Page 42 of The Warrior and the Monk

Wilder stepped forward, the familiar feeling of standing between two strong, determined men filling him with a sense of helplessness. He knew that whatever had sparked this conflict would not end easily. But he also knew that his place—his role—was not to fight, but to help Anders find his way back to the calm he had found in the fields with him.

Wilder couldn’t help but feel a surge of fury building within him as he watched Harald’s smirk twist into a cruel sneer. The words were meant to wound, and they hit their mark with devastating precision. "A pretty little husband, but what vows can you make to him? You can barely talk!" Harald’s voice was dripping with contempt, and for a brief moment, it felt as though the air itself had thickened with the weight of his venomous words.

Wilder’s chest tightened, but he could feel Anders's presence beside him, the tension in the air coiling around themboth. The words had hit Anders harder than Wilder could have anticipated. He could see the stricken look on his husband's face, the sharp pang of vulnerability, and it broke his heart in a way he couldn’t fully explain. He couldn’t bear to watch Anders falter under Harald's cruelty. Without thinking, Wilder surged forward, pushing his way through the crowd, his voice rising above the murmurs and shifting chaos.

"Anders!" he cried, desperate to close the distance between them. He was almost frantic now, needing to reach Anders, to touch him, to ground him before this moment could slip into something irreversible.

The crowd parted just enough for Wilder to reach Anders’s side, his hand outstretched. He grabbed Anders’s hand and squeezed it tightly, grounding them both in the connection they shared. "Anders," he repeated, his voice softer now, but no less urgent. He turned to face Harald, his gaze hardening. "Our vows are of no importance to you! Anders will make his vows to me. I understand him."

It was all Wilder could manage, all he could say in the face of such cruel mockery, but it felt true. They had built something strong, something real, and that was more than any derisive comment from Harald could ever take away.

Harald’s voice rang out again, dripping with derision. "Can anyone understand you, with how clumsily you speak? What a farce the ceremony will be." His eyes gleamed with the kind of malice that made Wilder’s blood run cold. He could see Anders bristle beside him, could feel the anger radiating off him in waves, his hand tightening on Wilder's. The tension between the two men was palpable, but Wilder refused to let it break him.

Before he could respond, Anders’s voice rasped out like gravel, raw and guttural. "Then you need not worry—Wilder and I are well-matched."

Wilder felt the weight of Anders’s words, the promise behind them. But Harald wasn’t finished. He leaned forward, his smirk deepening, eyes narrowing in challenge. "We’ll see, won’t we?" he hissed, daring them to prove him wrong.

"No," came Anders’s voice, low and deadly. “You will not. I'll tear your eyes from their sockets first."

The words hung in the air, sharp as a blade. A shocked hush fell over the crowd. It wasn’t just the threat of violence; it was the intensity in Anders’s voice, the raw power behind it that made the entire market hold its breath. Wilder’s heart raced, a flicker of fear rushing through him.Had Anders gone too far?His pulse quickened as he glanced around at the silent onlookers, wondering if his husband’s fury had crossed a line. A low murmur rippled through the crowd, but it wasn’t directed at Anders.

"You heard the man," a matron said, her voice loud and sure, cutting through the tension. "You don’t want to test him, Harald."

A baker, her hands dusted with flour, chimed in with a grin, "You tend to court that reaction. It was Kirk who last promised to put your eyes out, if I recall." Her voice was teasing but held a sharp edge. There was an unspoken understanding in the market, an unspoken loyalty to the people of the town. It wasn’t just about defending Anders—it was about protecting the sense of belonging, the unity they had all cultivated together.

Another voice broke through, one of a man with a hearty laugh. "Now, no need to sully a wedding with bloodshed. If you've seen one ceremony, you've seen them all. Just sit this one out. There'll still be feasting after, aye?" His tone was lighthearted, attempting to defuse the growing tension.

Wilder’s breath caught in his chest, his body still coiled with anticipation, but it seemed that the threat had passed.Harald, clearly angered and embarrassed, scowled, shaking off the hand of the man who had tried to soothe him.

"Do what you like," Harald muttered, his voice a low growl. "I have better to do than waste my time watching you all eat and drink yourselves into a stupor for this sorry excuse for a couple." His final glance was a venomous glare, and with that, he turned on his heel and stalked off, his presence retreating like the fading echo of a storm.

Wilder exhaled sharply, the tension in his chest easing. But the moment hadn’t passed quietly; the crowd remained still for a moment, processing what had just transpired. And then, as if the spell had been broken, a man nearby clapped Wilder on the shoulder, his voice warm and cheerful as he said, "Well, I don’t! I love a wedding! I look forward to yours," and the crowd slowly began to stir again, as though the incident had never happened.

Wilder turned to Anders, who still seemed tense, the flicker of anger not entirely gone. He tugged gently at his sleeve. "Thank you," Wilder said softly, his voice filled with a mixture of gratitude and concern. "Anders, let’s return home."

Anders nodded stiffly, his jaw set. Without another word, he threw his pack over his shoulder, the weight of the moment still clinging to him as they made their way through the market. The noise and bustle of the crowd seemed distant, muted by the storm that had just passed between them.

As they neared the edge of the market, Anders suddenly let out a violent cough. It racked his body, making him stumble for a moment, and he quickly turned away, his face flushed red. Wilder’s heart clenched.

"Oh, Anders," he murmured, his voice gentle with concern. "Does your throat hurt?"

Anders gave a rueful nod, his expression a mixture of frustration and resignation. "It’s true," he said, his voice rough. "I won’t be able to make my vows to you properly. Not with…"He gestured to the scar across his throat, the evidence of a past injury that had left him with a voice that could never be as clear as it once was.

Wilder’s heart ached for him.Anders, he began slowly, his hands deliberate,this is how we talk, just you and I. We’re saying our vows to each other, and that’s all that matters.

Anders didn’t reply, but he didn’t need to. Instead, he reached for Wilder’s hand and kissed it softly, his lips brushing gently against Wilder’s palm. It was a simple gesture, yet it spoke volumes. Wilder understood, deeply, the meaning of that kiss. It was a vow in itself, a promise shared in silence. They didn’t need the approval of anyone else; they had each other, and that was enough.

???

A few days later, Wilder woke to the sound of Avery's furious squawking, her voice filled with panic and outrage. The rest of the hens joined in, their frantic calls echoing through the longhouse, amplifying the already tense atmosphere. Wilder’s eyes snapped open, heart racing as he sat up. Was it a fox? A hawk? Something that could threaten the flock? Avery, fiercely protective of her ladies, would defend them to the last, but a creature with a sharp beak or claws could easily overpower her.

Anders let out a startled “oof!” as Wilder scrambled over him, his movements frantic. Wilder could hear the ruckus outside growing louder, the hens’ shrill cries almost deafening in the quiet morning air. Without thinking, he leapt out of the furs, his feet hitting the cold wooden floor, his pulse pounding in his ears as he rushed for the door. Was it too late to save the hens? Was the yard already a bloody, feathery mess? The thought made Wilder's stomach tighten, and he ran barefoot across the damp, dewy grass, his tunic billowing around his legs."Oh, Avery!" he called out, his voice strained with worry as he made his way to the yard.

But when he rounded the corner, Wilder came to an abrupt halt, nearly tripping over his own feet. His eyes took in the scene before him, and he blinked in confusion. There were no bloodied feathers or signs of a predator. Instead, three men stood huddled together in the yard, one holding a stick that he was brandishing at the hens, trying to keep them at bay. But the hens were having none of it, especially Avery, who led the charge with unmatched fury, pecking at their boots with all the grace and power of a small, enraged warrior.

Wilder, still half-asleep and still caught in the rush of adrenaline, stared at the scene for a moment longer before calling out, "I—hello?" His voice cracked slightly, as if the sheer absurdity of the situation was enough to break through his panic.

One of the men turned toward him, and the voice that spoke was familiar. Wilder’s brow furrowed as he took a closer look, finally recognizing the three warriors. They were the same ones who had sailed with him and Anders on the long journey, strong and capable men, all of them. The sight of them in his yard, struggling to deal with Avery and her warband of hens, was so ludicrous that Wilder couldn’t help but smile, despite the situation.

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