Page 28 of The Warrior and the Monk

Anders nodded, his usual easy grin returning as he left the house to gather what they would need for the trek through the forest. In the meantime, Wilder set about tidying up. He made the bed, swept the floor, and organized Frode’s collection of herbs and spices. The quietness of the house surrounded him, and his thoughts drifted. There had been a time when he had felt certain that his life would end within the walls of the monastery, that his days would be spent in silence and solitude, his only companions the ancient texts and the echoes of chanting monks. But now, he was here, with Anders. They were preparing to leave for their home, for their shared life. Wilder’s heart swelled at the thought. It felt both surreal and inevitable—he had called Anders his husband for weeks now, even if he hadn’t known it at the time. But now, it was real. It was happening. He was ready for it. Or was he?

His thoughts were interrupted by Frode’s voice, a sudden and comforting presence in the doorway. "I passed by the marketplace. Anders is looking quite pleased with himself," Frode said, his eyes scanning the spotless house. "So, am I right in assuming you two have had time to talk?"

Wilder leaned the broom against the table and gave Frode a soft smile. "Yes," he said quietly. "I’m returning to Anders’s home. To—our home."

Frode’s expression softened, and for a moment, he looked almost wistful. "You’re certain? You know I don’t mind having you here. You can stay as long as you like. I don’t want you to feel pressured into making a decision you’re not ready for."

Wilder felt a lump form in his throat. Frode’s kindness was overwhelming, but he knew in his heart what he wanted. He could never thank Frode enough for everything he had done—helping him heal, teaching him, guiding him. But now, his life lay in a different direction, and it was one he was ready to take.

"Thank you, Frode," he said, his voice soft but steady. "But I want to live with Anders. Entering the monastery, leaving the monastery—I didn’t have a choice in those. But I have one now, and I’m choosing Anders. I think that—that I can—" He fumbled over his words, heat flooding his face. It was as though his heart had outrun his ability to speak, and he wasn’t quite sure how to put everything he felt into words. He was saved from spilling his emotions all over the freshly swept floor by the sound of Anders’s arrival. The door creaked open, and Anders ducked inside, his broad frame filling the doorway. A linen bag was slung over his shoulder, and in his hands, he carried a leather satchel. He nodded at Frode in greeting before turning to Wilder, handing him the satchel with a pleased smile.

"For me?" Wilder asked, eyes bright with surprise.

Anders nodded, a slight blush creeping beneath his beard.

It was a plain but finely crafted satchel, light against his waist and a rich, polished brown that spoke of careful work and quality. Wilder smiled, his heart warmed by the gesture. "Thank you, Anders," he said, his voice thick with appreciation. He set the satchel down on the table for a moment to retrieve the bouquet of flowers that Anders had given him earlier, carefully tucking them into the bag. The delicate blooms seemed almost to peek out shyly, as if they too were part of a new chapter in his life. Anders, for his part, went red beneath his beard, rubbing the back of his neck in a rare show of bashfulness. But there was no mistaking the pleased glint in his eyes, a warmth that made Wilder’s heart skip.

Frode, clearing his throat with an air of gentle amusement, stepped forward. "It is good to see you, Anders. You seem to be doing well." His gaze went first to Anders’s throat, where the scar from the injury still lingered. To Wilder’s surprise, Anders bowed his head slightly, allowing Frode to touch the healed skin. "That’s healed nicely, I think," Frode observed, his fingers gentle against the scar.

Anders made a soft noise of agreement, his lips pressing into a tight line as he acknowledged the pain that had passed, but with a look of gratitude toward Frode for his care.

Frode stepped back, looking at both of them now, his eyes narrowing slightly as if appraising something he had already known but now fully acknowledged. "And have you and Wilder made your intentions with one another clear?"

Anders’s hand found Wilder’s, and he nodded once more, a simple, but sure gesture.

Frode looked satisfied. "Excellent. Visit whenever you like. You’re always welcome here." He paused, his gaze turning a little more serious. "Now, take care of each other. Make sure to communicate, yes? As best as you can."

Wilder blushed, glancing at Anders before answering, his voice quiet but earnest. "We’ve—made progress. And I think we’ll continue to do so." He glanced at Frode, his heart swelling with gratitude. "Thank you, Frode. I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me."

Frode chuckled, shaking his head slightly as he gave them both a knowing look. "You’ve nothing to thank me for. Now, get going, while there’s still daylight. It’s a long walk to your home."

Wilder felt a surge of emotion in his chest. There was no need for grand speeches, no need for more words. The path was clear before him now. He was ready to walk it, side by side with Anders. With Frode’s blessing, with the satchel of gifts, with aheart full of hope, Wilder turned to leave. And this time, it felt like home was waiting for him.

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Something very near to smugness played at the corners of Anders’s lips, a subtle, knowing grin that Wilder couldn’t help but find both amusing and disarming. It was as though Anders was perfectly aware of the effect his presence had on the world around them—and yet, he seemed utterly unconcerned by it. The former warrior stood tall, his broad shoulders squared in that unmistakable posture of pride, taller than nearly everyone they passed. His chest puffed out, a silent declaration of his strength, of his place in the world. It was a little like a rooster, strutting proudly through the barnyard, and Wilder couldn't help but smile at the image.

Anders’s arm was firmly around Wilder’s waist, a gesture that felt both possessive and tender, and as they walked through the streets, the pace was slow and deliberate. Wilder had to take two steps for every one of Anders’s long strides, but Anders, ever the gentleman, slowed his pace to match him, never once pulling ahead. It was clear he didn’t mind being seen, didn’t mind the attention they were drawing as they made their way through the town. People stopped what they were doing—vendors paused mid-sale, sailors halted in their chores—and all eyes turned toward them. Some of the older women whispered to one another, sharing knowing looks, while children peered out from behind their mothers, watching with wide, curious eyes. The townspeople were watching, but Wilder didn’t think there was anything malicious in their gaze. If anything, they seemed pleased. They weren’t looking at them with judgment or curiosity born of gossip. They were looking because they knew the story—knew that Wilder and Anders had been throughsomething difficult and had come out the other side together, stronger than before.

Disa had told them that some of the town had assumed they’d had a lover’s spat, and now, as they walked through the streets together, hands nearly brushing, heads held high, Wilder realized that was exactly how it appeared. A reconciliation, a union that had been tested and was now stronger for it. They walked side by side, united not just in their shared history, but in the certainty that they were building something new together. They were a couple, and the townspeople seemed to be happy for them.

The path they took led them toward the longhouse, back to their home, and as they neared the familiar clearing where the trees began to part and the house emerged from the landscape, Wilder’s thoughts began to race. Anders had assured him that all was well, but Wilder couldn’t help but feel a twinge of concern. He needed to see for himself. The garden—how had it fared in his absence? The animals—were they well cared for? Would Avery, the horse he had helped train, remember him? And, perhaps most pressing of all, what would their days look like now that they were truly together? Would the routines they had once known still hold, but now, with the knowledge that their hearts were intertwined in a way they hadn’t fully realized before? Would it be different? Would it be more relaxed, more intimate?

His mind wandered to the kiss they had shared, that first real kiss after everything that had happened. He remembered the touch of his fingers on Anders’s lips, the softness of Anders’s mouth against his, the way his heart had fluttered at the tenderness in the action. He thought about that night, when Anders had pleasured himself while Wilder lay beside him, the sounds filling the air, and Wilder’s pulse quickening at the thought. A bed of furs large enough for two, the warmth ofAnders’s body close to his—it was an image he couldn’t shake, one that made his chest ache with longing.

In the quiet of his thoughts, Wilder felt a rush of uncertainty. He had learned, through his years in the monastery, that such acts were reserved for marriage. They were supposed to occur only once the vows had been made, within the sacred union of husband and wife. But now—now, here he was, in a new place, a new life with Anders. And what he had learned in the monastery and what he felt in his heart were at odds. It was difficult to reconcile those teachings with the reality of what he and Anders shared. Was it sinful to imagine Anders beside him by the hearth, the warmth of their bodies mingling under the soft furs? Was it wrong to want to kiss him again, and again, and to let their bodies speak the language their mouths had not yet learned? Had they already sinned, simply by kissing?

But no. By the standards of Anders and his people, they were already married. Disa had spoken of a ceremony, of a union that would be witnessed by the townspeople, but it seemed that in this place, what mattered was intention. And in that sense, they were already united. They didn’t need a grand declaration, nor the pomp of a public ceremony. They had their vows, spoken not with words, but with actions, with eyes and hands and hearts. Anders had already traded his sword for the title of husband, and as far as the town was concerned, and as far as Wilder was concerned, that was all that mattered. The customs here, in this place, were simple and clear. They had committed to one another in the truest sense of the word, and it was enough. They were married, but they were also courting. Wilder smiled at the thought. All couples, he realized, had to learn to live together, to navigate the rhythms of a shared life. This was just another part of that process. And though the world he had known before may have held different rules, he now saw that there was no sin in the love he shared with Anders. It was a lovethat was as natural as the forest they would soon enter, as pure as the earth that supported them.

Satisfied with his own reasoning, Wilder leaned against Anders’s side with a pleased sigh, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing as the weight of his worries lifted. The warmth of Anders’s arm around him was a comfort, and as they entered the forest together, Wilder felt a deep sense of belonging. This was his life now, his future, and it was good. The sound of their footsteps on the forest path was steady and rhythmic, like the pulse of the earth beneath their feet, and for the first time in a long while, Wilder allowed himself to relax. He was home. With Anders. And nothing else mattered.

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The first time Wilder had entered the forest, he had been certain he was being kidnapped. The dense canopy of trees, the thick, suffocating undergrowth, and the eerie quiet had all seemed oppressive, like a prison with no way out. He had felt small, helpless, and utterly alone as the world around him swallowed him up. The second time he had entered the forest, fear had gripped him—he had been running, terrified of something he couldn’t even name. His heart had raced in panic, his feet slipping through the mud as he fled from a wrath he thought was inevitable. The rain had pelted him, cold and merciless, but still he had run, convinced that something far worse awaited him at the end of his flight.

Now, walking beside Anders, the forest felt different. The trees, once looming and dark, now felt welcoming, a part of the world they were building together. Anders, his partner, his equal, was by his side. There was no need for fear, no need to flee. This time, Wilder took a deep breath and allowed himself to enjoy the walk, to appreciate the beauty of the forest aroundhim. The air was cool but fragrant, filled with the scent of damp earth and growing things. The forest seemed to stretch on forever, a never-ending tangle of greens, browns, and the soft gray of the mist that hung lazily between the branches.

The ground beneath their feet was thick with grasses, the bright green blades tugging at their ankles as they walked. Above them, the trees were dense, their dark leaves clustering together to form a canopy that whispered with every breeze. The branches rustled softly, creating a calming rhythm that blended with the distant call of birds and the quiet hum of insects. Moss grew thickly on the trunks of the trees, the speckled green and gray patches soft and plush to the touch. Rocks jutted from the earth, ancient and weathered, worn smooth by the passage of time. Flowers—wild, untamed—bloomed everywhere, their colors bold against the backdrop of green. Blue, yellow, purple, red, and pink, all splattered across the landscape like a painter's forgotten strokes, adding splashes of life to the otherwise quiet forest.

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