Cathal chuckles at the sight, then reaches into the folds of his tunic to produce something clutched in his broad palm. As he unfurls his fingers, I see it's a ring - a thick band of dull silver, its surface etched with intricate knotwork patterns in the Celtic style. Set into the metal is a large, uncut gemstone that seems to shift between hues of deep green and vivid blue depending on how the light strikes it.

"Well now, what do ye make o' this, little Lile?" Cathal rumbles, holding the ring up for my inspection. "Does it strike yer fancy?"

I nod vigorously, unable to tear my gaze from the beautiful piece of folk jewelry. Cathal grins, clearly pleased by my reaction.

"Grand, grand! For ye see, lass, this here's to be yer betrothal ring when the time comes for ye to wed that fine healer Colm." He winks conspiratorially. "Few more summers yet before ye start bleedin' and become a maid ripe for the takin', but best to have the token ready, aye?"

My eyes widen at his words, but before I can react, a chorus of voices rings out.

"Happy birthday, Lile!"

Aislin beams at me, her pale eyes crinkling at the corners. Muireann echoes the sentiment with a warm smile, while Cathal gives me a firm nod and repeats the words gruffly.

I can't help giggling at their enthusiasm, though inwardly I frown as the realization sinks in - this ring is meant as my birthday gift? A mere trinket to signify my future status as a broodmare for that Viking oaf Erik?

Swallowing hard, I force a bright smile and chirp, "I love it! Thank you!"

Cathal grunts in approval, then turns to pass the ring to Aislin. "Here now, best ye take this and give it to Oisin proper-like. 'Tis tradition for the father to hold the betrothal token 'til the weddin' day."

As Aislin carefully tucks the ring away, I find myself wondering - did she or Oisin have to pay anything for this supposed gift? Or did Cathal simply forge it himself as a favor to the village healer?

My musings are interrupted as Muireann speaks up, her verdant eyes warm with gratitude. "I've yet to properly thank ye, Aislin, for yer help when I was birthin' wee Cormac here." She smiles fondly at her son. "If ever ye need aught from me or my kin, ye need but ask."

Aislin returns the smile, though there's a hint of steel behind her gaze. "Aye, and the same goes for ye as well, dear friend. If there comes a time when ye require any assistance, I'll be there without question."

The two women share a look of quiet solidarity, one I've seen countless times between peasant wives burdened by the harsh demands of their meager existences. In that moment, I can't help feeling a pang of wistful longing for the sort of true kinship and camaraderie they seem to share.

The tender moment is shattered as Ciara comes barreling over, all bright smiles and boundless energy. "Papa!" she cries joyfully, throwing her slender arms around Cathal's broad neck in an exuberant hug. "I love you, papa!"

Cormac quickly toddles over to join his sister, wrapping his pudgy arms around Cathal's leg and echoing the sentiment in a small voice. "Love you, papa!"

Cathal laughs, a deep rumbling chuckle as he ruffles Ciara's emerald tresses and pats Cormac's back. "That's me two bonny lads, aren't ye?" His amber eyes are warm with paternal affection.

I watch the tender family tableau with a strange ache in my chest. How I envy these children and their obvious adoration for their father, as well as the obvious pride and love Cathal holds for them in return. If only I could experience such unconditional bonds myself, instead of the resentment and disdain my own patriarch showers upon me.

Aislin squeezes my hand, drawing me from my melancholy reverie. "Well now, we'd best be on our way and let the Dohertys get back to their day," she announces, giving our hosts an apologetic smile.

Muireann, Cathal and Ciara all echo their farewells, the young girl waving enthusiastically as Cormac simply sucks his thumb and bobs his head. As Aislin leads me away down the path towards our humble hovel, I can't resist glancing back over my shoulder for one last glimpse of that warm family dynamic.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, I tug on Aislin's sleeve to get her attention. "Mama, what did you and Muireann and Cathal talk about inside their house?" I ask, all childlike curiosity.

Aislin smiles indulgently. "Oh, 'twas naught but the usual prattle, lamb. We spoke of the comings and goings in the village, how the children are farin', and the latest demands from that wretched Lord Eamonn's tax collectors."

She shakes her head, mouth twisting in a grimace. "Seems the bastard's levyin' even higher tithes on us poor folk this season, claimin' he needs the extra coin to fund his soldiers' winter provisions. As if that greedy pig doesn't already hoard enough from our paltry harvests!"

I nod along solemnly, keeping up my childish pretense even as I file away this new information about the local lord's oppressive taxation. Every scrap of data is vital if I'm to unravel the complex sociopolitical dynamics at play in this primitive backwater.

"Did you and Muireann talk about anything else?" I prompt innocently. "Like maybe...me?"

Aislin's brow furrows briefly before she gives a soft chuckle. "Aye, ye came up in our chatter, I'll admit. Though only in regards to yer future nuptials with Colm the healer, and whether ye'd be a blushin' maid or a mother by then."

She shoots me a sly wink, clearly finding amusement in my childish naivete about such womanly matters. I simply blink at her owlishly, feigning ignorance.

"I hope I'm a mother soon so I can have lots of babies!" I declare with a bright smile. "That way, Colm and I can make you and papa lots of grandbabies to dote on!"

Aislin's laughter rings out, the sound bright and genuine. "Well now, aren't ye just the sweetest wee thing?" she chuckles, giving my cheek an affectionate pinch.

I beam back at her, my heart swelling with a rush of genuine affection for this long-suffering woman. For all her flaws and weaknesses, Aislin is the sole bright spot amidst the relentless drudgery and torment that plagues our wretched existence.

If only I could find a way to ease her burdens, to bring a genuine smile to those careworn features more often. Alas, such simple joys seem forever out of reach for the downtrodden peasant folk, no matter how fervently I might wish otherwise.

As we meander back towards that dingy little mud hut Oisin calls a "home", I can't help replaying the warm family scenes I just witnessed at the Dohertys' place. The way Cathal's kids frolicked about without a care, giggling and playing like proper children should. Not a hint of the constant fear and oppression that looms over my own pitiful existence.

I sneak a glance at Aislin, her face alight with a rare, contented smile as we stroll hand-in-hand. For just this brief moment, she seems...happy. At peace, even. A far cry from the haunted, hollow-eyed wretch I'm so accustomed to seeing day in and day out.

It's like a fleeting glimpse into an alternate reality where we aren't downtrodden peasant scum, but an actual family worthy of love and dignity. One where Aislin gets to be a doting mother instead of a broken, abused broodmare. Where I'm not some cosmic joke trapped in this nightmarish child body, but a real wee lad free to run and play without the weight of past lives bearing down on me.

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I shake my head slowly, a rueful smile tugging at my lips. Who am I kidding? That idyllic existence could never be mine, no matter how many lives I cycle through. I'm the universe's perpetual punching bag, doomed to suffer endless torment and degradation for Gwenhwyfar's sick amusement.

Still, I can't deny the pang of wistful longing those Doherty kids stirred in me. The way Ciara's exotic beauty and childlike innocence captivated me, if only for a few fleeting moments. How Cormac's shy, gap-toothed grin managed to melt my jaded heart, if only a little. Seeing them so carefree and loved, so utterly unburdened by the harsh cruelties of peasant life...it was both heartwarming and utterly heartbreaking at once.

I sigh heavily, my shoulders slumping. At least the Dohertys seem to have their shit halfway together as a family unit. Cathal clearly dotes on his wife and sprogs, providing for them in a way that bloated drunk Oisin could never comprehend. Muireann too - well-fed and smiling, without a hint of that haunted, hollow look Aislin wears like a second skin.

Makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, there are a few decent patriarchs scattered amongst this wretched village after all. Or if that waste of space Oisin is simply the ultimate cautionary tale of what happens when you combine alcoholism, toxic masculinity, and a complete lack of paternal instinct. The peasant trifecta of failure, if you will.

I snort derisively at the thought. Yeah, I'm sure Oisin's tavern-crawling buddies are real prize-winning dads too. Probably all a bunch of lecherous, abusive pricks who treat their wives and daughters like community spittoons when they aren't busy patronizing whatever depraved fuckery goes on at that McDermott place.

Ugh, I can only imagine the kind of vile, subhuman filth that runs an establishment catering to the basest urges of drunken peasant mongrels. This McDermott creep has to be a whole new level of degenerate scumbag, even by the utterly dismal standards of this backwater shithole. Seriously, I wouldn't be surprised if Jesus himself rose from the grave just to get re-crucified out of sheer disgust at the depravity.

Which...actually makes me reconsider my harsh stance on Christianity in this realm, now that I ponder it. For all its oppressive dogma and rampant misogyny, at least the common folk seem to respect the core tenets of their faith on some level. Turning the other cheek, treating their fellow man with basic human decency - that sort of thing. It's really only the dregs like Oisin who choose to completely disregard those teachings and wallow in cruelty and vice.

I mean, sure, the whole "selling your adolescent daughters into child marriage" thing is pretty fucked up no matter how you slice it. But from what I can gather, that regressive practice seems to be more a byproduct of the overarching patriarchal system than anything specifically religious in nature. An antiquated cultural holdover, if you will.

Hmm...now that's an interesting angle I should probably explore further. This whole "bleeding" milestone that magically transforms girls into marriage prospects practically overnight. I'll have to probe Aislin about the specifics once we're back home. Maybe adopt my most childishly innocent tone as I inquire about the finer points of menstruation and sexual maturity. That ought to be an enlightening conversation!

We arrive at the familiar sight of our humble mud-daubed hovel, the thatched roof looking particularly dilapidated against the gray winter sky. Aislin pushes open the rickety wooden gate, and we make our way inside the small fenced area that serves as both garden and chicken pen.

"In you go, lamb," Aislin says, ushering me towards the warped front door. I obediently scamper ahead, ducking through the low entrance and emerging into the cramped main room.

The hearth fire crackles merrily, casting a warm, flickering glow over the rough-hewn oak table and benches that Oisin gifted us. I immediately hop up onto one of the sturdy plank seats, my legs swinging idly as I wait for Aislin to join me.

She enters a moment later, carefully closing the door against the chill wind. Turning to face me, Aislin holds up the dull silver ring Cathal presented me earlier, the large uncut gemstone winking in the firelight.

"Well then, poppet?" she prompts with a warm smile. "Do ye like yer birthday gift from the Dohertys?"

I nod vigorously, putting on my best childish grin of delight. "Aye mama, it's the most amazing ring I ever saw!" I exclaim in an exaggerated tone. "The pretty green stone is just like my eyes!"

Aislin chuckles indulgently at my antics. "That it is, ye wee rascal." She moves to tuck the ring into a pocket of her apron. "I'll keep this safe for now, until the day comes for ye to wed Colm and become his bride proper-like."

At the mention of marriage, my brow furrows in genuine childlike confusion. "Mama?" I pipe up, tilting my head curiously. "Can I ask you a question about that?"

"Of course, lamb," Aislin replies easily, settling onto the bench across from me. "Ye can ask me anything at all, this day or any other."

I bite my lip, trying to look appropriately bashful as I pose my query. "Well...what's a bridal price? And why do girls have to get wed once they start bleeding from...y'know, down there?"

The question seems to take Aislin aback somewhat. She frowns, letting out a soft sigh as she regards me with a weary look. I can't resist a tiny, mischievous giggle at her discomfiture.

Heh, looks like I'm slowly chipping away at the old girl's innocence, one uncomfortable query at a time! Better brace yourself, Aislin dear - I've got plenty more where that came from!

Aislin shakes her head slowly, clearly steeling herself to explain. When she finally speaks, her tone is patient and measured, as if reciting a well-rehearsed lesson.

"Ye see, lamb, a bridal price is the coin a man must pay to the family of his intended bride," she begins carefully. "It's meant to compensate the parents for all the years and resources spent raisin' and carin' for the girl since birth."

I nod along solemnly, feigning rapt attention even as I inwardly roll my eyes. Oh yes, the classic patriarchal tradition of treating women like commodities to be bought and sold! Nothing screams "enlightened civilization" quite like monetizing your own daughters, eh?

"As for why a lass must be wed once her monthly courses start..." Aislin continues, her brow furrowing. "Well, that's the way the Lord intended, ye see? When a girl begins to bleed, it means her body is ready to bear children of her own. And any proper Christian marriage must be open to the blessin' of new life, as the Good Book teaches."

I resist the urge to snort derisively at her pious words. Yes, because clearly an all-knowing, all-loving deity would design a system where adolescent girls are forced into sexual servitude and perpetual childbearing the moment they hit puberty! What a merciful, compassionate plan for his creations.

"Of course, that don't mean a husband can bed his new bride straight away," Aislin hastens to add, perhaps sensing my skepticism. "No, he must wait a few years yet for her to fully ripen into a maid before layin' with her. But the marriage contract is sealed once her monthly flow appears, so none can object to the match later on."

She leans forward, resting a calloused hand on my knee as she fixes me with an earnest look. "But ye needn't fret over such womanly matters just yet, poppet. Erik is a good, decent man who'll make a fine husband when the time comes. He may be a pagan Viking, but he has a kind soul and won't mistreat ye like some louts do their wives, I'm sure of it."

I simply nod meekly, keeping my features carefully schooled into an innocent, childlike mask. On the inside though, I'm seething with bitter resentment at this whole farcical system of institutionalized oppression and exploitation they call "tradition."

Ah yes, I can hardly wait to become a broodmare for that arrogant Norse oaf! Getting pounded into the mattress every night to pop out his spawn, my entire identity and autonomy reduced to that of a living incubator. Forgive me if I don't share your enthusiasm, dear mother.

Still, I suppose I should count my blessings, twisted as they may be. At least my future "husband" isn't a complete monster like that drunken wretch Oisin. Erik seems gruff but pragmatic - he'll likely treat me with the same detached professionalism as he does his medicinal herbs and alchemy tools.

A loveless marriage of convenience, to be sure. But in this primitive shithole of a world, I'll take what I can get in terms of basic human dignity. For now, at least, the path ahead is clear, even if the final destination fills me with dread and revulsion.

I raise my small hand, catching Aislin's attention. "Yes, poppet?" she asks, her pale blue eyes warm.

Furrowing my brow in a childlike expression of confusion, I ask, "Why didn't papa get lashed when he made funny business with you and made babies?" I remember months ago when Aislin explained what happens if a husband lays with a girl before she's physically mature enough.

Aislin's face falls slightly as she replies, "Well, lamb, your father did get lashed for layin' with me before my courses returned proper-like. But that didn't stop the stubborn mule from doin' it again soon after."

She lets out a weary sigh. "Truth be told, I got a few lashes meself, though not near as harsh as your father's punishment."

I frown, my curiosity piqued despite the unpleasant subject matter. "But how did people find out papa did it with a girl who wasn't grown up to be a maid yet?"

A faint flush colors Aislin's sallow cheeks. "Your father...he has a tendency to run his mouth when in his cups at the tavern, lamb. 'Twas his drunken boasting that spread word of his...indiscretions."

She shakes her head, mouth twisting in a grimace. "Lord, I thought the shame would kill me when the priest and elders came around, demanding answers."

Aislin's shoulders slump as she regards me with a tired look. "But enough of such grim talk for now, aye? Are ye hungry, poppet? I can fetch us some bread and eggs if your belly's rumblin'."

I nod eagerly, putting on my best childish grin. "Yes please, mama!"

Aislin manages a faint smile in return. "Bread and eggs it is then. Here we go again with the same paltry fare, day in and day out..."[...]