A murmur ran through the huddled mass, leather soles slid and skidded on the dirt floor.

“Quiet now, quiet,” The priest urged. “Don’t disturb his rest.”

It was barely visible to the onlookers in the doorway, but the slight glow and faint hiss emanating from the sleeping infant’s chest spoke what was yet unspoken. The worst had come, the boy was marked.

His father buried his face into his hands, the tips of his fingers pushing the felt farmer’s hat off the top of his head. His mother remained silent, blinking infrequently -- she was too physically and mentally exhausted from the thirty-hour labor to cry.

The priest turned to the midwives and farmers clogging the doorway to the hut. “Go. Leave us.” Some hesitated. “Please.”