Page 10 of The Warrior and the Monk

Chapter Four

It did not happen again. At least, not loudly enough for Anders to wake Wilder from his sleep, leaving him groggy, bewildered, and blushing with a heat that surged through him, head to toe. Wilder was profoundly grateful for this reprieve, because the memory of what had happened continued to gnaw at him regardless. He had replayed it over and over, trying to make sense of it, yet the confusion and tension only deepened with each passing thought.

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Wilder found himself grappling with the paradox that was Anders. Here was a man who, not long ago, had abducted him from the quiet sanctity of the monastery—Wilder’s entire world—to bring him into this strange, unpredictable life as a servant to the one who’d torn him away. Anders was, by any standard, a warrior of intimidating presence: massive, impossibly strong, with a stony demeanor that seemed chiseled into his face by years of hardship. This man, who worked tirelessly and carried himself with such relentless stoicism, should have been easy to hate, easy to fear, and impossible to understand. But Anders was far from easy to define. Beneath the hard lines and silence, there was a surprising shyness, a sweetness even, that slipped out in moments so fleeting that Wilder sometimes wondered if he’d imagined it.

And then, of course, there were the nights. The strange, quiet nights when Anders, thinking himself alone, succumbed to his own impulses, seeking pleasure in the darkness. Wilder couldn’t quite shake the memory of those low, guttural sounds Anders had made, muffled but unmistakable, punctuating the silence. The sounds had stirred something deep within Wilder, though he wasn’t certain if it was discomfort or curiosity. Perhaps both. Anders seemed lonely. Was he merely a lustful man? Was he succumbing to the simple needs of the flesh, no different than any other human being? Or was this a side of Anders that Wilder had never expected to glimpse—the side of a man haunted by solitude, reaching for some small comfort in the dead of night?

But why did this knowledge bother him so deeply? Was it because he had expected a monster? Someone ruthless and brutal, who would confirm every nightmare he had entertained about being kidnapped and forced into service? Anders had certainly taken him in a monstrous way, wrenching him from the monastery without a second thought. Yet since then, he had shown himself to be almost…kind. Wilder wasn’t sure what to make of this kindness, nor of Anders’ strange moments of vulnerability. He found himself puzzling over it, sometimes in frustration, sometimes in reluctant sympathy, but always with an ache for understanding.

More than anything, he wished they could truly communicate, bridge the silent gulf that stretched between them. Wilder longed for a connection he couldn’t articulate—something that would help him make sense of this strange life, and of the strange man at the heart of it. Perhaps then, he wouldn’t feel like he was adrift on an uncharted sea, reaching for something solid that was always just out of reach.

In the end, nothing truly changed between them. Anders remained as he was, silent and stoic, while Wilder tried tomake sense of the conflicting feelings his presence stirred. Only now, there was a new awkwardness, a peculiar awareness. Sometimes, Wilder would find himself looking at Anders, only for the memory of those midnight sounds to flash unbidden in his mind. His face would flame with embarrassment, and he would quickly turn away, struggling to banish the thought. Yet it lingered, a mystery that seemed destined to haunt him.

???

The success of keeping the small flock of chickens seemed to light a spark in Anders, prompting him to try his hand at raising even more animals. Wilder quickly noticed, however, that Anders was rather out of his depth. It was clear he had little experience with any creature beyond the chickens, and those only seemed to tolerate him because he brought them food. Avery and the other hens, sensing his hesitation, pecked relentlessly at his boots. Fortunately, his boots were thick and sturdy, reaching high enough to protect his feet and ankles from the sharp beaks. Yet Anders simply stood there, looking down at the birds with a mixture of confusion and bewilderment as they scuttled around his feet, clucking and ruffling their feathers aggressively.

Every so often, after an especially feisty peck or indignant cluck, Anders would glance over at Wilder, seeking some sort of reassurance. Wilder couldn’t help but find it endearing. Smiling encouragingly, he said, "That's just how they are. Don’t worry about it." This seemed to boost Anders’s confidence, or at the very least lessen his anxiety, because he took Wilder’s words to heart. Soon after, Anders ventured into town not once, but twice more, returning each time with a greater assortment of supplies and livestock.

Before each trip, Anders would carefully relay his intentions through sketches—his preferred method of communication when words failed him. With a serious look, he showed Wilder a detailed drawing of himself surrounded by animals: fluffy sheep on one side and mischievous goats on the other, each rendering more expressive than the last. "Do you know anything about sheep and goats?" his drawings seemed to ask, and Wilder, after studying the illustration of wooly sheep with round, gentle faces and goats with their playful, impish eyes, nodded confidently.

"Oh, yes," Wilder replied, "I know how to care for them." His reassurance was all Anders needed. The following day, he returned with three ewes, two nanny goats, and a selection of seeds for the garden Wilder had recently tilled. It was a small start, but it felt promising, a new venture full of possibilities. The sheep were gentle, their soft baaing and docile nature bringing a calm presence to the farm, while the goats, true to their nature, began causing mischief almost immediately. They sought food wherever they could find it: the chickens’ feed, Wilder’s freshly laundered linens, even the young, tender green shoots that had miraculously sprung up in the garden as if they had just been waiting for the rocks to be cleared away and the soil to be turned.

One day, Wilder walked outside only to see the goats making a beeline for the newly sprouted vegetables. He reacted quickly, grabbing the nearest implement—a ladle—and charging at them, shouting as loudly as he could. The goats scattered without a second thought, darting away from the garden bed with no remorse, but in the process, Wilder had startled not only the goats but Anders and the sheep as well. The sheep, who had been gently nudging Anders for attention, took a few tentative steps back, while Anders stared, wide-eyed, at Wilder’s display of unexpected ferocity.

After Wilder spent a few anxious moments inspecting the precious sprouts to ensure they were unharmed, he noticed Anders’s gaze lingering on him, a mix of surprise and, perhaps, admiration in his eyes. Wilder turned away quickly, brushing dirt off his hands, and tried not to read too much into the look.

The next morning, Wilder awoke to a small but meaningful transformation in their little homestead. A sturdy fence now enclosed the garden, protecting the delicate plants from the goats’ endless appetite, and the mischievous goats themselves were tied securely to a tree, far enough away from the chickens, the garden, and anything else they might be tempted to chew. Nearby, Wilder noticed a series of images scratched into the dirt near the house entrance—an indication that Anders had gone back into town, this time in search of cows.

The thought of fresh milk brought a genuine sense of excitement. Fresh milk would mean they could enjoy soft cheese, something that would be a delightful addition to their meals. The hard cheese wheels they had in the larder, aged and nutty, were wonderful in their own right, but soft cheese, with its mild flavor, would be perfect to pair with fresh vegetables or stir into porridge for a richer taste.

As Wilder went about his morning chores, he realized it made perfect sense that Anders would want to bring more livestock into their home. More food—better food—was an enticing prospect, and Wilder imagined that Anders, though often silent and reserved, took a certain pride in these new ventures. There was something deeply satisfying in growing and raising one’s own food, and now, it seemed, they were building a life, however humble, that was as nourishing for the spirit as it was for the body.

???

Wilder still prayed. He was sure that he would never stop; there would never come a time when he would be without prayer in his life. But these days, Wilder prayed less often than he once had. In the monastery, prayer had been the center of his existence, woven into every part of his day, from dawn to dusk. Here, though, it was different. Now, he prayed in the morning, if he managed to wake before Anders. On those mornings, he’d slip out of bed quietly, bow his head, and offer his words to God while Anders continued sleeping. If Anders woke him first, though, gently shaking his shoulder, he’d accept the bowl of porridge or plate of fried eggs Anders handed him, and would wait until after breakfast to begin his prayer. He would pray again sometime in the afternoon, usually after his chores were done—or, more frequently now, after wrangling the mischievous goats. And at night, Wilder would kneel by the fire, his head bowed, fur pooling around his feet as Anders watched him from a distance, his dark eyes thoughtful and unwavering.

The monk who had been his teacher, Ellion, would have been appalled by this shift. He would have called Wilder’s reduced hours of prayer lazy and undisciplined, an affront to God and Their divine glory. Yet, Wilder thought with a faint bitterness, Ellion was the one who had thrust him into a stranger’s arms, abandoning him for his own sake. God, in Their infinite wisdom, would surely understand that his prayers were no less heartfelt or sincere. Faith wasn’t something that could be measured by quantity alone.

These days, after finishing his chores and saying his prayers, Wilder often found himself with an unfamiliar feeling—free time. The animals were fed, watered, and enjoying the warmth of the sun, and the sprouts in the garden were thriving, their tender green shoots reaching upward. Anders was still in town, hopefully with a cow or two in tow, and it would be several more hours until Wilder needed to start preparing dinner. Howstrange it was, he thought, to have time simply tobe. At the monastery, his life had been bound by a strict schedule with every hour spoken for. Between praying, studying, and working, there had been no time left unaccounted for; he ate and slept as a matter of course, nothing more. Yet here, in this isolated homestead where he was the sole servant, he found himself with something he had scarcely ever known: time to himself.

With a quiet sigh, Wilder looked up at the sky, bright and open. It was a fine day, clear and mild, and it felt a shame to spend it sitting idle indoors. Perhaps he could at least enjoy it. Remembering the wide-toothed comb Anders had gifted him, which he always kept carefully tucked among his furs, Wilder gathered it up, then found a basin from the longhouse. He filled it with cool, clear water from the river and set it on a stump near the house, positioning himself to catch the sunlight.

As he sat and gazed at his reflection in the basin, Wilder began to carefully comb through his hair. His curls, as unruly as ever, would likely never be tamed, yet he didn’t mind that. The monks back at the monastery had always found his curls to be an affront of sorts, a reflection of what they saw as a similarly chaotic personality: Wilder was too curious, too stubborn, too lazy, too loud, too…everything. The monks had tried countless times to brush and restrain his hair, and the rough handling had often left him on the verge of tears, their sharp admonishments ringing in his ears. No one had ever seemed to know how to be gentle.

Life in a monastery had been hard enough for an adult, but Wilder often thought it was even harder for a child, especially for one like him, full of spirit and questions. Monasteries weren’t made for children; they were made for monks.

Now, he ran the comb through his tangles, patiently untangling each knot. His hair was already longer than it hadever been, curling wildly around his face, and he liked it that way. He liked his hair, unruly as it was. He liked the comb Anders had given him. And he liked the image reflected back at him in the basin—his face fuller, his hair soft and thick, and, for once, no tears in his eyes. Wilder smiled, and his reflection smiled back, a vision of quiet contentment.

Just as he was beginning to feel at peace, Wilder heard footsteps—a group of them, approaching steadily. They were not Anders’s familiar heavy steps, nor the gentle lowing of cows. Instead, there were too many feet, a cacophony of boots crunching the dirt, mixed with harsh laughter and rough voices. Wilder looked up and saw a group of four men approaching, each one bearing the unmistakable look of a warrior.

They were tall and broad, each thickly built with strong shoulders and scarred faces. None of them matched Anders in size, but there were four of them, and Wilder felt a prickle of unease. He couldn’t hide his nervousness, and his fingers instinctively traced over the teeth of his comb as though seeking comfort in its familiar texture.

The men drew closer, and, not knowing what else to do, Wilder forced himself to speak, calling out in a voice just loud enough to be heard. “Hello.”

The men stopped short, their eyes narrowing as they regarded him with expressions of surprise and curiosity. Wilder wondered if they’d expected Anders, if they had come here for him specifically. But Anders hadn’t mentioned any visitors in his drawings; there had only been the depiction of the town, the cows, and a rough stick figure to represent himself. Nothing about four large, scarred men staring at Wilder as though he were some strange creature that had crawled out from the riverbank.

“Can I help you?” Wilder asked, after a silence that had gone on a beat too long. One of the men, leaner than theothers, with dark hair and icy blue eyes, gave his companion a nudge and broke into a grin. It was not a friendly smile; rather, it seemed mocking, as though Wilder’s presence amused him somehow. Wilder felt his unease deepen. Surely, their languages weren’t so different that they couldn’t understand his questioning tone.

---