"Remember," Aislin calls after her, "refer to him as Colm when ye're out and about!"

Maeve rolls her eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out of her head. "Yes, yes, I know. I'm not daft."

As Maeve's footsteps fade, Aislin bustles about, returning with a crude wooden mug filled with water. She helps me sit up slightly, pressing the rim to my parched lips. "There now, drink up. How are ye feeling, lamb?"

I take a few sips, the cool liquid soothing my raw throat. "Like I'm being drawn and quartered," I rasp. "Is this what dying feels like? Because if so, I'd like to lodge a formal complaint with God."

Another spasm of pain hits, and I clench my teeth to keep from crying out. As I turn my head, trying to find a more comfortable position, I spot Nuada and Larisa crawling towards me. Their chubby hands reach out, grasping at my hair with gleeful abandon.

"Here now," Aislin says, gently shooing the babies away. "Turn onto your belly, lass. It might help ease the pain a bit."

I comply, though not without a healthy dose of skepticism. Oh yes, because changing positions will surely cure the hellish torment currently ravaging my insides. Perhaps next we can try some leeches or a good old-fashioned exorcism.

"Try to rest now," Aislin murmurs, her hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. "Erik will be here soon enough."

"I hope he can make it stop," I mumble into the straw, my voice muffled and pitiful.

Aislin chuckles softly, the sound warm and maternal. "We can only hope, my sweet girl. We can only hope."

As another wave of pain washes over me, I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing. If this is what being a woman entails, I think I'd like a refund on this whole reincarnation business. Maybe in my next life, I can come back as a rock. Nice, simple, and blessedly free of monthly torture sessions.

I watch Aislin herd Nuada and Larisa away like a sheepdog corralling particularly stubborn lambs, finally freeing my back from their tiny, grabby hands. Holy shitballs on a stick, these period cramps are like Satan's own personal torture chamber for my uterus! How in the ever-loving fuck do women deal with this monthly apocalypse without going full-on Rambo on everyone around them? Is it just me, or did Mother Nature decide to crank the pain-o-meter up to eleven for shits and giggles?

I swear on all that is holy and unholy, this agony makes getting shot feel like a gentle love tap from a kitten wearing boxing gloves. Forget about kicks to the balls – that's child's play compared to this uterine Armageddon. I've got a whole new level of respect for the fairer sex; this shit could make a battle-hardened, PTSD-riddled military corporal curl up in the fetal position and sob like a toddler who just dropped their ice cream cone.

It's like my lower abdomen decided to host the Hunger Games, but instead of tributes, it's sending waves of pain to duke it out for the title of "Supreme Ouchie Champion." I'm half-expecting to see my insides tap out and wave a little white flag of surrender. If this is what Eve got for eating that damn apple, no wonder she was pissed enough to doom all of humanity. Adam got off easy with his "sweat of your brow" nonsense – I'd take a lifetime of manual labor over this monthly rendition of "Dante's Inferno: Uterus Edition" any day of the week.

Alright, time to engage the ol' scientific method to tackle this uterine uprising. Hypothesis: I need some form of analgesic intervention to mitigate this hellish discomfort. Given the distinct lack of Advil vending machines in medieval Ireland (shocking, I know), I'll have to resort to ethnobotanical solutions.

Perhaps some salicin-rich willow bark, which I've heard is basically nature's Advil, could help take the edge off this uterine uprising. Or maybe the vasoconstricting shepherd's purse will do the trick, because who doesn't love a good blood flow reduction to numb the pain? And if all else fails, I can always fall back on the trusty antispasmodic chamomile or the analgesic opium poppy – after all, our ancestors did manage to stumble upon some effective remedies without the benefit of modern science. Fingers crossed one of these phytotherapeutic wonders will help me survive this pre-pharmaceutical era with my sanity intact.

Of course, if we're being brutally honest – and why wouldn't we be when discussing the finer points of menstrual misery? – the intensity of these cramps is likely exacerbated by a combination of factors. First and foremost, the chronic malnutrition endemic to this delightful era of human history. My endocrine system is probably as confused as a flat-earther at a NASA convention, desperately trying to maintain homeostasis with a severe deficit of essential micronutrients.

And let's not forget my brilliant decision to engage in vigorous physical activity, a.k.a. "playing" with my brothers. Because nothing says "let's exacerbate prostaglandin production" quite like a rousing game of "don't get tetanus from the rusty farm equipment." My uterus is probably cursing my name in every language known to womankind, including some long-lost dialects only spoken by particularly irate ovaries.

So here I am, a walking, talking case study in the intersection of poor nutrition, ill-timed exercise, and the cruel joke that is human reproductive biology. If only I could publish a paper on this – "The Impact of Medieval Living Conditions on Menstrual Symptom Severity: A Single-Subject Study in Temporal Displacement." Peer reviewers would have a field day with that one. Fuck My Luteal phase.

Another wave of pain crashes over me, and I let out a pitiful whimper. Aislin's cool hand strokes my forehead, her touch both comforting and irritating in equal measure. I want to snap at her, to tell her to leave me alone to wallow in my misery, but I bite my tongue. After all, I'm supposed to be an innocent child experiencing this hellish ordeal for the first time.

"There, there, mo stór," Aislin coos, her voice grating on my frayed nerves. "The first moon-blood is always the worst. But fear not, for I'll teach ye how to weather this storm and the ones to come."

I groan, burying my face in the straw. "I don't want to weather any storms," I whine, injecting just the right amount of childish petulance into my voice. "I want it to stop!"

Aislin chuckles, the sound setting my teeth on edge. "Ah, would that we could, lass. But 'tis the way of women, and ye must learn to bear it with grace."

Grace? I'll show her grace. I'll gracefully shove a red-hot poker up her—

"Now then," Aislin continues, oblivious to my murderous thoughts, "since ye've flowered, 'tis time we had a wee chat about what's to come."

Oh joy, the medieval version of "the talk." This ought to be a laugh riot.

"Ye see, mo chroí, when a man and a woman love each other very much—"

"Or when a man pays three silver coins a week," I mutter under my breath.

"What was that, lass?"

"Nothing, Mama," I chirp innocently. "Please, go on."

Aislin clears her throat, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "Well, when two people come together in the marriage bed, there's a certain... joining that takes place."

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I resist the urge to roll my eyes. A "certain joining," indeed. As if I haven't witnessed the barnyard animals going at it like, well, animals.

"The man has a... a rod, ye see," Aislin continues, her face now beet red. "And he puts it in the woman's... flower."

Christ on a crutch, is she serious? A rod and a flower? What's next, the stork bringing babies wrapped in swaddling clothes?

"But Mama," I pipe up, widening my eyes in feigned innocence, "won't that hurt? It sounds awfully big."

Aislin pats my hand, her expression a mixture of pity and resignation. "Aye, lass, it can hurt at first. But if the man is gentle and takes his time, it can be... pleasant."

Pleasant. Right. Because nothing says "pleasant" like having your nether regions split in two by some sweaty, grunting oaf who probably hasn't bathed since the last full moon.

"But fear not," Aislin continues, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "I'll teach ye some tricks to make it easier. First, ye must relax. If ye tense up, it'll only hurt more."

"Like when ye're constipated?" I ask, biting back a smirk at Aislin's scandalized expression.

"Lile! Such talk is most unbecoming of a lady," she scolds, though I can see the corners of her mouth twitching. "But... aye, 'tis a similar principle."

I nod solemnly, fighting to keep a straight face. "I see. And what else, Mama?"

Aislin leans in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "If ye can, try to... moisten yourself beforehand. It'll make the joining smoother."

Oh, for fuck's sake. Is she seriously suggesting I diddle myself before getting plowed? What's next, a rousing game of hide the sausage?

"But how do I do that, Mama?" I ask, my voice dripping with faux naivety.

Aislin's blush deepens, if that's even possible. "Well, ye... ye touch yourself down there. Gently, mind ye. And think of pleasant things."

"Like turnips?" I suggest brightly.

Aislin blinks, momentarily thrown. "Er, no, lass. More like... like a handsome lad, or a warm summer's day."

"Oh," I say, nodding as if this makes perfect sense. "And what if I don't want to do any of that? What if I don't want to be bedded at all?"

Aislin's expression softens, a hint of sadness creeping into her eyes. "Oh, mo chroí, would that ye had a choice in the matter. But 'tis a wife's duty to submit to her husband's desires."

I feel a surge of anger at her words, at the casual acceptance of this twisted system. But I swallow it down, forcing myself to maintain my childish facade.

"But Mama," I press on, "Erik promised he wouldn't bed me until I'm sixteen. Surely he'll keep his word?"

Aislin sighs, shaking her head. "Lile, ye must learn not to take a man's words for granted. They say many things in the heat of the moment, but when the time comes..." She trails off, her eyes distant.

I study her face, noting the lines of worry etched around her eyes and mouth. For a moment, I feel a pang of sympathy for this woman who's known nothing but hardship and abuse.

"Is that what happened with you and Papa?" I ask softly.

Aislin's eyes snap back to mine, a flicker of pain crossing her features before she schools her expression. "Aye, lass. I was but eleven when yer father claimed me as his bride. He promised to be gentle, to wait until I was ready. But men's promises are as fleeting as morning mist."

I feel a white-hot rage building inside me at being reminded of this fact again, threatening to burst forth in a torrent of curses and violence. But I force it down, channeling it into a childish outburst instead.

"That's not fair!" I cry, pounding my fists against the straw. "I won't do it! I won't let anyone touch me!"

Aislin gathers me into her arms, stroking my hair. "Hush now, mo stór. Ye've no choice in the matter. But take heart, for Erik is a good man. He'll treat ye kindly, I'm sure of it."

I want to laugh at her naivety. But instead, I bury my face in her shoulder, letting out a series of feigned hiccupping sobs.

As Aislin continues to murmur soothing nonsense, I hear a commotion from the main room. She pulls away, her brow furrowing in concern.

"Saints preserve us," she mutters, rising to her feet. "Those wee devils are at it again."

I watch as she hurries to the doorway, her eyes widening in alarm. "Nuada! Get away from that hearth this instant!"

She turns back to me, her expression apologetic. "I must see to the babes, lass. Try to rest, and we'll speak more later."

As Aislin bustles off to prevent Nuada and Larisa from immolating themselves, I flop back onto the straw with a groan. Another cramp seizes me, and I curl into a tight ball, cursing every deity I can think of.

"Dumb kids," I hear Aislin mutter as she scoops up the errant toddlers. "Ye'd think they'd have more sense than to play with fire."

As Aislin fusses over Nuada and Larisa, I feel a rough woolen blanket being draped over my huddled form. For a moment, I'm touched by her concern. Then another cramp hits, and I'm back to plotting the demise of whoever invented menstruation in the first place.

Welcome to womanhood in medieval Ireland, folks. Where your choices are limited to "grin and bear it" or "become a nun." And even then, I wouldn't put it past some randy priest to try his luck.

Well, isn't this just peachy? Here I am, trapped in a prepubescent girl's body, and my past life's bisexuality is about as useful as a chocolate teapot in this situation. Sure, I leaned more towards the ladies back then, landing me a solid 2 on the Kinsey scale. But now? Now I've got Aislin, bless her medieval heart, telling me to think of "handsome lads" while I diddle myself. Yeah, because nothing gets me going quite like imagining some unwashed, lice-ridden peasant boy with a face like a dropped pie. Thanks, Mom, but I'll pass.

No, my best hope is that this body's hormones decide to go on a wild bender and crank me up to at least a 3 or 4 on the Kinsey scale. Hell, maybe they'll go full throttle and turn me into a raging 6.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus on a unicycle, the gender dysphoria I'm about to experience is going to be more intense than a Game of Thrones season finale. How does one handle gender dysphoria without offing themselves in a world where therapy consists of leeches and exorcisms? I'm going to need this body's hormones to work harder than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.

Hold onto your codpieces, folks, because I've just had an epiphany that's more mind-bending than M. Night Shyamalan on acid. No matter who I end up bumping uglies with, it's going to be gayer than a rainbow-farting unicorn at a Pride parade. If I get jiggy with a woman, it's gay because I'm sporting the latest in medieval female fashion. But if I decide to play hide the sausage with a man, it's still gay because my brain used to pilot the S.S. Testosterone. It's like I've stumbled into some cosmic practical joke where the punchline is "Surprise! You're always gay!" I feel like I should be handing out participation trophies to my future sexual partners. "Congratulations! You've just had gay sex, whether you wanted to or not!"

Great, now I'm giggling like a loon in a body that hasn't even sprouted armpit hair yet. If Aislin walks in, she'll probably think I've been possessed by some mirth demon and call for an exorcism. And knowing my luck in this godforsaken era, that'll probably involve some creative use of turnips and a lot of chanting. Just another day in the life of a time-displaced, gender-swapped, perpetually gay former AI scientist. I should write a memoir - "Fifty Shades of Gay: A Medieval Misadventure."

My internal musings are interrupted by Aislin's shrill voice piercing the air. "Atlas! Fionn! Get your arses back inside this instant, ye wee devils!"

The creaking of the warped wooden door signals Aislin's emergence from our hovel. I can picture her standing there, hands on her hips, her face a mask of exasperation as she addresses the boys.

"Right then, ye little imps. I need ye to keep an eye on Nuada and Larisa. And don't ye forget to check on Lile from time to time. The poor lass is in a right state."

Atlas's voice, tinged with a hint of annoyance, floats through the air. "Aye, we'll mind the wee ones. No need to fret."

Fionn's high-pitched whine follows. "Do we have to? Can't we play outside a bit longer?"

"None of yer lip, boy," Aislin snaps. "I'm off to the well to fetch water, then I'll be seein' to the chickens. They need feedin' and..."

Atlas cuts her off, his voice carrying a note of pride. "No need, I've already seen to the hens. Fed 'em and changed their water, I did."

"Bless me, ye're a good lad," Aislin says, her tone softening. "The Lord knows I need all the help I can get 'round here."

"I helped too!" Fionn pipes up, clearly not wanting to be left out.

Aislin's chuckle carries a hint of warmth. "Aye, ye're both good boys. Now mind yerselves while I'm gone."

The door creaks again, followed by the sound of Aislin's retreating footsteps. A moment later, I hear Atlas's measured tread approaching the sleeping area.

"How're ye holdin' up, Lile?" he asks, his voice low and tinged with concern.

I groan dramatically, playing up my discomfort for effect. "I feel like I'm being torn asunder by a pack of rabid wolves. Is this what childbirth feels like? Because if so, I'm swearing off reproduction for good."

Atlas chuckles, a hint of his adult self bleeding through. "Ah, quit yer bellyachin'. At least ye don't have to worry about gettin' kicked in the stones. I'll tell ye, I'm mighty fond of me cock and balls. Don't envy ye women one bit."

I can't help but snort at the irony. If only he knew. "Oh, aye? Well, perhaps ye'd like to trade places? I'd gladly take a swift kick to the bollocks over this monthly torment."

Our banter is interrupted by the patter of tiny feet. Fionn comes scurrying over, Nuada and Larisa toddling behind him like a pair of drunken dwarves.

"What's wrong with her?" Fionn asks, his eyes wide with curiosity. "Is she dyin'?"[...]