Two.

Winona was a keeper of the healing churches, trained by the sisters at the Sanctuary of Paraga just like her mother.

Winfred worshipped the First and the High Ones, the two gods who first roamed the land when it was anew. They were the ones who graced the First of the eternal gold, faces and names had been long forgotten by men. For her sake, Bors had built her a garden in the back of their home with a babbling stream surrounded by dozen of tiny white flowers. It would bring her peace in such trying times.

Needless to say, the duty of nursing a man back to health was nothing new for Winona.

This was no ordinary stranger.

That's what Bors kept telling himself as his daughter sat on a stool by the stranger's bedside, who laid there with his chest heaving breaths as he mumble something incoherent. It was no easy feat dragging the stranger's body back to her homestead as it took several men from the village to help Bors carry him. Exhaustion and hunger coupled with his injuries weakened him greatly.

Winona brought the back of her palm to the man's forehead, then hissed, tearing her hand away. If it wasn't the wounds that would take him to the Lords, it would be the fever. She knew she had to work quickly to save the stranger's life. She removed the wolf skin cloak and the studded belt around his waist after she had taken pure water and cloth to his bedside. She had not washed away the grime and filth that covered him from head to toe in a rush to stabilize him.

All the while as she worked, she kept her eyes hard on the stranger's face and saw that the distrust had long looked almost peaceful at the moment, relieved even, as if he slipped into a soft slumber.

"Does that feel better?" Winona asked, to which he only responds with deep breaths.

"What happened to you?" she whispered, soaking the cloth in the water basin and squeezing it before bringing the cloth to his arm and pressed it to his scarred skin. He stiffened underneath her touch and his brow knit together. Winona could feel the muscles in his shoulder tense, but thankfully, he remained unconscious.

Bors knew that this was not unfamiliar territory for Winona as being a former Keeper in the kingdom, she had dealt with many injured knights. Sometimes she would even she tend to the sick and weak prisoners that were captured, and passed them all the food she could smuggle. Bors worries about her kind, benevolent heart getting her into trouble someday, but it's also a constant reminder that it's one of the many things he loves about her.

In the corner of the room by his side, the large heap of metal that was his axe gleams brightly. He ran his hand along the runic etchings along the head, a cold tingling feeling coursing through his old bones as he took in the geometric shapes along the wooden hilt. The handle looked to resemble an old tree branch, rough and worn from age.

'A strange weapon for a strange man,' Bors thought to himself.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of whimpering, glancing at the swaddle on his wife's chest to see the tiny infants that occupied them as little limbs gently flailed around. So small and fragile. He knew they would need careful tending.

"What's gotten ya' riled up now, little one?" Winfred gently nudges the dark browned haired child on her right, who was whimpering and fussing and struggling in the swaddling. "Such precious little things," she whispers as their eyes bored with each other.

Suddenly, their crystalline blue eyes stared back at her, and Winfred stares at the mark staining the skin of their necks; a gorgeous indigo, the letters delicately scrolled down from their neck to their collarbone, a foreign language that escaped her knowledge.

Who would do this to innocent children?

"The children must be hungry."

"And just how do you plan on feeding them?" Bors scoffed.

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"Either goat's milk or a wet nurse in the village will do," her words were hurried as her focus was now fixed on the little bundles.

"But-"

"Be right back, dear!" she kisses his cheek and is out their cottage in the blink of an eye.

"That woman will be the death of me, I swear," he curses under his breath with a shake of his head.

His gaze, however, returned to the axe. The sight of it made all his stomach churn. He had to know more about this man. Where did he come from? Why had he come to this village, beaten and bloodied, with these innocent bundles of life attached to his chest?

Those questions would have to wait until the man in question woke, however.

His fingers curled around his blade that rested on lap. It was Daedric steel, one of many forged at dragon's breath. With this weapon he vowed to protect the realm from all threats. And that included his family.

So with a sigh, Bors remained vigilant in his spot in the room's corner while Winona sat by the man's bedside, listening to his steady breathing.

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Several days passed.

Every day, Winfred and Winona would check the stranger's bandages and change the wrappings. The days seem to grow longer, even though dusk approached sooner with the coming winter. Bors grew restless with boredom and impatience as the days dragged on. But, the women were the opposite. They would fill the empty hours with cheerful moments with the infants as they watched over the three. Winfred got in the bad habit of humoring one-sided conversations.

It had been little more than a week and these three had slept in Winona's home, shared her hearth, and even eaten her food (or the goat's milk and wet nurses that were kind to feed.) These three were no longer strangers anymore; they were guests.

Bors remained on guard, and unfortunately, there were nights where he could not find rest.

One night, he instantly wakes at the sound of an incessant wailing that dominated the wooden walls of the small bedroom. He glances down at the stranger who would mutter things as he slumbered on. Yet, it was in a tongue that escaped him. He could only hope they find a way around the language barrier in order to get answers. He tried to listen closely, but the cries of the infants grew louder and louder by the second.

He turns to the doorway to see Winona struggling to console the bundles in her arms.

"It's alright, little doves," she tried to soothe, but that didn't help.

"Having trouble sleeping?" Bors sighs as he rubs his eyes.

"Yes. Alas, I think they're having a hard time adjusting-"

It was then the stranger would jerk violently and cry out at the infant's distress. Winfred bounds back into the room and notes the situation and hurriedly rushes to his side, placing the red-haired child in Bors' arms without warning.

"Sh sh sh," Winfred hushes. However, the stranger continued to thrash. By the dim light of their hearth, which had died down to glowing embers, Winona could see his face contorted in pain, brows furrowed.

"It's alright, darling," she places a free palm to his forehead, trying to steady him. But her words had no effect and the infant's cries grew with his own agitation.

She wasn't sure from what pit of memories it sprang, but a song found its way to Winfred's lips. At first, it was awkward footing as she remembered the tune.

Still, the stranger was restless, and the blood blossomed through the bandages on his side. It mattered not to her. Winfred continued to sing. Her options were limited at the moment to dull the chaos that was occurring in her home.

It was a low, whispered song, one the Bors knew all too well. He was sure that it was a lullaby that Winfred sung to Winona and Brenn as children, one that soothed them when they had nightmares.

Back then, he would have found it foolish to sing a child's lullaby to a grown stranger. But it wasn't like there was a better option here and for the love of the Gods, he just wanted to sleep.

And, to his surprise, as Winona sang, the man softened under her palm. His contorted face relaxed some. She could feel the muscles in his body loosen as he fell still once again. Winfred had rubbed her thumb along his forehead absentmindedly. Winona's eyes glancing down at the child in her arms while while whispering sweet nothings to her. The child is in awe, mouth agape, puffy hands stretched to her weathered cheek, to which she smiles in kind.

Bors looks down, and at last, the three calmed. Winfred's hand remained on the man's forehead before she gently brushes a sweaty strand of hair away from his face, lulling him even deeper into his slumber. He also memorized Winfred held the infant in her embrace. There had been tenderness, a maternal instinct he had thought abandoned her long ago.

How long has it been since I've seen her like this?

He watches as Winona continues to sing the infants to sleep, wondering when was the last time he had seen them smile.