The farmhouse smelled of firewood and herbs, the steady bubbling of stew filling the silence that had fallen after the child drifted into sleep. Elira rocked him gently, her voice a low hum, but her eyes were on Maren.
"You know what they'll say," she whispered.
Maren pulled off his sodden cloak, draping it across a chair near the hearth. His shoulders sagged with the weight of years, and tonight, with the storm soaking him through, he looked every bit of his age. Yet when he glanced at the child in her arms, something softer flickered across his weathered face.
"They've said plenty before, about me, about you," he murmured. "This won't be the first whisper to chase us."
Elira's lips pressed tight. "Whispers are one thing. Fear is another. You bring this babe to the village green, and they'll see tusks before they see innocence."
Maren set a hand on the table, leaning against it. "Aye. But I saw more than tusks. I saw him reaching out. Wanting to live. If the Light sees fit to put him in our path, who are we to turn away?"
For a moment, Elira said nothing. Her gaze traveled the child's tiny features—softer now in slumber, the faint curve of tusks hardly frightening, the skin a gentle hue of green against the firelight. She brushed damp hair from his brow with a trembling hand.
"He doesn't even know what he is," she said softly. "And yet, the world will remind him at every turn."
"Then we'll remind him louder," Maren answered. His voice was firm now, the decision a weight lifted from him.
The stew boiled over, hissing against the hearthstone. Elira set the baby in the cradle they'd once used for another life, long ago lost, and moved to save the pot. She stirred slowly, shoulders tense, then sighed.
"I worry for us," she admitted. "But more than that, I worry for him. A child grows best with friends, with a place in the world. What place will he have?"
Maren crossed the room and placed his hands on her shoulders. "The place we give him. Our home. Our fields. Our name."
Elira closed her eyes. For a moment, the storm outside faded, and the only sound was the gentle rhythm of Shithead's breathing.
Later, when the stew was eaten and the fire burned low, they sat together at the table, Shithead cradled between them. His tiny hand clutched Maren's finger, strength surprising for one so small.
"He's stubborn already," Maren chuckled quietly. "A fighter, this one."
Elira smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "A fighter will draw battles."
"Then let him fight for something better," Maren said. He glanced at her. "And let him know he never fights alone."
For the first time that night, Elira's expression eased. She bent and kissed the child's brow.
"Shithead," she murmured, shaping the syllables with care. "May the world learn to see you as we do."
The fire crackled. The rain lessened. The night seemed ready to settle into peace.
Then came the knock at the door.
Three sharp raps, heavy and insistent.
Maren and Elira froze. The child stirred in the cradle, a soft cry rising in his throat.
Elira's eyes darted to her husband. "At this hour?"
Maren rose slowly, reaching for the old woodcutter's axe that leaned near the door. His jaw set hard as the knock came again, louder this time, rattling the frame.
"Stay with the boy," he said.
Elira gathered Shithead close, rocking him as the cry built. Her heart pounded as the storm outside seemed to hush, leaving only the sound of the door shuddering under the stranger's fist.
Maren placed a hand on the latch, breath steady but taut. He glanced back at Elira once, eyes meeting hers.
Then he pulled the door open.