Atlas sighs, clearly struggling to find an age-appropriate explanation. "Nay, ye daft git. She's just... well, she's bleedin'. It's a thing that happens to girls when they start turnin' into women."

Fionn's face scrunches up in confusion. "Bleedin'? Where? Did she cut herself?"

Oh, for the love of all that's holy. I'd forgotten how mind-numbingly ignorant children can be. It's a wonder the human race managed to propagate itself at all.

"Nay, ye numpty," Atlas says, his patience clearly wearing thin. "It's... it's from her lady parts. It means she can have babies now."

Fionn's eyes go wide as saucers. "Babies? From her bum?"

I can't help but burst into laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all. "Aye, Fionn. I'm shittin' out wee babes as we speak. Care to take a gander?"

"Can I?" Fionn asks eagerly, already reaching for the edge of my blanket. "I want to see!"

"Don't ye dare!" Atlas snaps, swatting Fionn's hand away. "It's not right to be peekin' at a lady's privates, ye little lecher."

Fionn's lower lip juts out in a pout that would put a professional sulker to shame. "Yer no fun. I just wanted to see the babies."

I sigh, torn between amusement and exasperation. "Listen to Atlas, Fionn. He's right. It's not proper for ye to be lookin' under a girl's skirts."

Fionn stomps his foot, his face turning red with frustration. "Ye both talk like grown-ups sometimes. It's not fair!"

I can't help but chuckle at the irony. If only he knew how right he was. "Ah, don't fret, Fionn. When ye're older, I might let ye take a wee peek. But for now, ye'll just have to use yer imagination."

Atlas shoots me a look that's equal parts amusement and disapproval. "Don't be encouragin' him, Lile. Next thing ye know, he'll be liftin' every skirt in the village."

Fionn's eyes light up at the prospect. "Can I really? That sounds like fun!"

"No!" Atlas and I shout in unison, causing Nuada and Larisa to startle and begin wailing.

"Now look what ye've done," I groan, wincing as another cramp seizes my abdomen. "Ye've set off the wee ones."

Atlas scoops up Nuada, bouncing him gently. "There, there, ye little gobshite. No need for all that caterwaulin'."

Fionn, not to be outdone, picks up Larisa, though he holds her at arm's length as if she might explode at any moment. "How do ye make it stop?" he asks, panic creeping into his voice.

I can't help but laugh at the sight of these two "boys" trying to comfort the babies. It's like watching a pair of drunk monkeys trying to solve a Rubik's cube.

"Try singin' to them," I suggest, biting back a smirk. "I hear they love a good ballad."

Atlas glares at me but starts humming a tune that sounds vaguely like a sea shanty. Fionn, taking his cue, begins belting out a bawdy tavern song that would make a sailor blush.

"Not that one, ye eejit!" Atlas hisses, trying to cover Nuada's ears. "Where in the name of all that's holy did ye learn such filth?"

Fionn grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "From Da, of course. He sings it when he's in his cups."

I roll my eyes, unsurprised. "Of course he does. Well, let's hope the babes don't pick up any new vocabulary from that little performance."

As if on cue, Larisa lets out a string of babble that sounds suspiciously like the chorus of Fionn's inappropriate ditty.

"Oh, brilliant," I mutter. "Aislin's going to have our hides when she hears that."

Atlas sighs, shifting Nuada to his other arm. "Right, new plan. No more singin'. Let's try... I don't know, juggling or somethin'."

Fionn's eyes light up. "Ooh, can we juggle the babies?"

"No!" Atlas and I shout again, causing another round of wailing from the infants.

Atlas begins to bounce Nuada gently, his face scrunched in concentration as he tries to soothe the babe. Fionn, not to be outdone, starts swaying side to side with Larisa, cooing softly in a voice that sounds more like a dying cat than anything remotely comforting.

Just as the infants' cries begin to subside, another vicious cramp seizes my abdomen. I curl into myself, groaning pitifully. "Sweet Jesu, make it stop," I whimper, my fingers clawing at the straw beneath me.

Atlas glances over, his brow furrowed with concern. "Ye alright there? Can I fetch ye anythin'?"

I roll onto my back, staring up at the thatched roof with glassy eyes. "Aye," I rasp dramatically. "A swift and merciful death would be grand."

Fionn snorts, nearly dropping Larisa in his amusement. "If ye're dyin', can I have yer share of the porridge?"

I shoot him a withering glare, but before I can retort, he pipes up again. "Say, when ye're all growed up and not dyin' anymore, will ye marry me?"

Atlas barks out a laugh. "Ye can't marry her, ye daft git. She's yer sister!"

"Half-sister," Fionn corrects, puffing out his chest.

I can't help but chuckle, despite the pain. "Well, I could if I weren't already promised to Erik. The weddin's today, remember?"

Fionn's eyes widen comically. "What? No! I'll... I'll go talk to him! I'll make him give ye up!"

Atlas and I burst into laughter at the thought of little Fionn confronting the towering Norse healer. "Good luck with that, ye wee warrior," Atlas wheezes.

"Ye know," I say, wiping tears of mirth from my eyes, "family marriages are legal 'round these parts. I could very well wed Fionn and bear his babes if I wanted."

Atlas's jaw drops. "Ye can't be serious! That's... that's..."

"Brilliant!" Fionn exclaims, bouncing on his toes. "Just ye wait for me to grow up, Lile! I'll be the best husband ever!"

I dissolve into another fit of giggles, clutching my aching sides. "Oh, I'm sure ye will be, my gallant suitor."

Just then, the door creaks open, and in walks Aislin, a wooden bucket in one hand and a mug in the other. She pauses at the entrance to the sleeping alcove, taking in the scene before her with a mixture of confusion and amusement.

"Well now," she says, her eyebrows raised, "what's all this then? Have I interrupted a gatherin' of the village elders?"

I struggle to sit up, wiping tears from my eyes. "Oh, just negotiatin' my future marriage prospects, Mama. Fionn here's offerin' to save me from Erik's clutches."

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Aislin's lips twitch as she fights back a smile. "Is that so? And what does our brave hero propose to do with a wife twice his age, hmm?"

Fionn puffs out his chest again, nearly smothering poor Larisa in the process. "I'll... I'll build her a grand castle! With a moat and everythin'!"

"Out of turnips and pig shite, no doubt," Atlas mutters, earning him a swift kick from Fionn.

I can't help but laugh again, despite the lingering cramps. "Oh aye, sounds like a right fairy tale, that does. I'll be the princess in the turnip tower, waitin' for my gallant knight to rescue me from the fearsome dragon."

"Dragon?" Fionn asks, his eyes wide.

"Aye," I say solemnly. "The terrifying beast known as... Erik the Norseman!"

Aislin approaches, her face a mixture of amusement and concern. She's carrying a wooden bucket, sloshing with fresh well water. "Here, mo stór," she says, offering me a brimming mug. "This'll help ease the pain."

I shift onto my back, eager for the cool relief. As I lift my head to drink, another vicious cramp seizes my abdomen. "Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph!" I yelp, nearly spilling the water.

Aislin tsks sympathetically. "Easy now, lass. Small sips."

I gulp down the water, relishing its crisp taste. The moment I'm done, I flop onto my belly, burying my face in the straw to muffle my groans.

"There now," Aislin says, a hint of smugness in her voice. "Didn't I tell ye layin' on yer belly would feel better?"

I turn my head, offering her a weak smile. "Aye, ye did. Thank ye, Mama."

Atlas and Fionn, who've been hovering nearby with Nuada and Larisa, pipe up in unison. "Can we help?" Atlas asks, his voice tinged with genuine concern.

Aislin nods, her brow furrowing as she glances at the sun streaming through the window slats. "Aye, ye can. It's noon already - go fetch the eggs from the hens. Mind ye don't break any!"

The boys scamper towards the door, Nuada and Larisa bouncing in their arms. As they wrench it open, Fionn lets out an excited yelp. "Oi! Maeve and the big fella are here!"

Aislin's shoulders sag with relief. "Saints be praised, it's about damn time."

I hear the footsteps of Maeve and Erik as they enter, their voices drifting through the hovel.

"...and I says to him, 'If ye wanted to see a real cock, ye should've looked in the mirror!'" Maeve's husky laugh fills the air.

Erik's deep chuckle follows. "Careful now, lass. Ye might give the hens ideas with talk like that."

Their banter continues as they approach the sleeping alcove. I can feel Erik's piercing gaze on me as he fills the entranceway, his massive frame blocking out the light.

Aislin turns to him, her face etched with worry. "The poor lamb's in a bad way, Erik. Her monthly visitor's come with a vengeance."

Maeve snorts, leaning against the doorframe. "Ah, is that all? I thought she'd been gored by a wild boar, the way she's carryin' on."

I lift my head to glare at her, but another cramp forces me to bury my face in the straw again.

Erik's voice is a low rumble. "Mind yer tongue, Maeve. Ye'd do well to remember yer own struggles."

Maeve's laughter dies in her throat. "Aye, well... that was different, wasn't it?"

"Different?" Erik's tone is sharp. "As I recall, ye nearly met yer maker during yer last birthing. Took three days of labor and more blood than I care to remember."

Aislin nods solemnly. "I remember that well. Thought we'd lost ye for sure, Maeve."

A heavy silence falls over the room, broken only by my muffled whimpers. I can almost feel the weight of unspoken memories pressing down on us all.

Finally, Maeve clears her throat. "Right then. No need to dwell on ancient history. What's the plan for our wee sufferer here?"

Erik steps further into the alcove, his shadow falling over me. "First, we'll need to assess the severity of her condition. Aislin, has she been bleeding heavily?"

Aislin wrings her hands, her brow furrowed with concern. "Och, 'tis hard to say for certain. The poor lamb was fine this morn, but she took a turn for the worse after playin' with the lads outside. Mayhap the exertion was too much for her delicate constitution."

I lift my head from the straw, wincing as another cramp seizes my abdomen. "I haven't changed my rags yet," I admit, trying to keep my voice childlike and uncertain. "I don't know if I've bled heavily or not."

Maeve clicks her tongue, pushing off from the doorframe. "Ah, for the love of all that's holy, we can't be standin' around guessin'. Come on out with ye, lass. No need to be shy - we've all got the same bits and bobs."

I watch as Maeve strides out of the sleeping area, her hips swaying with the confidence of a woman who's long since lost any sense of modesty. She returns moments later, a bundle of clean rags in her arms.

"Right then," she declares, thrusting the rags towards me. "Change these yourself, or I'll do it for ye. And don't ye dare think of refusin' - I've wiped more arses than ye've had hot dinners."

I sigh heavily, pushing myself up from the straw. Taking the clean rags from Maeve, I shuffle to a corner of the sleeping area for what little privacy I can manage. With practiced movements that feel unnervingly natural, I swap out the soiled rags for fresh ones. The whole process is mercifully quick, though no less humiliating for its brevity.

Turning back to the others, I hold out the bloody rags to Maeve. A wicked impulse seizes me, and I let them drop into her outstretched hands with a wet plop. Take that, you insufferable wench.

Maeve's eyes widen, and she lets out a startled yelp. "Saints preserve us! Ye're bleedin' like a stuck pig, girl!"

I can't help but smirk as Maeve gingerly holds the rags at arm's length, her face a comical mixture of disgust and fascination. Aislin and Erik, to my surprise, burst into laughter at the sight.

"Ah, Maeve," Erik chuckles, his emerald eyes twinkling with mirth, "ye look as though ye've never seen a woman's monthly visitor before. And here I thought ye were well-versed in all matters of the flesh."

Maeve scowls, tossing the rags into a nearby bucket with a wet splat. "Aye, well, there's a difference between knowin' about it and havin' it thrust in yer face, isn't there?"

I lay back down on the straw, my brief moment of triumph fading as another wave of cramps washes over me. Erik kneels beside me, producing a small vial from a pouch at his belt.

"Here, little one," he says, his voice gentle. "This should help ease your discomfort."

He uncorks the vial and holds it to my lips. The pungent aroma of herbs and alcohol assaults my nostrils, making my eyes water. I take a tentative sip, and immediately regret it. The liquid burns like fire as it slides down my throat, leaving a bitter, astringent taste in its wake.

"Gah!" I splutter, fighting the urge to spit it out. "What in the nine hells is that foul concoction?"

Erik chuckles, patting my shoulder. "Tis a willow bark tincture, child. It may taste like the devil's piss, but it'll help with the pain and bleeding."

As I force down the rest of the tonic, I can't help but marvel at the primitive nature of their medicine. Willow bark - the precursor to aspirin. It's almost quaint, really. If only they knew the wonders of modern pharmacology. Still, I have to admit, the pain does begin to subside after a few moments.

"Now then," Erik says, rising to his feet. "Since ye're feeling a bit better, perhaps it's time we discussed the matter of your wedding attire."

He pulls out a bundle of fabric from inside of his tunic. As he unfurls it, I can't help but lean forward with curiosity.

The dress that emerges is... well, it's not exactly a masterpiece of haute couture, but it's far from the burlap sack I was half-expecting. The fabric is a soft, undyed linen, with simple embroidery in red thread along the neckline and cuffs. A woven belt of the same crimson hue accompanies it, along with a pair of soft leather shoes that look almost new.

"I know it's not much," Erik says, a hint of apology in his voice. "But I didn't want to spend too much coin on something that'll be hidden beneath a cloak for most of the day. Ye'll be covered from head to toe on the way to the church and during the ceremony itself."

I nod, trying to look appropriately grateful and excited. Inwardly, I'm torn between amusement and despair. On one hand, the idea of getting all dolled up for a wedding that's little more than a glorified business transaction is laughable. On the other... well, this is to be my wedding day. Even if it's all a farce, even if I'm not really the blushing bride I'm pretending to be, there's a part of me that can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment at the modesty of it all.

"It's lovely," I say, infusing my voice with childlike wonder. "Thank you, Erik. I can't wait to wear it."

As Erik beams down at me, clearly pleased with my reaction, I can't help but wonder what other surprises this bizarre day has in store. A child bride, marrying a Norse healer in a Christian ceremony, all while harboring the mind of a scientist from the future. It sounds like the setup for a particularly deranged joke. And yet, here we are.

Well, I think to myself, might as well embrace the madness. After all, it's not every day a man gets to be a blushing bride.

Erik's massive form looms over me, his emerald eyes glinting with an unreadable emotion as he thrusts the wedding dress and boots into Aislin's waiting arms. The rough linen of my shift scratches against my skin as I shift uncomfortably on the straw pallet, watching the exchange with a mixture of fascination and dread.

"I'll fetch Oisin from the fields or the tavern," Erik rumbles, his deep voice reverberating through the cramped sleeping area. "We'll finalize the transaction and be done with this mummer's farce."

Maeve, never one to miss an opportunity for crudeness, lets out a bawdy chuckle. "Aye, and then comes the real fun, eh? Our wee Lile'll be splittin' her legs for the big Norse bull soon enough!"

The air in the hovel grows thick with tension as Erik's head snaps towards Maeve, his eyes blazing with fury. In two long strides, he's upon her, his massive hand coming to rest atop her head like a bear's paw on a rabbit.

"Never," he growls, his voice low and dangerous, "joke about child fucking again. Do you understand me, woman?"

Maeve's face drains of color, her usual brash demeanor crumbling under Erik's intense gaze. She nods mutely, shrinking away from his touch.

Aislin, ever the peacemaker, steps forward hesitantly. "Erik," she begins, her voice trembling slightly, "you'll... you'll keep your word about waiting until she's sixteen, won't you? To bed her, I mean."

Erik's face contorts with disgust, his hand dropping from Maeve's head as he rounds on Aislin. "That question insults me, woman. Do you take me for some base animal, rutting on children?"

Aislin's eyes widen in horror as she realizes her misstep. "No! No, of course not. I... I apologize, Erik. I meant no offense."[...]