Leoda's Son by GJ Woodrum

Heat Rating: Zero Fire

Content Warning: Pagan themes

Leoda's son, William, is a very special child. One with a secret even Leoda herself isn't aware of.

The woman trudged up the muddy path, struggling with her unwieldy sack of assorted produce. Compared to previous bags of goods this one was not very heavy, but the slipperiness of the soil beneath her unshod feet made each step treacherous. She'd already fallen twice and was now so dirty she despaired of ever being clean again.

Getting home would be wonderful after the two day walk to and from the village. She had begun the journey back to her house yesterday afternoon, but a sudden storm had delayed her, and the resultant mud made walking more difficult.

Sleep had eluded her during the night due to the cold. Dressed as she was in sodden homespun wool, bare feet gone to clumsy ice in the spring chill she'd shivered too much once she'd stopped walking. During the predawn hours she had abandoned any attempt at rest, opting instead for an early morning arrival at her home rather than one later in the day. It had been her own exertions that had finally warmed her.

Now she was on the final uphill slope that led through a thin arm of the woods to the cleared yard where her cozy dwelling stood.

She always hated leaving her son behind, but the villagers had been less than pleasant to them the last time she'd brought him along. Neither had they been friendly toward her this time. Truthfully they'd been verbally abusive and ill-mannered, but eager enough for the herbal remedies and surplus chickens that they did trade with her. But they had also been stingy with what was given in exchange and she'd gained less than anticipated for her hard work.

After the cruel treatment she'd had at the hands of the villagers it was far better that her shy, strange looking son had remained safely at home. Besides, he could help her best by staying behind to tend the chickens and keep their goat from destroying the garden.

She smiled when she thought of her son. It was his welfare that was uppermost in her mind, always. William her special child-- seed of a long dead lover-- was twenty turnings of the seasons old and still no bigger than a lad half his age. He seldom spoke, his face and eyes so eloquent that she knew his every mood, sometimes his very thoughts, from his expression alone.

Once the villagers would have understood that William was extraordinary. Now, with this new god and his angry priest, they regarded her son with a mixture of fear and loathing. Their world had changed, along with their gods, when Charlemagne had brought Christianity in tandem with the fire and sword of the conquests. To the priest of Christ she and William were abominations, creatures of evil, demons from hell.

So be it.

She had her resources, her skills and training, and in time William would more than equal her. His gift was very strong, a legacy of his father Almeric. Almeric had abandoned the worship of this new god in favor of the one from his childhood rather than the help the priest persecute Leoda and her frail mother. From that moment on, his sword and strength had been their defense, until someone or something had killed him on the village road. Both Almeric and her dear mother had died within weeks of each other, a dual tragedy that had left an emptiness in her heart.