Page 37 of The Warrior and the Monk

Anders’s expression softened, and he reached for the wall, drawing the bear again with slow, deliberate strokes.They would not ask if it was not necessary,he signed again. His gaze was steady but full of resolve.This bear is not normal. It is suffering. It is desperate. It has injured three men, and one is near death. It has become a danger. This must be done.

Wilder felt the room spin, his mind whirling as he took in the full extent of the situation. The bear was a danger to them all, yes. But Anders... his husband... it was impossible. He didn’t want to lose him. His chest tightened as though it were being squeezed by iron bands. "I don’t want you to go," he whispered, his hands clutching at Anders’s tunic as though holding onto the last shred of hope.

Anders’s face darkened with a mix of sorrow and understanding.I will return,he signed again, more forcefully this time.There is nothing that would keep me from you.

Wilder’s heart twisted painfully. He knew it was true. He knew Anders’s words, even if they didn’t make the fear any easier to bear. The bond between them was unbreakable, and even though he was terrified, he couldn’t stop Anders from doing what he believed was necessary.

He took a shaky breath, wiping at his face. "Please," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Please be careful."

Anders’s eyes softened as he moved closer, gathering Wilder into his arms. Wilder let himself lean into the embrace, feeling the warmth and the strength of the man he loved. "I will," Anders murmured, kissing him gently on the forehead.

They sat together for a long while, their bodies entwined in the small space, silent except for the soft rustling of the fabric around them. When Anders finally stood, he held out his hand to Wilder. "Come," he said quietly. "Let us go to the garden." The others were waiting, and though they hadn’t spoken directly to him since his outburst, Wilder felt the weight of their gazes. They needed to resolve this matter—whatever it was—and then he could allow Anders to leave, knowing he had his word that he would return.

Wilder hesitated but took Anders’s hand, standing slowly. He couldn’t change the outcome. He couldn’t stop Anders from going, but perhaps, just perhaps, he could help him be ready for the danger that lay ahead. And when this was all over, when the bear was dealt with, when Anders returned—Wilder would have his husband back. Safe. Whole.

Chapter Fourteen

While Anders, Osgood, and the others ventured out to hunt the bear—a task that was both dangerous and, in Wilder’s eyes, reckless but, alas, necessary—Wilder and Kirk sat together in the longhouse, shelling peas in the thick silence. The task, simple and repetitive, should have been soothing, but for Wilder, it was anything but. His hands shook as he plucked the peas from their pods, and his heart thudded erratically in his chest. Each sound—each rustle of a pod, each small pea that fell into the bowl—seemed to echo with his anxiety. The silence between him and Kirk stretched long, only punctuated by the soft sounds of the garden’s bounty being prepared. Wilder recited prayers to himself, the words a mantra to stave off the rising panic in his chest, but in the spaces between the prayers, his tongue felt heavy, and his thoughts wandered to his husband in the woods.

"Shall we make pottage for supper?" Wilder ventured after a long pause, his voice soft, almost tentative. Anything to fill the space between them, to try to distract from the gnawing fear.

Kirk, his face grim, snapped a pea pod in half with a loud crack, sending its contents scattering across the ground. He cursed under his breath, shoving the remains into hismouth and chewing angrily, his teeth grinding with frustration. "I’m furious," he muttered between clenched teeth. "Harald and Norman can’t manage a successful hunt, and now it’s up to my husband—and yours—to put the poor beast out of its misery. If the bear doesn’t tear out Osgood’s intestines, perhaps I’ll do it myself, for putting me through all this stress."

Wilder winced at the imagery, the sharpness of Kirk’s words stinging in the air. He plucked a few peas from the dirt, mindlessly trying to keep his hands busy. "I’m afraid," he confessed, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though the admission of his fear would make it more real, more tangible.

Kirk’s tense posture faltered, his anger deflating like a punctured balloon. He sat down heavily on the ground, the weight of his frustration shifting to weariness. "I am as well," he admitted, his voice low. He threw himself backward onto the grass, staring up at the sky as though seeking solace from the expanse above. "I don’t have much of an appetite right now."

"Neither do I," Wilder muttered. He couldn't focus on the task at hand, the peas, or anything else, when all he could see in his mind’s eye was Anders—his beloved husband—facing down the bear. What if Anders was too slow? What if the bear was too fierce? What if—he pushed the thought away with an effort.

Instead, he focused on the motion of his hands, the steady rhythm of shelling peas, one after another. It was a small thing to do, but it was grounding. For a moment, the world shrank down to the simple task of peeling away the pods and setting the peas in their neat pile. It was an action he could control, unlike the larger, far more dangerous events unfolding just outside.

It had been Anders and Osgood’s idea for Kirk to stay with Wilder during the bear hunt. Neither of them wanted their husbands left alone while the bear was still roaming the area,and so Kirk had arrived at the longhouse with a trunk filled with his belongings, a basket of freshly picked peas from his own garden, and a tired smile. When Wilder asked what would happen to his and Osgood’s home while Kirk was staying, Kirk had shrugged and said his siblings were taking care of it. "Isn't it about time they did something useful?" he’d added with a rueful grin. Wilder, who had no siblings of his own, could only nod in understanding. He had once lived with many brothers, at the monastery, and had learned early that, in a family, everyone had their role to play.

Now, the two men waited together in an uneasy silence. Their nerves were on edge, their bodies tense, but neither of them wanted to admit that the true discomfort lay in their longing for their husbands’ presence. They could be with no one but each other, and yet, they both ached for the company of the men they loved.

Wilder broke the silence, his voice trembling slightly. "Do they have to kill the bear? Couldn’t they just—lead it away, somehow? That way, no one else has to get hurt." He imagined Anders, setting a trail of berries and fish, leading the animal to a quiet, faraway glade where it could live out its days in peace, far from the homes of the villagers.

Kirk, who had been frowning into the distance, let out a heavy sigh. "Too late for that now, even if it could be done. Osgood told me that Harald and Norman—" He paused, catching Wilder’s sour expression at the mention of those two men. "Ah, you know them?"

"Harald, yes," Wilder answered sharply, his mouth tightening into a line. "And his friends. They are—not welcome here."

Kirk nodded. "Same in our household. They're far too old to be ne’er-do-wells, but that’s what they are. Those two managed to fail the hunt so badly that they actually made thingsworse—an injured, starving bear, a mangled leg. It’s hard for the beast to walk, let alone catch fish, but it's found that people are slow, and their homes are full of food. The larders, the livestock—easy pickings. The families of those it’s attacked will want recompense, and the hide of the animal that harmed their loved ones will give them some comfort."

Wilder’s stomach churned. He could understand the families wanting justice, but to kill the bear felt like such a final, irreversible choice. What about the bear? Was it truly just a mindless animal, driven only by hunger and instinct, or was there something more—something lost in the wild, in the forest, in its pain?

"What about Harald and Norman? Shouldn't they be helping the others in the hunt?" Wilder asked, his curiosity piqued. He realized, in that moment, that despite his time with Frode and his frequent visits into town, he knew very little of how things truly worked in the community. What were the laws, the customs? What was the right way to act when something like this happened? He made a mental note to learn more—when he and Anders were properly married, he would ensure he knew his place in the town, too.

Kirk scoffed. "If they were anyone else, they’d be helping. But they’re not. Osgood detests them, as does your Anders, am I right? But it doesn’t matter, because they're in town arguing with the earl. The families of the injured are demanding gold in compensation. And of course, Harald and Norman argue that they’re not to blame. The bear’s a wild animal. It does what it will. But none of this would have happened if they’d been better hunters," he said, shaking his head.

Wilder’s frown deepened. It seemed so typical of Harald and Norman—men too proud to admit their failures, too quick to shift blame elsewhere. And now they were involved in something far bigger than they could control.

Kirk, who had been pacing as he spoke, returned to Wilder’s side and handed him his share of the peas that remained. "Here, Wilder, take these. I need something else to do besides complain. Finish these, and I’ll work on your wedding clothes."

At the mention of the wedding clothes, Wilder’s face lit up. "Oh! You brought them here? Can I see what you’ve done so far?"

Kirk nodded, a gleam of pride in his eyes, and returned to the trunk that he’d brought with him. With a flourish, he produced a belt woven in red and yellow threads, and a half-finished tunic in dark blue, with golden wheat embroidered along the sleeves. The tunic was beautiful even in its unfinished state. Wilder couldn’t believe how lucky he was to own something so fine. "I still have the collar to finish," Kirk added, "but give me another week or so, and it’ll all be done."

Wilder’s fingers brushed over the fabric, and he couldn’t help but smile. It was more beautiful than he had ever imagined. He had never owned such fine clothes—he had seen such things only on rich visitors to the monastery, and they were a far cry from what he could afford. The thought of wearing such a tunic, of having something made just for him, sent a thrill through him. "They're wonderful," he said, his voice filled with awe. "I almost cannot believe that they are mine. A—a prince would be proud to wear them." He gestured to his head as if placing an invisible crown.

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