Page 22 of The Warrior and the Monk

Frode didn’t seem surprised by the shift. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully before answering. “Are all the townspeople my friends?” he mused. “I wouldn’t say that. But I am on good terms with most of them, if only because every community appreciates having a healer close by. People tend to trust someone who knows how to patch them up.” He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “But in all the places I’ve been, people are much the same. Some are friendly, some not so much. Some tell me far too much about their ailments when I speak to them outside of my shop, and others act as though I’ve known them my entire life.”

Wilder nodded slowly, digesting the information. He couldn’t help but wonder if the people here had taken a liking to Frode because of the kindness he exuded, or if they simply appreciated his skills. Either way, Wilder was beginning to feel a bit more at ease, even if the people here still treated him like a stranger.

He hesitated, then asked another question that had been bothering him ever since he’d arrived. “Did you know Anders before… I mean, before the, um...” Wilder gestured awkwardly to his own throat, still feeling the weight of the conversation he’d had with Anders days ago.

Frode’s face softened slightly, but he didn’t flinch. He seemed to consider the question before answering. “No, I didn’t. He kept to himself even then,” Frode replied with a small shake of his head. “But I did treat his injury.”

Wilder’s curiosity piqued. “What? You really treated him? What happened to him?”

Frode sighed, his gaze turning distant as he recalled the memory. “From what I understand, it was some kind of dispute on the edge of town—a feud between clans, I think. Anders was a warrior, and he fought, and his throat was slit. His companions brought him to me. He was holding himself together with his hand, his fingers covered in blood.” Frode paused for a moment, his expression grim as he relived the moment. “I stitched the wound closed, and he never made a sound. That was—oh, five years ago now, I’d say.”

Wilder felt a strange kind of awe at the thought of Anders surviving such a terrible injury.How fearsome he must have been, Wilder thought. The warrior he had seen, tall and imposing, suddenly seemed less like a stranger and more like a figure of strength. Wilder tried to picture him in combat, sword in hand, but the image that came to mind was that of a man struggling against the playful headbutts of goats. A laugh escaped him at the thought, but the next moment, he remembered Anders’s fierce expression when he’d stood in the doorway, glaring at the men who had come into his house.

“What happened afterward?” Wilder asked, his voice quiet with intrigue. “What did he do?”

Frode’s lips quirked into a small, melancholic smile. “He recovered. And then he went home.”

Wilder’s brow furrowed. “Do you think… he’ll recover this time?” His voice was small, as though asking about Anders felt like asking about something much larger than just the man’s physical health.

Frode’s smile deepened, though there was sadness in it. “He’s taken quite the blow to the heart, I think,” he said gently. “But Anders is a strong person. I’m more worried about you,Wilder.” His eyes met Wilder’s, and there was an unmistakable concern there. “How are you feeling?”

Wilder opened his mouth to answer, but the words tangled in his throat. Confused. Sad. Uncertain. But somehow, he managed a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I think I’m getting pretty good at grinding herbs, at least.” It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Frode chuckled, though it was a soft sound, more understanding than anything else. “It’s something,” he said. And at that moment, Wilder almost believed it. That it might just be enough.

Chapter Eight

The rosehips, though rich in medicinal properties, were not meant for a tincture or a salve this time. Today, they were destined for something far more celebratory—a batch of mead.

"Though some would call that medicinal," Frode said with a grin, as he crushed the dried rosehips into a fine powder with a pestle.

Wilder laughed softly, his hands busy with the same task. "Well, I suppose anything in moderation could be considered medicine." He was still getting used to Frode's easy manner, the way he found humor in even the simplest tasks.

Their work was methodical, but it was time-consuming. The two of them spent nearly half the day preparing the ingredients. The dried, crushed rosehips were boiled into an extract, which Frode carefully strained before pouring it into a mixture of honey dissolved in water. Once the liquid had cooled, they poured it into a large wooden vat. Frode worked with a practiced ease, his hands deftly moving as he added the yeast and then covered the vat, sealing it for the fermentation process.

Wilder wiped his brow, looking at the large vat and the bubbling liquid inside. "And that's it?" he asked, his voice filled with a bit of disbelief.

"That's it," Frode replied, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "In about two months, we’ll have rosehip mead."

"Two months?" Wilder’s jaw dropped slightly. He hadn't expected the process to take that long. "Are you sure we can't speed it up somehow?"

Frode chuckled, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. "Good things take time, Wilder. Didn’t you brew beer at your monastery? It’s the same principle. The process can’t be rushed." His gaze softened as he glanced at the vat. "I still have some bottles left from my last batch, though, if you'd like one. We used some of the yeast from the previous batch for this one, so you could enjoy a bottle now if you wanted."

Wilder's face warmed at the mention of the mead. The thought of giving Anders a bottle as a gift had been growing in his mind, but he hadn't yet worked up the courage to act on it. The mead, with its gentle sweetness and the calming nature of the rosehips, seemed like a good choice—both an apology and a way to tell Anders that he didn’t hold any ill will.

"I see," Wilder said quietly. “I was thinking of giving a bottle to Anders.”

"Well, as I said, I still have some bottles leftover. Just take one of those," Frode offered, his voice casual but somehow more knowing.

"Are you sure?" Wilder asked, though he couldn’t help the hope that rose in him at the thought of giving Anders a gift.

"Of course," Frode said, his tone warm. "Food and drink are meant to be shared. Take it. A bottle of mead might do you both some good."

It was a kind offer, and Wilder hesitated for only a moment before nodding. He moved to the apothecary shelves, scanning the bottles until he found one that seemed to glow with an inviting amber hue. The label was carefully written in Frode's graceful script, both in their native tongue and the common language. It felt substantial in his hand, the weight of it comforting.

Still, something gnawed at him. The mead would be a nice gesture, but it didn’t seem quite enough. He needed something more, something that might convey his feelings more fully. He thought of Anders’s stoic expression, his troubled silence since their difficult conversation, and Wilder felt a pang of guilt. He didn’t want to leave things unresolved, especially now that he was here, in this strange place, feeling more and more like an intruder.

Wilder moved to the corner of the room and began to gather the ingredients for a loaf of bread. Anders had taught him how to make the flatbread with the leftover pea porridge and barley flour. It was simple, hearty, and filling, a perfect complement to the mead. He mixed the ingredients together, his hands moving with a familiarity he hadn’t expected. The bread turned out perfectly, golden brown and warm.

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