Page 4 of The Warrior and the Monk

As the ship rocked gently on the waves, Wilder took in his surroundings with growing unease. He hadn’t realized it at first, but he was the only captive. Of all the supplies that had been loaded onto the ship—crates of vegetables, dried meat, bolts of fabric, chickens, a few bleating sheep, and a small chest of jewelry—there wasn’t another soul from the monastery or the nearby village. No other monks, no villagers, no other prisoners.

For a moment, this struck him as odd. After all, these warriors had certainly raided the land. He could see the spoils of their plunder scattered across the deck. But there was nothing familiar among the goods. No relics, no books, no jars of the precious spices the monks used in their rituals and meals. None of the monastery’s more sacred items, which they had sopainstakingly hidden. Only a basket—the very one he’d woven—had been taken. It was as if the warriors had made a deliberate choice not to pillage the monastery’s treasures.

The trade with Brother Ellion, Wilder realized, must have been more than just an exchange of flesh for a sword. It was a symbolic gesture, a contract of protection. By giving up his sword, Anders had secured Wilder as his prize, but it seemed to come with an unspoken agreement: nothing else would be taken. The warriors had made their bargain. They could have ransacked the monastery, sniffed out every hidden relic if they’d wanted to. But they hadn’t.

Wilder wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or burdened by this revelation. As long as he remained on this ship, as long as he stayed where he was, he was keeping the others safe. He was a token of peace, a trade made to protect the sacred place he had once called home. But what did that make him now? A captive? A sacrifice? He hugged the hen closer, feeling the weight of that realization settle heavily in his chest.

Anders crouched beside him, breaking his thoughts. His large, calloused hand extended a waterskin, a bit of dried fish, and a rough woolen blanket. For a moment, Wilder considered refusing it. A small, defiant part of him wanted to reject their provisions, to show that he would not be tamed so easily. But the cold sea air gnawed at his bones, and his stomach twisted in hunger. Starving himself wouldn’t help anyone—not him, not the monastery.

Swallowing his pride, he accepted the offerings with a quiet, "Thank you," and wrapped the blanket tightly around himself. The warmth was a small comfort, but it was something. He took a tentative bite of the dried fish. It was tough and overly salty, making his jaw ache as he chewed. He tore off a small piece and offered it to the hen in his lap. She gave it a single, disinterested peck before turning her beak away in disgust.

Wilder chuckled softly, though the sound was hollow. "I agree," he murmured to the hen, tossing the piece of fish aside. He glanced up at Anders, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. There was no malice in his gaze, but Wilder couldn’t discern what lay behind those dark eyes. Was he expected to express gratitude? Submission? Or was this simply the routine care of a possession, like tending to a newly acquired animal or tool?

He couldn't bring himself to look at the other warriors. Their laughter and whispered conversations continued, though none of them dared approach him after Anders’s earlier growl. It was strange, this unspoken authority Anders held over them, especially considering he had traded his weapon away. Yet there was no doubt that the others deferred to him, respected him, even feared him in some quiet way.

The ship swayed again, and Wilder’s thoughts drifted back to the monastery. What were the monks doing now? Were they praying for his safety, or had they already resigned themselves to his fate? Brother Ellion’s cold, calculating words echoed in his mind:It’s a sacrifice—be brave, so that the monastery will be safe!Had Ellion truly believed what he said, or had he simply been eager to rid himself of a novice he’d never liked?

A lump formed in Wilder’s throat, but he pushed the rising emotions down. He couldn’t afford to wallow in self-pity. Not here. Not now. He was still alive, still capable of making choices. The question was, what could he do with that? What power, if any, did he still possess?

He looked out over the endless stretch of water, the shore disappearing into the distance. His fate was uncertain, but for now, he was a part of this ship, a part of these warriors’ world. He had to survive. Whatever that meant, whatever it took.

By the time Wilder found the courage to stand and study his surroundings, the monastery had completely vanished from view, swallowed by the vast expanse of water that surrounded him. The salty breeze whipped through his hair, and the waves crashed against the hull, a constant reminder of his precarious situation. The hen, startled by his sudden movement, tumbled to the deck with an angry squawk, her feathers ruffled as she regained her footing. Wilder, trembling with uncertainty, dropped her and shakily walked to the edge of the ship, staring out into the endless sea.

He hadn’t cried when Brother Ellion had cast him aside so callously, nor when the stranger had led him to the boat and placed him among the animals like mere cargo. But now, as the reality of his situation sunk in, he felt the tears spill over, pressing a hand to his mouth to stifle the sobs that threatened to escape. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the salt of the sea air, and he couldn’t help but feel embarrassed by this show of weakness. His cheeks burned crimson as he realized he was utterly alone. The place he had called home for his entire life had vanished, leaving nothing but an aching void filled with uncertainty and fear.

Nearby, one of the sailors spoke to him in a soothing tone, attempting to offer comfort, while another one jeered something that sent a ripple of laughter echoing across the deck. Wilder glanced at the crew, their faces a mix of curiosity and amusement, and felt a surge of humiliation wash over him. Whether his tears unsettled or irritated them was clear; he was a bother either way. Someone called for Anders, likely insisting he deal with his emotional charge, and Wilder found himself wishing desperately that he could simply disappear.

Anders approached him, his presence looming as he gestured for Wilder to return to the animals, urging him to sit.Wilder merely stared at him with red-rimmed, watery eyes, a mixture of confusion and defiance brewing within him.

The man’s expression was almost pleading, and Wilder wondered if it was unseemly for a warrior to have a servant so obviously unhappy with him. His eyes narrowed at the thought. What did it matter? He had lost everything. If he was going to express his dissatisfaction, now was as good a time as any. The monastery was safe, he was sure of it. It would only be a waste of time and resources to return and reprimand the monks, taking their food and livestock if Wilder indulged in his unhappiness now. He had nothing to lose but his own dignity, and perhaps it was a small price to pay.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” he asked, wiping his face with his sleeve, his voice unsteady. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not going anywhere.” There was nowhere else to go, except for the depths of the sea.

Amidst the muttering of the crew, Anders picked up the blanket that had fallen to the deck and wrapped it around Wilder's shoulders, a gentle yet firm gesture. Wilder stiffened for a moment, then reluctantly let the warmth envelop him, seeking solace in the fabric. He could feel the eyes of the crew on him, weighing and judging, but this small act of kindness made him feel a fraction less vulnerable. Finally, he sat down beside the hens and sheep, preferring the company of these animals to the crew of armored warriors and hardened sailors who surrounded him.

Anders’s demeanor shifted; he shifted from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his head as if grappling with his own uncertainty. Then, making a decision, he pulled the chainmail over his head and let it pool to the deck without another glance at it. The metallic clank echoed softly in the air as he sat beside Wilder, his body language radiating an unexpected sense of camaraderie. He reached for Wilder’s hand, and Wilderinstinctively recoiled at first, but Anders pressed forward, pulling aside the high neckline of his tunic to reveal the skin beneath.

“Wha—” Wilder gasped, his breath hitching in his throat. There, across Anders’s neck, was a long line of scar tissue, raised and rough, a stark reminder of a past trauma.

His throat had been slit.

Wilder’s mind raced as he processed this revelation. Anders had survived such a brutal wound—obviously, or else they wouldn’t be sitting there together. He could feel the pulse beneath his fingers, hot and strong, as he stared at the man in disbelief. How strong was he? Who had managed to inflict such violence and yet failed to take his life?

“I see,” Wilder murmured, voice trembling. “I understand.”

Understanding came slowly but surely, like the tide creeping up the shore. The silence they shared, the gestures Anders made, the way the other warrior had introduced Wilder to him—all of it began to weave a tapestry of shared experience. Wilder still couldn’t comprehend why, out of all the shores they could have chosen, Anders had come to his monastery, or why, of all the treasures they could have taken, he had deemed Wilder an acceptable trade for his sword.

Anders continued to gaze at him, his expression gentle and sad, much like it had been when he first removed his helmet. Wilder’s heart ached, not just for himself but for the burden Anders must carry. The silence stretched between them, heavy and pregnant with unspoken words.

Then, when Wilder said nothing else, Anders dropped his hand, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a hard-boiled egg. He deftly shelled it, crushing the remnants of the shell in his fist and tossing them to the hen, who pecked at the bits with much more enthusiasm than she had shown for the dried fish. The eggwhite he peeled away and ate, savoring it, while the golden yolk he gently dropped into Wilder’s hand.

Wilder stared at the yolk, considering it. There weren’t many hens on the ship, and each egg had to be precious. Here on the sea, it was practically a luxury—a taste of the fresh, nourishing food he’d taken for granted back at the monastery. He held it up to the sky, marveling at its rich, dark orange hue. It was like a little sun, a glimmer of warmth amidst the chill of his situation.

He hesitated, feeling the weight of Anders’s gaze on him. The yolk represented more than just food; it was a gesture of kindness, an offering of comfort in a time of fear and uncertainty. Swallowing his pride, he popped it into his mouth. The taste was rich and creamy, yet it left an unexpected bitter aftertaste that lingered on his tongue.

Chapter Two

He had lived by the sea all his life, and every inch of its shore was familiar to him. He had scoured its sands for seaweed, dug in its damp earth for clams, and spent countless hours wading beneath its waves. He knew every color it turned, from the pale blue-gray of morning to the deep, rolling navy of a storm. He had fished in its waters since he was strong enough to hold a line, had learned to gauge the weight of his net just by feeling it, and could tell the change in the tides by the scent of the breeze alone. The sea had always been both a friend and a foe, and he respected and feared it in equal measure. Yet never had Wilder thought of it as truly vast—until now.

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