Page 18 of The Warrior and the Monk

“Wilder.”

His name. Spoken with a quiet intensity, a desperate, guttural rasp that made his chest tighten.

It wasn’t a shout or a command—it was a plea, raw and unpolished, laced with emotion Wilder couldn’t quite name.

He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were too heavy. He tried to speak, to respond, but his lips parted only to release a faint exhale. The voice called his name again, and this time he thought he could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, as though Anders had placed the entirety of his being into that single word.

“Wilder.”

The sound lingered, reverberating in the space between them, filling the room like a tangible presence. It wrapped around him, steady and unyielding, like the strong arms that had carried him through the rain.

In the darkness behind his closed eyes, Wilder felt tears slip down his cheeks, though he couldn’t say why.

???

When Wilder’s eyes fluttered open again, an unfamiliar dampness clung to his skin. His tunic, heavy with sweat, was glued to his back, and a dull ache in his body reminded him that he’d been unconscious for a while. For a moment, he thought itmight have rained, but then a flash of memory broke through—he remembered Anders carrying him through the storm, wrapping him in warmth by the fire, tending to his every need. That thought brought a measure of comfort, even as his head spun with confusion.

He shifted his body, trying to sit up, but the sudden pull in his back and the aching stiffness in his limbs forced him to stop. He couldn’t even remember how long he’d been lying down. His tunic clung to him, soaked through with the residue of fever and perspiration. Groaning softly, he shifted again, trying to ease the discomfort, but it was the surroundings that truly captured his attention.

This wasn’t the longhouse he remembered. This wasn’t even a bed of furs. His fingers brushed over the coarse fabric beneath him—a mattress, firm and rough, with the unmistakable texture of straw poking through the seams. Wilder’s heart gave a slight jolt.

The room was unfamiliar. The walls were solid, made of wood and stone—not the half-barrier partitions of the longhouse, nor the crude arrangement of fabric curtains. His eyes flicked around the room: a bed, a framed structure, sturdy and well-made. There was a table, not a bench, and chairs arranged neatly around it. A rug lay beneath them, its rich colors softened by the muted light streaming in from a window.

A window.

He turned his head slowly, squinting toward the opening. The outside world seemed entirely different from the wilderness he’d been rescued from. He heard the distant calls of fishermen, the bustling noise of a market, the exchange of goods, all in a language Wilder could barely comprehend. His heart beat faster as realization hit. Was this the town? How had he ended up here? His mind was clouded with questions, and the more he thought, the more everything seemed to spin.

Before he could make sense of his surroundings, the door creaked open. Wilder’s attention snapped to the entrance, and a figure stepped inside—a tall man with a broad frame, his hair and beard a mixture of dark and gray. He moved with ease, his presence calming, his gaze sharp and compassionate. His dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners when he saw Wilder’s confusion, and his lips curved into a smile.

“Ah, awake at last!” the man said, his voice deep and resonant, but with a strange accent Wilder couldn’t place. He continued in Wilder’s native tongue, surprising him further. “We’ve all been waiting for your fever to break. I thought your husband was going to make himself ill with worry. He’s been beside himself! If I hadn’t forced him to rest, I’d have hadtwopatients to look after.”

Wilder blinked, disoriented. The word “husband” echoed in his mind, but he couldn’t make sense of it. His voice came out hoarse and unsure. “My—what?”

The man smiled again, though his eyes softened with concern. “Ah, forgive me, I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Frode. I’m the physician here.” He made a small bow.

Wilder’s throat tightened, his mind sluggish but racing to catch up. “No, no, I understand,” he murmured. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frode. But—did you just say husband?”

Frode’s expression didn’t change. He tilted his head slightly, as though the confusion was mutual. “Of course,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “What about him?”

Wilder shook his head, confusion deepening. “Whathusband?”

Frode’s smile faltered, then faded entirely. He stared at Wilder for a long moment, his brow knitting together in an expression of growing concern. “Anders,” he said slowly, as if testing a delicate truth. “Youhaven’tforgotten him, have you?”

“I haven’t forgotten him!” Wilder’s voice rose sharply, his pride flaring. He frowned deeply, trying to focus. “But Anders isn’t myhusband—I’m his servant.”

At those words, Frode’s face shifted from concern to bewilderment, his mouth opening and closing as though searching for the right words. The silence stretched between them, thick with confusion.

“Servant?” Frode echoed, his voice low and laced with disbelief.

Wilder’s frustration spilled over as he leaned forward slightly, hands tightening on the bedcovers. “Yes!” he said, his voice sharper. “Anderstookme from my monastery. Traded me for a sword! I’ve been working for him—on his land, in his house—as his servant!”

Frode stepped back, his hand instinctively moving to his mouth, as though to stifle a gasp. His eyes darted around, seemingly processing what Wilder had said. Then, with a sigh, he ran his fingers through his graying hair and let out a long, exasperated breath.

“A monastery?” Frode muttered, his voice barely audible. He stared at the floor, lost in thought. “No, lad… no, that’s not…” His voice trailed off, and his expression grew somber. He sank heavily into the chair by the bedside, his body crumpling as though the weight of the situation was suddenly too much to bear. “There’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”

Wilder’s laugh came out bitter and dry. “I’ll say!” He shook his head, but the truth started to sink in. “Where did you even get the idea that Anders is myhusband?”

“From Anders,” Frode replied simply, his voice flat, his tone resigned.

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