Page 5 of The Warrior and the Monk

For nearly a week, they had seen no sign of land. Only the undulating waves stretching to the horizon, the sun rising and falling in its relentless march, and the salty air thickened with the smell of the endless sea. Wilder, unaccustomed to the constant motion, lay curled up under his thin, coarse blankets, clutching the only thing that felt remotely familiar—his small, clucking hen. The waves made his stomach churn and twist, a relentless nausea that seemed to be seeping into his bones. He’d feared, in those dark hours, that this was his life now—that he would spend the rest of his days on this vessel, sick and miserable, with strangers who couldn’t understand him, and whom he could barely understand in return. He felt like a captive, swallowed whole by the great beast that was the sea, asif he were a part of the ship’s wooden belly as it surged through the relentless blue expanse.

But soon he came to realize it wasn’t a curse laid upon him alone. When his nausea began to subside, he noticed that most of the crew were in a similar state—especially the warriors, whose usually proud and fierce faces had grown pale and drawn. Wilder remembered seeing them on the beach when they first arrived, watching with childlike wonder as they prodded the shells, rocks, and even the twisted mermaid’s purse strewn across the shore. Their strength was untested here, their fierce gazes softened by unfamiliarity. In battle, they were likely unstoppable, yet here, wobbling on a rocking deck and slipping across salt-slicked planks, they seemed as vulnerable as children.

Even Anders, who kept a close watch on him, looked worn and exhausted. Anders would press a cool cloth to Wilder’s forehead or bring water to his lips when he was too weak to reach for it himself, his tired face creased in a determined frown. Wilder knew why Anders went to such lengths; it wasn’t kindness alone. If Wilder died on this journey, Anders would have no servant to present when he returned. Wilder’s presence on this ship was Anders’s responsibility, a task he had taken upon himself with grim resolve. And in this strange, isolated place, Wilder had no choice but to rely on him, on Anders’s care and protection. Some of the crew seemed resentful of the extra attention he received, the scarce rations brought to him despite his inability to work or help in any meaningful way. There were mutterings and pointed looks, tensions that simmered just below the surface.

An argument had even broken out over this, or something close to an argument. One of the sailors, red-faced and shouting, had confronted Anders, pointing first at Wilder, then at the sails and animals and the others onboard. Andershad stood silently, letting the angry words wash over him like waves against a rock, until, with a wolfish snarl and a flash of his teeth, he’d ended it. The sailor backed away, grumbling under his breath, leaving Anders to care for Wilder in peace.

Yet not everyone viewed Wilder with hostility. Some looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, occasionally attempting to speak to him in their language. His name, "Wilder," was awkward on their tongues, each attempt ending in laughter as he shook his head in patient correction. Over time, he had picked up a few words—small pieces of understanding that he clung to in the unfamiliarity. There were no books, no scribes to explain these words; only gestures and repetition. Slowly, through broken exchanges, he learned to ask for basic things, though it wasn’t easy. He’d had to pantomime, point, and repeat the word “water” countless times before they finally understood he wanted drinkable water rather than seawater. One of the warriors, the one who had laughed at the mermaid’s purse on the beach, finally understood and showed him which barrels held water meant for drinking.

Bit by bit, his vocabulary grew. Hen, he learned, as he stroked the feathers of his small, brown companion. Sheep, he picked up, though he suspected the word referred specifically to ewes, as they were all female. He tried to expand his understanding of the world around him, but every word came at a slow and often frustrating pace. He learned “sun,” though he longed to know more—what did they call sunlight, or the different shades of dawn and dusk? He held back from asking more, fearing to wear out their patience. Each word was a small triumph, a scrap of belonging he tucked away.

One day, he felt brave enough to ask for the word for “lord.” He wanted to know how to properly address Anders, especially since he was unsure how long he would be bound to the man’s service. He pointed to Anders, then himself, hopingshe’d understand he meant his relationship to Anders, a title or a term of respect. "My lord," he said haltingly, the words strange on his tongue, as though they were foreign. For so long, he’d resisted the idea of serving anyone but God; now he was bound to a mere man.

The warrior-woman’s eyes brightened as she clapped her hands and, with a delighted laugh, launched into rapid speech with Anders. He glanced at Wilder, surprise flickering across his face as he listened, before the warrior-woman finally turned back to him, a playful smile on her lips.

Wilder attempted it as best he could. "My lord," he said, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "My lord Anders."

The words felt odd and foreign in his mouth, like stones he was reluctant to spit out. He didn't expect much of a reaction, yet as soon as the words left his lips, Anders froze. For a moment, his face went slack with shock, his eyes wide with an expression that Wilder couldn't quite read. Then, as if his knees had simply buckled beneath him, Anders sank down onto a nearby crate, looking dazed and more vulnerable than Wilder had ever seen him. He seemed, in that brief instant, utterly floored.

The surrounding crew noticed immediately. Someone let out a shout of approval, and soon the air was filled with laughter and rowdy cheers. Men clapped Anders heartily on the back, grinning and offering words of congratulations in their own language, a celebratory clamor Wilder didn’t fully understand. Yet it was clear that his use of the title had somehow marked a milestone, a sign of loyalty and acceptance that held more significance than he’d anticipated. Anders himself was still sitting, almost dazed, as if struggling to process what had just occurred.

The loudness of it all made Wilder feel small and exposed. Heat prickled at his cheeks, and he wished he couldshrink away. The celebration, the claps on Anders’s shoulders, even the sly smiles some of the warriors shot him—every reaction only intensified his growing discomfort. This was not what he’d intended. His words hadn’t been a declaration of loyalty, not exactly. They were just an attempt to navigate his new reality, to show the bare minimum of respect to someone on whom he relied for survival. Yet, looking at Anders now, the pride in his face, and the camaraderie all around, it seemed to mean much more to everyone else.

Feeling suddenly out of place, Wilder took a step back and slipped away from the commotion, retreating to his familiar corner near the animals and the stash of loot. He sank down, trying to make himself small among the bleating sheep and clucking hens, away from the noise and watchful eyes. His stomach churned, though this time it wasn’t from seasickness. He felt a strange shame prickling at him, as though he had unwittingly admitted to a kind of servitude he still resisted in his heart. To him, the title was nothing more than a necessity, something to help him stay on Anders’s good side, yet the crew’s reaction had made it feel like he had just sworn some oath, as though he’d given up a part of himself.

As he sat there, nursing his conflicted thoughts, he felt a soft weight settle on his knee. Looking down, he found the little brown hen, her head cocked as she looked up at him with beady eyes, clucking softly as if in understanding. Normally, her small presence brought him a measure of comfort, but today even her weight on his lap felt like a reminder of his changed role, his shift from the freedom he’d known to this unfamiliar submission.

He absentmindedly stroked her feathers, her warmth grounding him, though his mind still buzzed with embarrassment and resentment. He wondered what the monks at home would think if they could see him now, if they’d laugh or feel disappointed. They’d taught him that all service shouldbe directed toward the divine, that to serve another man was to lower oneself. And yet here he was, in the belly of a ship far from any familiar shore, submitting to a man he barely knew, a man whose language he didn’t speak, a man who now seemed to think Wilder’s allegiance was assured.

The voices of the crew still echoed nearby, and every cheer felt like a further weight pressing down on him. For them, his words had marked an acceptance, a bond that went deeper than he could fathom. But to Wilder, they only reminded him of his loss. His old life, his freedom, his sense of self—each cheer felt like one more thread tying him to Anders’s service, binding him further to a fate he’d never chosen.

???

For all that Wilder had done to avoid the endless, menial chores at the monastery, he had never shirked his prayers. Rising before dawn to shuffle into the cold chapel, feeling the stone beneath his knees as he knelt in the predawn silence, had always come more naturally to him than sweeping the floors or scrubbing the pots. Even on the days when he was bone-weary, longing only to slip into the quiet of his cell and lose himself in sleep, he found the strength to join the others as they assembled in flickering candlelight, their voices rising together in sacred song and whispered pleas to the Divine.

It was during those times, with his hands clasped tightly and his head bowed, that Wilder felt an undeniable peace. The world faded away, and it was as though God was there beside him, close enough to hear every hope, every worry, and every fear he dared not voice aloud. As a novice, he’d been taught to keep his words to himself, to let his devotion show in silent reverence, not idle chatter. But in prayer, he had found a confidant who demanded nothing of him but honesty. Godhad never answered him, at least not in any way he could understand, but he never doubted that his words had been heard. His chatter, his confessions, even his frustrations—he left them all at the feet of the Divine.

Even aboard the ship, Wilder clung stubbornly to his prayers. God knew his heart; they understood that his whispered words were equal parts defiance and desperation. Each time he knelt on the rough planks of the ship, surrounded by the bleating sheep and restless chickens, it was a way to lash out against his captivity, to carve out a private corner in this strange, godless place. It was his act of rebellion, his way of preserving a small, stubborn shred of the life he’d left behind. Even if every other routine had been torn from him, he would hold onto this.

The sailors and warriors gave him strange looks, but no one interfered. When they passed by and saw him with his head bowed, whispering softly into his hands, their expressions ranged from puzzled to wary. He didn’t know if they even recognized what he was doing. Perhaps they had their own ways of praying, done in private or with elaborate rites he couldn’t begin to imagine. Or maybe they worshipped different gods altogether, gods he knew nothing about, gods who didn’t listen or care for the longings of mortals. Wilder couldn’t know. All he knew was that his strange behavior had made him even more of an outsider. It was almost amusing to him, how the sight of him mumbling by the animals made the others avoid him, how it created a sort of protective bubble around him. When he was tired of the sea’s endless rocking, the relentless taste of dried fish, the alien chatter and the laughter he was never sure wasn’t aimed mockingly at him, he took comfort in the way his prayer set him apart.

Only Anders seemed unbothered by his daily devotion. Whenever Wilder knelt down and pressed his palms together, the warrior would sit nearby, silent and watchful. Sometimes,Wilder felt Anders’s gaze on him, as if the man was observing every bow of his head, every whisper that left his lips. Other times, Anders’s focus was turned outward, as if keeping an eye on the others and their watchful glances. Wilder understood what Anders was doing—he was a shield, a silent guard against any contempt or resentment that might be festering in the crew. There were times Wilder felt almost grateful for the quiet protection.

But that gratitude was a bitter thing, tangled with resentment. It was Anders, after all, who had taken him from his life of quiet piety and study, who had plucked him from the monastery and dragged him into this strange new world. Anders had been the one to give him a new name, a new role, a new purpose he had never asked for. If it weren’t for Anders, Wilder would still be there, living a life of contemplation and service, illuminating manuscripts by candlelight, surrounded by the familiar voices of the choir. He would be safe, content, never knowing anything beyond the walls of the monastery.

The memory of it all—the candlelit chapel, the quiet of the scriptorium, the steady rhythms of a life devoted to study and faith—washed over him, and before he knew it, his eyes were stinging with tears. He tried to hold them back, tried to focus on the familiar ritual of prayer, but a few stray drops escaped and splattered onto the deck, glistening against the rough wood. Wilder didn’t bother wiping his face, didn’t dare make a sound. He sniffled quietly, pressing his hands together more firmly, and whispered his words with renewed fervor, praying for guidance, for understanding, for some hint of what he was meant to do in this new life that felt so painfully foreign.

As he whispered his prayer, he felt Anders’s gaze on him, as steady and unrelenting as the sun. There was an odd comfort in knowing that Anders was there, watching over him, even if Anders himself was the source of his pain. And yet,for the first time, Wilder allowed himself to acknowledge the complexity of that feeling—a mingling of resentment, gratitude, and something else he couldn’t quite name, something that stirred uneasily in his chest whenever Anders was near. He prayed harder, letting the words tumble out in a rush, hoping they could drown out the conflict in his heart.

After a long moment, he felt Anders shift beside him, as if he were waiting for Wilder to finish. But Wilder stayed where he was, fingers laced together, head bent low. He didn’t want Anders to see the tear stains on his cheeks, didn’t want him to see the way he trembled, caught between anger and grief. He closed his eyes, willing the memories to fade, willing himself to focus only on the sound of his own voice, the quiet murmur that was all he had left of his former life.

???

A hand on his shoulder gently pulled Wilder from sleep. Groggy, he squinted up into the morning light, still half-lost in dreams. Anders loomed over him, face unreadable, nodding toward the ship’s edge with a silent command. Still drowsy, Wilder rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering pull of sleep. With a murmured, “My lord,” he staggered to his feet and followed.

Dawn had broken over the water in a wash of gold, illuminating a landscape Wilder had begun to fear he’d never see. Ahead, cliffs rose on either side, draped in dense, untamed forest, while a winding river cut through like a gleaming ribbon. Birds chattered and darted through the mist-laden trees, and a breeze, rich with the scent of earth and wildflowers, teased past them. Wilder leaned over the railing, his face breaking into a wide grin as he took it all in.

“Land,” he whispered, almost disbelieving. He clutched the ship’s edge, feeling the rough wood beneath his fingertips, grounding him to this moment. “It’s… beautiful.”

---