I grasp Aislin's hand gently, guiding her to sit on the rough wooden bench. She sinks down with a heavy thud, both hands cradling her massively swollen belly.

"Oof, the babe sits heavy as a sack of turnips, ready to drop any moment," Aislin groans.

From her place chopping vegetables on the table, the pregnant Maeve scoffs, "My babe will come before yours, you'll see."

Aislin chuckles, shaking her head. "Oh child, you have no idea what awaits you on the birthing bed."

Maeve pauses her chopping, one hand on her round belly. "It can't be worse than living in that filthy tavern."

"Oh, oh, oh," Aislin laughs heartily. "You won't be saying that for long, my sweet summer babe!"

Maeve frowns petulantly. "And why's that, pray tell? You think I can't handle a little pain and mess?"

"'Tis not the pain that will shock you, dove," Aislin says with a knowing look. "But the sheer, unholy agony of feeling your tender parts stretching wide enough to pass a melon!"

I cringe inwardly at the graphic description, though I feign childish ignorance.

Maeve scoffs again. "As if you'd know anything about it, old woman. You've not had a babe in years!"

"Aye, and thank the Blessed Virgin for that mercy!" Aislin retorts. "My poor cunny's been through the torments of hell itself, birthing each of my little angels."

I blink owlishly, trying to appear confused by their crude banter.

Maeve sneers. "Is that what you call the two corpses rotting in the churchyard? Angels?"

Aislin's face darkens. "Mind your tongue, slut! Those were my precious babes, born too soon for this cruel world."

"Well, this cruel world is all I've ever known," Maeve shoots back. "So you'd best pray your bastard spawns stronger stock than me!"

The two women glare at each other, the air thick with tension. I shift uncomfortably, unsure if I should intervene or simply observe their conflict unfold.

Aislin sighs heavily. "You're right, I should not have lashed out. The Lord knows you've suffered enough without my harsh words."

Maeve's expression softens slightly at the apology. "Well...I suppose you've a point about the birthing pains. I've heard some right dreadful tales from the midwives."

"Aye, enough to curdle a dairy maid's tits," Aislin agrees with a shudder. "But we women are strong in our travails. The Lord crafted our bodies to endure such agonies."

Maeve nods slowly. "I just pray my babe comes out hale, with all its parts formed proper."

"As do I, sweet girl," Aislin murmurs, rubbing her belly. "As do I."

The two women share a look of weary understanding, their previous hostility fading into quiet solidarity. I watch them both, pondering the complex web of suffering and resilience that binds the peasant women together.

Yeah, yeah, the shit-talking just keeps flowing back and forth like a couple of fishwives bickering over the last eel. Honestly though, Aislin really shouldn't be exerting herself with all that yapping. It's a miracle she's made it this far without any major pregnancy complications!

The way things are progressing, I reckon she'll probably have a relatively healthy birth. Which just brings up the question - how in the nine hells is this woman's body so freakishly sturdy? She's already given birth to three kids, two of which didn't make it sadly, and now here comes number four squirming its way out of her well-trodden baby chute!

It's simply unheard of for a peasant wench to have this level of vigor and robust health after multiple childbirths, especially in these primitive conditions. Either Aislin hit the genetic jackpot in the hardy babymaker department, or those sneaky alien genes are hard at work behind the scenes, keeping her reproductive organs in tip-top shape.

I can just picture the little extraterrestrial mechanics inside her, tinkering away: "Ope, looks like this uterine lining is getting a bit frayed from all the placenta expulsions. Better slap on another coat of that alien wonder-sealant! And while we're at it, let's reinforce those pelvic tendons with some space-age carbon nanotubes. Gotta make sure this baby cannon can keep firing for years to come!"

Yeah, I'm sure the aliens are absolutely thrilled with their little hybrid breeding experiment down here. "Thank you, E.T, for keeping the village baby factory operational! Them Earthling womb-tanks are proving nice and durable for pumping out a fresh crop of hybrid spawn each season!"

Either way, I'm sure my "live alien birth" special will be a smash hit across the galaxies! Tune in for the heart-stopping action as the plucky little hybrid pushes out a bouncing baby...uhh, whatever the hell I'm supposed to be gestating in this bizarre female body of mine. Ah, the sweet mysteries of procreation!

Aislin suddenly gasps, clutching her swollen belly. I quickly take her hand, concerned.

"The babe, it comes!" she cries out.

Maeve stops what she's doing and turns towards us. "I'll fetch the midwife straight away!"

But Aislin raises her free hand to halt Maeve. "Nay, lass, stay put. The birthing could take the full day, or even days more."

Maeve's eyes go wide. "Days? Truly?"

Aislin nods, grimacing through another contraction. "Aye, child, 'tis no simple task. First, the pains grow fierce, like a thousand knives twisting in your belly. You'll feel the urge to bear down, to push with all your might. But the babe's head must crown first, stretching your cunny wider than you'd think possible."

She pauses to catch her breath, sweat beading on her brow. "Once the head slips free, you'll get a moment's respite. But then the shoulders must pass, feeling as if your loins are being torn asunder. After that, a final, agonizing push expels the whole slippery creature into this world, leaving your privates a ruined, gaping maw."

Maeve's face has drained of color, her eyes wide with horror. Aislin lets out a wheezy laugh.

"What's the matter, dove? Thought getting dicked daily at the tavern prepared you? That's naught compared to the pain of a babe's exit!"

She cackles again, doubling over as another contraction grips her. "Aye, a cock feels good sliding in and out. But a squalling infant? That's a different anguish entirely!"

I watch with morbid fascination as Aislin writhes. "Is there aught I can do to help, mama?" I ask innocently.

She pats my head, managing a pained smile. "Nay, sweet poppet. Just pray to the Blessed Mother it all goes smoothly."

Maeve seems to recover her wits. "P-perhaps I should fetch Colm? He may have remedies to ease your labor."

But Aislin waves a dismissive hand. "Daft girl, I'll not trouble the healer over something as common as childbirth! He'd sooner come if I were missing a leg instead."

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A sly grin spreads across her face. "Or mayhap to tend the wounds our brother gave Oisin's face with his 'party tricks'."

I can't help but giggle at the memory of Uncle Sean pummeling Father's sneering visage into a bloody mess. Ah, the sweet euphoria of that day still lingers!

Maeve clutches her own belly protectively. "You mean...I must endure such torment as well?" she asks in a small voice.

"Aye, and likely twice as bad for a first-timer like yourself," Aislin says with a sage nod. "Best prepare that virgin cunny, lass."

Maeve pales again, one hand rising to cover her mouth as if to hold back vomit. I giggle with childish glee.

"You'd best heed mama's wisdom," I tell the stricken girl. "She knows what's what when it comes to birthing bairns!"

"Aye, a mother always knows best," Aislin declares with a wink. "Isn't that right, child-virgin?"

Maeve's eyes narrow. "You're naught but a donkey," she spits.

Quick as a flash, Aislin retorts, "Aye, and you'll be braying like one soon enough, with a filly's head cresting your nethers!"

I look at Aislin with childlike curiosity and ask, "What do you want to name the baby if it's a boy or a girl?"

Aislin winces as another contraction hits her. "If it's a boy, I'd like to call him Cormac."

She pauses to catch her breath. "And if the Lord blesses us with a little lass, then Siobhan would be a fine name."

"Or perhaps Ava, after my own sweet mother," she adds wistfully.

"Though truth be told, any healthy babe would be a gift from the heavens at this point."

Aislin smiles weakly at me. "No matter the name, you'll have a new brother or sister soon enough, poppet."

Maeve chuckles derisively from the table. "Those names are pathetic! Might as well call the poor mites 'Mud' and 'Dung' with choices like that."

Aislin shoots her a weary look. "Oh? And I suppose you have better ideas then, slut?"

"Well for a girl, how about Saoirse?" Maeve retorts. "Means 'freedom' - something you clearly know naught about, you sad old crone."

She rubs her belly proudly. "And for a strapping lad, I'd go with Fionn. Means 'fair', and any son of mine is bound to be a fair sight prettier than your ill-begotten get!"

Aislin chuckles dryly. "Aye, because those are so much better than plain Cormac and Siobhan. We may as well start callin' the wee ones 'Pretentious' and 'Uppity' with your high-minded notions!"

Maeve scowls at the jibe. "Well maybe we should just leave it to Oisin to name the babes then, if you're so determined to saddle them with drab monikers!"

"Ha! As if that drunken lout has any taste for naming children," Aislin scoffs. "Need I remind you he called our Lile here after his own mother? The man's as creative as a rock when it comes to nomenclature."

I can't help but giggle at that, drawing Maeve's irritated glare. "Well what would you call them then, Lile? Any grand ideas from the little princess?"

Puffing out my chest, I declare, "I think Atlas sounds like a good strong name for a boy! And for a girl, maybe...Fiona?"

Aislin raises an eyebrow at me. "Atlas and Fiona? Where in God's creation did you hear names like those, child?"

"Well, Fiona I heard from when Master Colm told me stories about the Norse folks," I explain innocently. "But Atlas I just dreamed up - I had a dream about a great big strong man who carried whole mountains on his back! And the people in the dream called him Atlas."

You owe me a fine name-day gift for sparing you some pedestrian label like "Seamus", wretched boy! Be grateful I don't saddle you with "Broc" or "Fintan" for all the misery you've wrought.

Maeve snorts derisively. "Listen to the little fool, with her dreams and fancies!"

"Oh, hold your tongue, you bitter wench," Aislin retorts sharply. "I'll admit, Atlas is an...interesting notion for a boy's name. Though I can't see Oisin approving aught so fanciful for a daughter as 'Fiona'."

She sighs heavily, one hand rubbing her distended belly. "God willing, it's a son in any case. For if it's another daughter, then this whole bloody ordeal will have been for naught."

Maeve scoffs loudly. "You can say that again! If you birth Oisin one more useless girl-child, he'll surely divorce your barren cunt this time for good."

But to my surprise, Aislin simply smiles thinly. "Oh, is that what you think, dove? Well, truth be told...I pray every night that the bastard does just that!"

My eyes widen as Aislin continues, voice dripping with bitterness. "You don't know the half of what that cruel pig had planned for me, once my womb ran dry of sons."

She fixes Maeve with a dark look. "Did you think he brought you here to be a proper wife, girl? That he did this out of the goodness of his shriveled soul?"

Aislin barks a harsh laugh. "No, no...Oisin had far grander schemes. Plans to make a whore of me, since my treacherous cunt couldn't birth him any more sons!"

Maeve's eyes widen in shock, but Aislin presses on relentlessly. "Aye, that's right - he was going to turn me out on the streets, set me to spreading my legs and making coppers off my back! Can you imagine, girl? You and I, sisters under the same flea-bit roof, both whored out to any prick with a few pennies to rub together!"

There's an appalled silence, broken only by Maeve's disgusted sigh. "God's blood, woman...must you always take things to the foulest jests imaginable?"

But Aislin shakes her head, face set in grim lines. "No jests this time, sweet dove. That was the reality Oisin had planned - to make coin off my anguish, once I'd failed as a proper broodmare."

Maeve looks up from the table with a pained expression. "I do not wish the life of a tavern whore on anyone. It is the most horrible life you can have."

Aislin scoffs loudly from her seat on the bench, one hand rubbing her swollen belly. "Better to be a broodmare like me then, eh?"

Maeve's eyes widen and she shakes her head slowly. "I...I do not know the answer to that."

"Well how in God's name didn't you get pregnant all that time on the streets and at the tavern?" Aislin demands through gritted teeth.

A blush colors Maeve's cheeks. "I...I always did it with my backside when I was working."

"Aye, I'll wager that poor ass of yours is as loose as a wizard's sleeve by now!" Aislin cackles.

Maeve's lip juts out in a childish pout. I can't help but giggle at her scandalized expression.

Aislin suddenly grunts, doubling over as another contraction grips her. "Oooh, mercy..." she groans.

"Is there really nothing I can do to help you?" Maeve asks, looking stricken.

"Well, if you want to be useful..." Aislin pants, "You could always give birth right alongside me! Then I'd have the pleasure of hearing your cries of pain too."

Maeve flinches like she's been struck, her gaze dropping to the floor. She resumes cutting the vegetables in silence.

After a moment, Aislin laughs breathlessly. "What's this now? Why've you gone all meek and quiet, girl?"

Maeve doesn't look up. "I'm...I'm scared of the pain. And of death."

"Pah!" Aislin scoffs again. "Death would be a mercy compared to the agony of childbirth, let me tell you!"

Maeve flinches once more, the knife nearly nicking her finger. "Careful there!" Aislin taunts. "That little cut would've felt like pure pleasure after what I'm enduring!"

She chuckles darkly at her own jest. I can't resist piping up. "Mama learned to speak just like Maeve after all!"

Aislin arches an eyebrow at me. "Oh? And how's that, poppet?"

"Crude!" I proclaim with an impish grin.

Aislin laughs, shaking her head. "Aye, perhaps so. But you'd do well not to mimic how I spoke earlier, child. 'Twas just the pains making me foul-mouthed."

Maeve sighs heavily, not looking up from her work. "Then do not learn from me either, Lile. I only speak so crudely because of the harsh life I've endured."

I tilt my head, feigning childlike curiosity. "Well then who should I learn from? Papa?"

Aislin barks out a laugh. "Oh, certainly not that drunken lout! No, take Erik as your example when he visits."

Maeve's brow furrows in confusion. "Erik? Who is this Erik?"

Aislin's face falls as she realizes her slip. "Ah...damn me for a fool. I meant to say Colm, of course."

Maeve halts her cutting, staring at Aislin in surprise. "I could not have misheard you..."

Aislin looks at Maeve with a furrowed brow. "Why are you being so daft, girl? Colm is just an Irish name he uses, not his real name."

Maeve blinks slowly. "So...his real name is Erik then?"

Aislin nods wearily. "Aye, that's the name the Norseman goes by."

"But why would he need a fake name like Colm?" Maeve asks, tilting her head.

Aislin chuckles dryly. "Most peasants wouldn't take too kindly to a Viking putting their bones back together, now would they? The name Colm eases folks into accepting his healing hands without fighting back at the thought of the same raider who raped and pillaged their kin."

I watch as Aislin suddenly clutches her belly again, her breath coming quicker. Curious, I pipe up. "Where did Papa go?"

Maeve glances at me. "Oisin got summoned to the manor grounds at first light. They're to speak on arming the menfolk to defend these lands."

"Defend against what?" I ask with a childlike tilt of my head.

Maeve shrugs one shoulder. "I know not, little one. But I overheard soldiers at the tavern whispering of renewed skirmishes along the western borderlands."

She pauses, tapping the knife idly against the table as she ponders. "Aye, 'twas talk of English raiders making incursions across the river again after a few years' peace. Seems they've regrouped and aim to press their claim on Irish soil once more."

Maeve's eyes narrow slightly. "There were also whispers of Viking longships spotted off the northern coasts too. No doubt those heathen Norsemen seek to renew their plundering and rapine upon our Christian shores as well."

I can't help but inwardly smirk at her insult towards Erik's countrymen. As if the Irish Christians are such bastions of virtue themselves!

"The soldiers worried these dual threats could stretch the local levies too thin to properly defend every holding," Maeve continues. "One seasoned warrior warned of leaving the inner territories exposed if they had to split forces for the coasts and borderlands both."

She shakes her head slowly. "They'll likely start a recruitment drive soon, conscripting any able peasant men into militia ranks whether they want it or not. The lords need every stout lad with an arm to swing a blade or loose an arrow."

I raise my hand as if in a classroom. "What about the big cities and towns? Won't their trained soldiers help defend us?"

Maeve snorts derisively. "What cities, little fool? We're just a wee rural village out in the arses of nowhere. The nearest real town is Dun Laoghaire to the north, and that's still two days' hard ride from here even for a courier."[...]