh, "mageblood"? What fresh lunacy is this now?

I wheeze and cough, flecks of crimson speckling Erik's tunic as he jostles me in his muscular arms. Healing tattoos inked with wizard's blood? I mean, sure, why the fuck not at this point? If I'm going to kick the proverbial medieval bucket, might as well go out with a literal bang of pure crazy town.

Erik grunts, his face set in a mask of grim determination as he barrels onward. Vampire blood, he says? So those ghoulish myths of the undead stalking the night are indeed more than mere peasant superstition? Haha, well well well, it seems that Gwenhwyfar and Oisin did not lie after all, it must be true then.

I hack up another mouthful of foul phlegm, my chest feeling like it's being crushed by an anvil. Let's just hope these so-called "magical" tattoos can somehow zap away my pneumonia like some kind of funky antibiotics. Otherwise, I'll be doing nothing but laughing my tiny diseased arse off if it turns out to be a load of placebo bollocks.

But hey, who the fuck knows at this point? When you've been reborn into the wackadoo Dark Ages as a snot-nosed peasant brat, you've pretty much hit the bottom of the sanity barrel already. Might as well roll with the punches and see where this latest bout of mad madness leads, eh? Not like I've got anything left to lose here.

I mean, it's a classic coin toss at this stage - heads I live to see another day of medieval misery, tails I finally croak and escape this fecking nightmare for good. Fifty-fifty either way, mates! Maybe I'll get lucky and wake up in the Shire next, surrounded by those hilarious little drunkard hobbits. Anything's better than coughing up a lung in the icy mud of merry olde Ireland. God, I hope I die.[...]