Page 36 of The Warrior and the Monk

Wilder slipped out of the longhouse, past the hens clucking in the yard and Avery’s disapproving stare. He made his way down the narrow path toward the river, stepping carefully around the rocks and roots that had grown in the damp earth. He left his shift in the grass, stretching his body toward the sun, feeling the warmth on his skin before he dove into the cool embrace of the water.

The river greeted him with a brisk chill, refreshing but not uncomfortable. Wilder swam beneath the surface, letting the current carry him gently along. He brushed his hand against the tufts of green that swayed in the water, watching with delight as startled schools of minnows scattered, their silver bodies flashing like tiny jewels. He drifted for a moment, savoring the silence beneath the water, until his lungs began to ache for air.With a few strong kicks, he broke the surface, gasping as the sunlight kissed his damp skin. He wiped the water from his eyes, sending droplets flying from his hair with a quick shake of his head.

Wilder ran his hands over his shoulders, down his ribs, and along his stomach, feeling the last traces of sweat wash away. But there were marks that the water could not remove: the love bites that dotted his skin, evidence of the night before, of the passion Anders had poured into him. He pressed his fingers gently against his neck, wincing just a little at the tenderness. It was a reminder of how much Anders desired him, how fiercely he loved him. Wilder smiled at the thought, the warmth of it spreading through his chest. The transformation that Anders underwent when they lay together was still something that took his breath away—the quiet, kind man who tended the garden, the strong and shy husband who would drop everything to protect him, turned into a lover who knew exactly what he wanted. And Anders's passion had never failed to leave Wilder breathless. He welcomed it, embracing it as proof of their connection, as proof that they were, indeed, married.

His thoughts, however, were abruptly interrupted by a voice—unfamiliar and loud in the quiet of the riverbank. "Well, there’s a pretty sight."

Wilder's heart leapt in his chest, and he spun around in a panic. A group of strangers stood just beyond the water’s edge, their faces a mix of curiosity and politeness, some even smiling. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and he instinctively crouched deeper into the river, submerging himself up to his shoulders in an attempt to hide from view. His mind raced. How long had they been standing there? What did they think of him? He called out, voice cracking, "Anders!"

It was unnecessary. Anders had already been alerted by the sound of Wilder’s startled cry. He stalked out of thelonghouse, a protective presence even from a distance, pulling on his breeches and holding his tunic folded over his arms. He moved quickly, his large frame forcing its way through the group of onlookers until he reached the riverside. He was a wall of muscle, a shield, as he positioned himself between Wilder and the strangers. Wilder, now out of the water, hastily tugged his tunic over his head, casting a worried glance at Anders.

What are they doing here?Wilder signed, his hands trembling slightly as he faced his husband.

I know them. They are not bad people, Anders signed back, though his eyes were still narrow, his posture tense.I don’t know what they want. Are you all right?

Wilder nodded quickly, though he was still flushed with embarrassment. He rolled up the sleeves of his tunic.I’m fine. I was just startled,he assured Anders.

His husband, now satisfied that Wilder was not in distress, turned to face the group of strangers, a hand firmly on Wilder’s back as if to steady him. He led him forward, his steps deliberate but protective. The group introduced themselves in quick succession. Wilder tried to commit their names to memory but knew he would not remember most of them. There was too much going on in his head—his eyes kept returning to the man who stood closest to Anders. His eyes narrowed as he studied the man’s wolf pelt, the head of the wolf draped over his face, its fangs hanging ominously over his brow.

Anders greeted him with particular warmth, their handshake firm, the mutual respect between them palpable.Husband of Kirk,Anders signed, pointing at the man, who was as tall as he was, though much broader in build.

Wilder’s eyes widened. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. "Oh! It’s a pleasure to meet you!" he said, stepping forward to offer his hand. "Your husband—ah—spoke of you. All good things," he quickly added.

The man blushed, clearly pleased. "Osgood," he muttered, his grip strong and steady.

With introductions over, Wilder felt a bit more at ease. He invited them all into the longhouse, bustling around to gather food and drink for their guests. The familiar tasks of hospitality grounded him—flatbread with herb butter, soft cheese, fresh berries, boiled eggs, and a pitcher of mead to share. The spread wasn’t extravagant, but it was enough. He had no experience entertaining such a group, but he hoped it was acceptable.

When Anders remained seated, his arms crossed and his gaze fixed on the group, Wilder felt a slight pang of confusion. His husband was normally so warm and open, but today, he seemed impatient, waiting for someone to explain the reason for their unexpected visit.

One of the women, her sword glinting at her side, spoke up. "We wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important, Anders."

Osgood grunted in agreement, looking stern.

Wilder could sense that something serious was afoot, but he didn’t understand the full details. As the conversation began to swirl around him, he caught fragments of words—"Harald and Norman’s foolishness," "three injured, one badly," "it’ll get worse," "we have to take care of it now." But the words didn’t make sense in his mind. Bandits? A blood feud? What did all this mean for them? Were they asking Anders to fight? He wasn’t a warrior anymore, not officially—he was Wilder’s husband. But Wilder knew that, just because Anders had set aside his sword, didn’t mean he no longer had the ability to use it.

He reached out, his fingers brushing Anders’s arm, and the conversation around him ceased. "I don’t understand," Wilder said quietly, looking at his husband.

Anders’s expression shifted, his mouth twisting in a frustrated grimace.I’ll draw it,he signed, his fingers moving swiftly.

The others seemed confused as Anders crouched by the hearth and grabbed a stick. Wilder watched as his husband drew in the ashes, the rough outline of an animal beginning to take shape. Slowly, the features became clear—a large creature, with a round body, small ears, and a vicious muzzle. Four legs, four claws—Wilder’s stomach turned as recognition

"A bear!" Wilder cried, his voice shaking with disbelief. "That's a bear! That's what they want you to hunt?" His eyes widened with horror as he stared at the crude drawing Anders had made in the ashes. The shape of the bear loomed large and terrifying in the dirt, its claws marked out in exaggerated detail. A chill swept through Wilder, one that had nothing to do with the temperature. He shook his head in a frantic disbelief. "Anders, no. You can’t do this."

Anders looked at him with steady, unflinching eyes, his expression unwavering. He said nothing, his gaze soft but firm, as though he had already made up his mind.

One of the men in the group, a broad-shouldered figure with a scar across his cheek, grunted from the back of the room, his voice dripping with condescension. "He can. Anders is strong. A skilled hunter. He can take on this man-eater alone." His tone was dismissive, almost as if Wilder’s concern were irrelevant. As though he were just some delicate creature who didn’t understand the ways of men.

Wilder’s frustration spiked. "I know that! Of course, I know that!" He turned sharply to face the man, his breath coming in quick bursts. "But you said it injured other men! It’s a man-eater! That’s why you’re asking for his help, isn’t it?" His words tumbled out, faster than he could control them, a mix of fear and anger and helplessness. The group fell silent, theirexpressions shifting, confusion spreading across their faces. It wasn’t just the urgency of the matter; it was Wilder’s frantic, impassioned plea, a plea that was spoken in their own language. A language they didn’t understand.

He breathed heavily, his hands shaking as he tried to steady himself. "Anders is my husband," Wilder said slowly, his voice softer now, but still strong with the weight of his feelings. He met Anders’s gaze, hoping that the simple statement would make the men understand. That it would make them see why he was so upset. Anders was not just some capable warrior—he was Wilder’s partner, his love, his heart. And the thought of losing him was unbearable.

Anders, sensing his distress, stepped forward, placing one large hand gently on the back of Wilder’s neck. His touch, usually so steady, was now uncertain, almost apologetic. Wilder could feel the tremor in his husband’s hand. Was Anders truly oblivious to how much this frightened him, or was he trying to hide his own concerns for Wilder's sake? The unspoken communication between them was deep and palpable.

"You would leave me, then?" Wilder asked, his voice almost breaking. His hands, trembling now more from the sheer terror of the situation than anger, grasped at Anders’s arms. "You would leave me alone? Without anyone, in this place that’s still so unfamiliar to me?" He could feel the cold sweat on his back, the tightening of his chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t fathom a life without Anders.

Anders hesitated for a moment, his expression pained, but he shook his head slowly, his eyes full of sorrow.I will not leave you, he signed, his hands moving deliberately, his gaze never leaving Wilder’s.Trust me, I will come back. His hands cupped Wilder’s face, and for a brief moment, all the tension between them seemed to melt away. But Wilder was still reeling, still grappling with the fear that was choking him.

"Must you?" Wilder asked, his voice desperate. He swallowed hard, hoping his husband would see how badly he wanted Anders to stay, how much he needed him here. He wasn’t asking for permission—he was pleading for his husband’s life.

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