Page 14 of The Warrior and the Monk

Anders, meanwhile, was decidedly not meeting Wilder’s gaze. He hunched over slightly, his shoulders curling inward as though to hide himself, his hands clasped loosely in his lap. The firelight flickered in his eyes, reflecting the unease there. Wilder hesitated. Why was Anders embarrassed?

Was it the goat incident? But no, they’d both laughed at that—it was the sort of mischief goats were known for. Was it being bare-chested? That seemed unlikely. Anders had been flustered when he’d stumbled upon Wilder bathing, but this was different. Shirtlessness wasn’t taboo here, not like at the monastery. On the ship, the sailors often worked with their chests exposed to the sun, and Anders himself had done the same on occasion. Wilder frowned slightly, puzzling over it.

He retrieved a warm, damp cloth and approached carefully, as if not to startle him. “Let me help, my lord,” Wilder murmured, his voice softer now. Anders gave no reply, but neither did he object when Wilder began wiping the dirt from his neck and shoulders.

The cloth moved over Anders’s scarred skin, catching on the raised edges of old wounds. Wilder couldn’t help but wonder about the stories behind them. One scar in particular drew his attention—a diagonal line that ran from Anders’s shoulder to his opposite hip, the skin there tough and uneven. He traced its path absently with his fingers, marveling at how deep it must have been. What kind of weapon had caused such damage? A blade, perhaps? It must have been a wicked thing to bite so deeply into flesh.

“Does it hurt?” Wilder asked quietly, his fingers lingering near the scar.

Anders shook his head, though he still didn’t look up. Wilder glanced at him, noting the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders seemed to tense under the cloth. Did he see these marks as shameful? Evidence of moments when an enemy hadbested him, even if only briefly? Wilder didn’t think so. Scars, to him, were simply proof of survival. They told a story—a life written in flesh. There was no shame in that.

Without thinking, Wilder placed his palm against Anders’s lower back, pressing gently against the solid warmth of him. He meant it as a comfort, a quiet acknowledgment of all Anders had endured.

Anders shivered.

Wilder pulled his hand away as though burned. “I’m sorry!” he gasped, his face flushing with heat. Why had he done that? What had possessed him to—touch himlike that? He took a step back, his hands twisting nervously in the damp cloth.

He braced himself for a reprimand, for a sharp word or a glare, but none came. Anders shook his head, still avoiding Wilder’s gaze. Instead, he stood abruptly, letting out a strange, choked laugh as he grabbed a clean tunic from a nearby stool. He pulled it over his head in a rush, the movement awkward and almost frantic, before turning toward the door.

“Anders—” Wilder started, but the man was already gone, stepping into the cool evening air with his face burning red.

Wilder stared after him, his heart thudding unsteadily in his chest. Whatwasthis feeling? It left him breathless, confused, and yearning for something he couldn’t quite name.

???

Four days later, the sky opened up.

The rain came hard and fast, driven by a wind that lashed against Wilder's face and stung his cheeks with its icy bite. It turned the world into a blur of gray and green, the forest fading into indistinct shadows behind the downpour. Wilder trudged back toward the longhouse, leading the animals whohad scattered earlier at the first crack of thunder. Now, instinct guided them, the goats and cows hurrying ahead while the chickens scurried close to Wilder’s heels.

By the time he reached the shelter of the longhouse, his curls were soaked and water dripped from the hem of his tunic. He paused at the doorway, counting the animals as they filed inside. Avery, the rooster, squawked indignantly as a goat jostled him. The hens fluttered in behind him, their feathers sodden. The sheep bleated their complaints, huddling close to the two cows for warmth. Everyone was accounted for—except for Anders.

Wilder frowned, glancing back toward the river where Anders had been earlier. The man would come soon enough, surely, but the thought of him out in this weather stirred an uneasy feeling in Wilder's chest.

He busied himself by tending to the hearth. The fire had burned low, the embers barely clinging to life. Wilder piled on fresh wood, coaxing the flames back to strength. Heat blossomed in the room, chasing away the damp chill that clung to the air. With the animals settling into a pile—a truce formed out of shared discomfort—Wilder peeled off his soaked clothes and hung them by the fire to dry.

The warmth rubbed against his skin, rough and relentless compared to the gentle caress of sunlight. Wilder sighed as he dried himself, feeling the sting of heat in his muscles. Once he was dry and his skin was pink with the effort, he pulled on a clean woad-blue tunic and laid out fresh clothes for Anders.

The furs near the hearth called to him. Wilder stretched out on his stomach, pulling them closer as the fire crackled softly. The rhythmic patter of rain on the roof was hypnotic, lulling him into a haze of comfort and drowsiness. His eyelidsgrew heavy as he watched the flames dance, their flickering movements growing slower, lazier in his half-dreaming state.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but a sudden clatter of dishes startled him awake.

Wilder sat up quickly, the furs sliding from his shoulders. He blinked at the room, disoriented, before noticing the addition of a dry tunic draped over him. Anders must have covered him while he slept. His cheeks warmed at the thought, but his gaze darted around the longhouse. Where was Anders?

He found him at the table, his damp hair curling at the edges as he busied himself arranging bowls and jars. The tunic and breeches Wilder had left for him fit snugly, their clean lines a stark contrast to the muddy state he’d been in earlier.

"My lord?" Wilder called, his voice rough with sleep.

Anders turned, his smile faint but warm, and gestured for Wilder to join him with a slow curl of his fingers. Wilder shook himself more awake, curiosity stirring as he approached. Over the past few weeks, Anders had taught him to prepare many dishes. Wilder enjoyed the lessons, finding them far more satisfying than the bland, repetitive meals of the monastery.

Today’s spread was promising: the butter Wilder had churned yesterday, fresh milk from the morning’s work, a small pile of brown eggs, and a generous bowl of flour. But what caught Wilder’s attention was the heavy jar Anders held out to him with an unusual flourish.

The jar was filled with a rich, amber-colored substance. A sweet, floral scent wafted from it, warm and heady even in the rain-cooled air.

"Honey?" Wilder asked tentatively. He paused, realizing he didn’t know the word in Anders’s language. Blushing, he mimicked the buzzing of a bee, hoping Anders would understand.

The sound startled a bark of laughter from Anders, wild and unrestrained. His mirth was so infectious that Wilder found himself laughing too, the embarrassment melting away.

Anders thrust the jar toward him again, more insistent this time. Did he want him to taste it?

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