Page 17 of The Warrior and the Monk

Not the distant sorrow of a lord inconvenienced by a disobedient servant, but something deeper, rawer. It was the sadness of someone who had caused harm and didn’t know how to make amends.

He held out a hand, his fingers trembling slightly as if uncertain. Wilder stared at it, then up at Anders, whose wet hair clung to his face.

“I can’t walk,” Wilder finally muttered, his voice hoarse. He gestured to his swollen ankle.

Anders’s brows furrowed in concern. Without hesitation, he crouched and gently took Wilder’s ankle in his hands, inspecting it with care. His touch was warm against Wilder’s cold skin, and though the pressure made him wince, it also eased the sharpest edges of the pain.

Anders’s lips pressed into a firm line. He released the ankle with a sigh and turned his back to Wilder, kneeling in the mud.

Wilder frowned, confused, until Anders glanced over his shoulder and gestured with his arms.

“...You want me to...?”

Anders nodded.

Realization dawned, and Wilder hesitated for only a moment before clambering awkwardly onto Anders’s back. He was certain he’d be too heavy, that Anders would struggle under the weight, but when the man rose to his feet, it was as if he carried nothing at all.

The strength in Anders's body was undeniable, and as he walked—steady and unyielding through the rain—Wilder couldn’t help but notice how carefully Anders moved, avoiding roots and puddles so as not to jar him.

The waxed cloak covered both of them now, the rain pattering against it in a steady rhythm. The warmth of Anders’s body seeped through the fabric, a quiet comfort Wilder didn’t want to acknowledge but couldn’t ignore.

Step by step, Anders carried him back toward the longhouse. Wilder felt his exhaustion creeping in, heavy andinsistent. His head sagged against Anders's shoulder, and his thoughts grew hazy.

As sleep began to claim him, a strange thought flitted through his mind, unbidden and inexplicable:How had Anders happened to bring a cloak that fit Wilder so perfectly?

Wilder stirred again when he felt himself being laid down, his body sluggish and uncooperative, his mind foggy and feverish. The furs beneath him were soft, cradling his aching frame, but the heat of the fire nearby felt distant and unreal, as if it belonged to another room entirely. He struggled to lift his eyelids, to orient himself in the hazy realm between sleep and wakefulness. The scent of herbs and damp wool filled his nostrils, mingling with the faint smoke from the hearth.

His dry tunic clung to his fevered skin, and his ankle throbbed with a dull but persistent ache. There was a faint memory—Anders wrapping it with a poultice, his large hands working with an unexpected delicacy. Wilder’s lips moved, forming words without sound, but his throat was too dry, his voice too weak.

He tried to move again, to push himself upright, but his arms refused to obey. His limbs felt as though they had turned to stone, heavy and immovable. He groaned softly, his chest rising and falling with effort, and he let himself sink back into the furs.

“My lord?” he rasped at last, his voice cracking. It came out softer than a whisper, barely audible even to his own ears. He swallowed, his throat raw and aching. “Anders?”

The fire popped in the hearth, the sound sharp against the silence. Wilder’s body convulsed with a sudden, harsh cough, and he pulled the furs tighter around himself, trembling. Cold, so cold—how could he be so close to the fire and still feel as though ice coursed through his veins?

A shadow passed over him, and then a familiar touch. A hand cupped his cheek, rough with calluses but gentle,steadying. Wilder flinched instinctively but lacked the strength to pull away. The hand lingered for a moment before moving to his forehead.

It was cool, startlingly so, and Wilder let out a soft sigh of relief.

“Cold,” he mumbled, barely aware of what he was saying.

The hand withdrew, replaced moments later by a damp cloth pressed gently against his brow. The wetness seeped into his curls, the coolness drawing some of the feverish heat from his skin.

“You were already dry,” he murmured, nonsensical, his lips curving into a faint smile.

Anders didn’t respond, but the silence spoke volumes. Wilder imagined him there, crouched at his side, the faint light from the hearth casting flickering shadows on his face. Was Anders angry? Guilty? He couldn’t tell.

His eyelids grew heavier, and the world blurred again, receding into the haze of fevered dreams. Wilder drifted in and out of consciousness, slipping between reality and memory, between past and present.

He dreamed of the monastery, but its details were elusive, slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers. He remembered the cool stone floors, the echoing halls, the chants of the brothers—but when he tried to focus, the images wavered, and suddenly he was in the garden with Anders instead.

Anders stood beside him, his sleeves rolled up, his hands caked in soil. He smiled, that rare, broad smile that lit up his otherwise somber face. Then the scene shifted. Anders was in his armor, his sword drawn and pointed at Wilder’s chest, his expression cold and unreadable.

The dreams twisted further. Anders was naked now, his skin warm against Wilder’s own, his lips pressing gently againsthis mouth. Wilder felt no fear, only a strange, aching confusion. His own hands moved without thought, trailing over Anders’s chest, and—

He woke with a start, gasping.

The fire was still burning, though it had dimmed. Someone was speaking, their voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. The sound tugged at the edges of his awareness, pulling him back from the depths of sleep.

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