The stairs leading down into the cellar are steep and treacherous, worn smooth by years of use. I descend carefully, one hand trailing along the rough stone wall for balance. The air grows cooler with each step, heavy with the musty scent of earth and fermentation.

At the bottom, I find myself in a cavernous space, far larger than I expected. Rows upon rows of barrels line the walls, their contents a mystery. Shelves sag under the weight of jars and crocks, filled with who-knows-what. In one corner, a pile of root vegetables sits in a mound of sand, preserved for the long winter ahead.

But I have eyes only for the mead kegs. They're not hard to spot - ornate wooden barrels, each carved with intricate Norse designs. I approach the nearest one, running my fingers over the smooth wood. "Hello, beautiful," I murmur. "You and I are about to become very good friends."

Lifting the keg is a Herculean task. It's heavy as sin, and this child's body is ill-equipped for such labor. But rage is a hell of an motivator, and I manage to hoist it onto my shoulder with a grunt of effort. My knees buckle, and for a heart-stopping moment I think I might topple backwards down the stairs.

But I steady myself, gritting my teeth against the strain. "Come on, you useless meat puppet," I snarl at my trembling limbs. "You can do this. Just one step at a time."

The journey back up the stairs is an exercise in endurance and balance. By the time I reach the main room, I'm panting and drenched in sweat. My arms shake as I lower the keg to the floor beside the hearth, the thud of wood on stone echoing through the cottage.

I collapse cross-legged beside my prize, chest heaving as I struggle to catch my breath. The fire in the hearth crackles merrily, oblivious to my exertions. I stare into the flames, mesmerized by their dance. Fire. So simple, yet so profound. The cornerstone of human civilization, and here I am, surrounded by it in its most primitive form.

With trembling hands, I reach for a nearby mug and position it beneath the keg's spout. The rich, golden liquid gushes forth, filling the air with the heady aroma of fermented honey. I lift the brimming mug to my lips, inhaling deeply before taking a cautious sip.

The flavor explodes across my tongue, and my eyes widen in surprise. "FUCK yeah," I breathe, a grin spreading across my face. "This mead is better than any modern beer I've ever tasted. It's like... like cider, but with a kick that could knock a horse on its ass."

I take another, longer pull from the mug, savoring the complex flavors. Sweet honey, yes, but also notes of wildflowers, oak, and something indefinably wild. The alcohol burns a path down my throat, settling in my stomach like liquid fire.

"Christ," I mutter, eyeing the mug with newfound respect. "This stuff's got to be at least 20% alcohol. Half a mug and I'll be absolutely shitfaced." A wicked grin spreads across my face as I contemplate the possibilities. "Good thing I've got the alcohol tolerance of a flea in this pint-sized body. Bottoms up, you interdimensional bastards. Let's see how you like it when your little science experiment goes off the rails."

I take another generous swig of the mead, feeling the warmth spread through my chest. My thoughts drift to Ciara Doherty, and I can't help but let out a wistful sigh. "Fuck me sideways, I miss that girl," I mutter to myself, my words already starting to slur. "Ciara fucking Doherty. Grown up to be a right beauty, she has. Makes me want to rip my own eyes out with jealousy."

I take another hefty gulp, the sweet burn of alcohol clouding my senses. "God-fucking-damn it," I growl, slamming the mug down with more force than necessary. "If I was still a man, I'd have married that girl the second she turned eighteen. Age disparity be damned! She looks like a fucking angel descended from heaven itself."

The mead sloshes in my mug as I lift it once more to my lips, drinking deeply. The alcohol hits me like a freight train, and suddenly, I'm overcome with the urge to sing. The words of "London Bridge" bubble up from some long-forgotten corner of my mind.

"London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down," I warble, my childish voice cracking on the high notes. "London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady."

I pause, frowning at the nonsensical lyrics. "No, no, that's not right," I mutter, shaking my head vigorously. The room spins a bit, and I giggle despite myself. "Let's make it more... apocalyptic!"

Clearing my throat, I launch into a new, drunken rendition:

"The moon is falling down, falling down, falling down,

The moon is falling down, we're all fucked!

Build it up with bones and blood, bones and blood, bones and blood,

Build it up with bones and blood, sacrifice!

Bones and blood will wash away, wash away, wash away,

Bones and blood will wash away, doom is nigh!

Build it up with elder gods, elder gods, elder gods,

Build it up with elder gods, Cthulhu rise!"

As I belt out the final notes of my improvised cosmic horror nursery rhyme, I realize I've been tilting the mug higher and higher. With a start, I pull it away from my mouth, peering inside with one eye squeezed shut for better focus.

"Fuck me running," I slur, turning the mug upside down. Not a single drop falls out. "I've gone and drank it all? When did that happen?"

A hiccup escapes me, loud and sudden in the quiet room. I clap a hand over my mouth, eyes wide with mock horror. "Oopsie," I giggle, the sound high and childish even to my own ears. "Looks like little Lile's gone and gotten herself absolutely plastered. What would dear old Erik say?"

I attempt to stand, but the room tilts alarmingly, and I plop back down on my ass with all the grace of a newborn foal. "Fuck gravity," I declare to no one in particular. "S'a stupid law anyway. I'll make my own laws. First decree: everyone must walk on their hands! Second decree: mead for breakfast, lunch, and dinner!"

Another hiccup punctuates my proclamation, and I dissolve into a fit of giggles. "Oh, this is rich," I wheeze, clutching my sides.

I flop onto my back, staring up at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. The wooden beams seem to dance and sway, and I reach up as if to grab them. "Hey," I call out, my voice a drunken drawl. "Hey, you up there. Gwenhwyfar, you bitch. You think this is funny, don't you? Well, joke's on you. I'm having a grand old time down here in medieval shitsville."

My arm falls back to my side with a thud, and I let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "But you know what would make it better? If Ciara was here. Sweet, beautiful Ciara. With her emerald hair and those mismatched eyes. Fuck, she's like a walking fantasy novel protagonist. Probably has some secret magical powers or some shit. Wouldn't that be a riot?"

I roll onto my side, curling up into a ball as another wave of giggles overtakes me. "Maybe I should write her a love poem. How's this sound: 'Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm stuck in a child's body, but I'd still do you.' Nah, too crude. How about: 'Your hair is green, your eyes are twain, your beauty makes me feel insane.' Fuck, I'm a regular Shakespeare."

As I lie there, the room spinning around me, a part of my alcohol-soaked brain realizes that I should probably be more concerned about my current state. But the thought slips away like smoke, replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling of contentment.

Stolen novel; please report.

Suddenly, a burst of inspiration hits me like a runaway cart. I struggle to sit up, my head lolling to one side as I attempt to focus my bleary eyes on an imaginary audience.

"Atenție, atenție!" I slur, waving my arms dramatically. "Am să vă recit o poezie de marele Mihai Eminescu!" (Attention, attention! I shall recite for you a poem by the great Mihai Eminescu!)

I clear my throat, which somehow turns into a hiccup, before launching into a drunken rendition of "Luceafărul":

"A fost odată ca-n povești,

A fost ca niciodată,

Din rude mari împărătești,

O prea frumoasă fată."

(Once upon a time, as in fairy tales,

There was as never before,

From royal lineage,

A most beautiful maiden.)

I pause, swaying slightly as I try to remember the next lines. "Uh... ceva ceva... luna... stele..." (Something something... moon... stars...)

Frustrated by my sudden memory lapse, I decide to switch gears. "Destul cu poezia! E timpul pentru operă!" (Enough with poetry! It's time for opera!)

I struggle to my feet, nearly toppling over in the process. Steadying myself against the wall, I take a deep breath and belt out the first aria that comes to my addled mind:

"O mio babbino caro,

Mi piace, è bello, bello.

Vo'andare in Porta Rossa

A comperar l'anello!"

My voice cracks embarrassingly on the high notes, and I'm pretty sure I've butchered the Italian beyond recognition. But in my drunken state, I'm convinced I sound like Maria Callas herself.

"Bravo! Bravo!" I cheer, clapping for myself. "Dar stai, că nu m-am terminat!" (But wait, I'm not finished!)

Feeling emboldened by my imaginary audience's enthusiasm, I decide to treat them to a bawdy tavern song I once heard Maeve singing:

"Foaie verde de dudău,

Nevasta cu gândul rău,

Bărbatul când e plecat,

Ea cu altu' s-a culcat!"

(Green leaf of mulberry,

Wife with wicked thoughts,

When her husband's away,

With another she has laid!)

I cackle at my own performance, stumbling around the room in a poor imitation of a jig. "Hopa! Asta-i cântec de crâșmă, nu glumă!" (Oops! That's a tavern song, no joke!)

As I twirl, my foot catches on the edge of a rug, sending me sprawling face-first onto the floor. I lie there, giggling uncontrollably, my cheek pressed against the cool wooden planks.

"Erik!" I call out, forgetting in my drunken haze that he's not even in the cottage. "Erik, vino să vezi ce talent am! Pot să cânt în trei limbi diferite!" (Erik, come see what talent I have! I can sing in three different languages!)

I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling as it seems to undulate above me. "Sau poate că sunt patru limbi? Cinci? Am uitat să număr..." (Or maybe it's four languages? Five? I forgot how to count...)

My stomach gives an ominous gurgle, reminding me that I've consumed far more mead than my small body can handle. But in my inebriated state, I pay it no mind, instead focusing on the important task of coming up with my next performance.

"Poate ar trebui să compun o odă pentru Erik," I muse aloud, my words slurring together. "Ceva despre barba lui maiestuoasă și... și... mâinile lui mari..." (Maybe I should compose an ode for Erik. Something about his majestic beard and... and... his big hands...)

I giggle again, the sound echoing in the empty cottage. "Dar stai! Am o idee și mai bună!" (But wait! I have an even better idea!)

With great effort, I roll onto my stomach and begin to army-crawl towards the hearth, determined to reach my new goal...

A thunderous knock on the door shatters my alcohol-induced haze, sending my heart racing. Fuck me sideways, Erik's back already? He's going to see me three sheets to the wind and probably tan my hide. I struggle to my hands and knees, the room spinning like a demented carousel.

"Just a moment!" I bellow, my voice cracking in a most undignified manner. "I'm... I'm coming!"

I crawl towards the door with all the grace of a newborn foal, my limbs seemingly made of jelly. When I finally reach it, I haul myself upright, swaying like a sapling in a gale.

"Who goes there?" I demand, trying to sound authoritative but managing only a slurred warble.

A sultry female voice purrs through the wood. "Dumitra."

Ah, the vampire cocksleeve is back to get dicked by Erik. Too bad for her, the Norse stallion isn't in his stable. I snicker at my own wit, then remember I should probably respond.

"Erik's not home!" I yell, punctuating my statement with an impressive hiccup. "He's off... doing Erik things!"

"Open the door, little one," Dumitra commands, her voice a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

I narrow my eyes, suspicious even in my inebriated state. "What's in it for me, eh? You can't just go 'round demanding entry to people's homes, you know. S'not polite."

There's a pause, and I can almost hear Dumitra's smirk. "How about a sound spanking and a verbal thrashing? Would that suffice as payment?"

A grin spreads across my face, wide and unhinged. "Sounds perfect!" I declare, fumbling with the latch. "Step right up for your complimentary ass-whooping!"

I swing the door open with a flourish, nearly toppling over in the process. Dumitra strides in, her chest heaving as if she's just run a marathon. She collapses into a chair, her ruby eyes fixed on me as I struggle to close the door.

"What in the nine hells is wrong with you, child?" Dumitra asks, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched.

I give her my best innocent smile, which probably looks more like a grimace. "Nothing's wrong! I've just been... sampling the local cuisine." I gesture vaguely towards the mead keg.

Dumitra's gaze follows my hand, and she bursts into laughter. "One mug? You're in this state after a single mug of mead?"

I frown, my alcohol-addled brain struggling to process the insult. "Oi! That mug was... was very potent! Had me crawling on the floor, it did!"

Tilting my head, I squint at Dumitra. "Why're you panting like a dog in heat, anyway? Erik's not even here to satisfy your carnal urges."

Dumitra rolls her eyes, a gesture so dramatic it's a wonder they don't fall out of her head. "I've been fighting, you impertinent little imp. I came here hoping to replenish myself with Erik's blood, but it seems I'll have to make do with you."

"Fighting?" I echo, my curiosity piqued. "Fighting what? Horny villagers trying to get a taste of your undead delights?"

"Goblins," Dumitra says flatly.

Oh, of course. Goblins. Because why wouldn't there be goblins in medieval Ireland? Next she'll be telling me she was jousting with unicorns or having a tea party with leprechauns.

"Riiiight," I drawl. "Well, I want to see one of these so-called 'goblins'. Bring me a head as proof, why don't you?"

Dumitra's lips curl into a wicked smile. "Very well, little one. I'll bring you a goblin head this evening. Now, may I have your consent to bite you? I need to refill my reserves."

I blink, momentarily thrown by the request. "Hang on, why d'you need verbal consent? Can't you just... I dunno, smell my willingness or something?"

Dumitra sighs, rising from her chair with fluid grace. "As I've told you before, vampires require verbal consent. It's not a matter of choice, it's a fundamental law of our nature."

I snort, nearly losing my balance. "Sounds mighty suspicious to me. What happens if I don't consent? You gonna shrivel up and die?"

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Dumitra explains, "If you don't consent, the bite will be excruciatingly painful. If you do, however..." Her voice drops to a seductive purr. "You'll experience pleasure beyond your wildest dreams."

Oho, a promise of dopamine overload and neuron fireworks? Sign me the fuck up!

"Well, in that case," I declare, attempting to sound dignified and failing miserably, "I hereby grant you permission to sink your fangs into my tender flesh and partake of my life essence. Or something like that."

I stumble towards Dumitra, my feet seemingly operating independently of my brain. I nearly face-plant, eliciting a musical laugh from the vampiress.

"Erik is going to be furious when he sees the state you're in," she chuckles.

Before I can retort, Dumitra's arms encircle me, pulling me close. Her lips brush against my neck, sending shivers down my spine. Then, with a swift motion, her fangs pierce my skin.

The world explodes into a kaleidoscope of sensation. It's as if every nerve ending in my body is singing, vibrating with pure ecstasy. My knees buckle, but Dumitra's strong arms hold me upright as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me. I hear myself making sounds that would make a seasoned courtesan blush, but I'm beyond caring.

As quickly as it began, it's over. Dumitra releases me, and I slump to the floor, panting and trembling. With shaking fingers, I touch the spot where she bit me, only to find the skin smooth and unbroken.

Dumitra stands over me, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, she simply stares, her ruby eyes boring into me as if trying to unravel some great mystery. Then, without warning, she throws back her head and laughs – a rich, throaty sound that seems to echo through the cottage.

Without another word, she turns on her heel and strides out the door, leaving me sprawled on the floor, dazed and confused.

What the actual fuck was that about? Did I do something amusing in my bite-induced euphoria? Or is this just standard vampire behavior – get your fill, have a good chuckle, then fuck off into the sunset?

As I lie there, trying to make sense of what just happened, a manic grin spreads across my face. "Ah well, no sense thinking about it," I mutter to myself, my words slurring slightly. "This evening I'm getting a new wall ornament in the form of a goblin head! Erik's gonna love that, I'm sure. Nothing says 'welcome home' like a severed monster noggin."

I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling as the room spins lazily around me. "Still, fucking hell, that bite felt better than sex," I muse, running my fingers over the spot where Dumitra's fangs had pierced my skin. "Could be really addictive. Wait a minute..." My eyes widen as a thought strikes me. "Is it possible we actually had vampire sex? Is that a thing?"[...]