Page 7 of The Warrior and the Monk

Realizing his mistake, Wilder quickly forced a polite smile. This man would have control over every part of his life for the foreseeable future; it wouldn’t do to insult him, to make him feel embarrassed or—worse—angry. “Forgive me, my lord,”Wilder murmured, forcing a note of exhaustion into his voice. “I’m just… tired.” He added an exaggerated yawn, hoping it would be enough. Thankfully, Anders’s expression softened with relief. Wilder noted how expressive his new lord was, his body betraying his emotions openly—his shoulders relaxing, his jaw unclenching, his gaze warming with understanding. And then, to Wilder’s surprise, Anders’s hand reached out and settled tentatively on his shoulder, his fingers hovering as if unsure, finally resting there in a gentle grip before guiding Wilder toward the entrance.

Inside, the house was a single, long room, cleverly partitioned with beams and heavy blankets to create small, private areas. A layer of dust hinted at how long Anders had been gone, but otherwise, the room was tidy and well-kept, despite its sparseness. Against one wall stood a simple table and benches, a chest with folded bolts of cloth piled on top, and shelves stacked with plates and bowls—though Wilder noted only one set that looked recently used. The hearth sat cold and empty, its ashes swept neatly into the center. Herbs hung from the rafters in fragrant bundles, their earthy scents mingling with the dust. Wilder recognized some of them from his time at the monastery, and he breathed in the familiar smells with a hint of nostalgia.

Setting the hen down, Wilder wandered over to a ragged bunch of angelica hanging from the rafters. He plucked a sprig, inhaling the sweet, earthy scent. “At least we’ll eat better here than at the monastery,” he muttered to himself, envisioning meals of simple, hearty foods rather than the thin porridge and stale bread he’d grown accustomed to. With only the two of them, provisions would go much further, and Anders seemed unlikely to enforce the same austere restrictions as the monks. Wilder allowed himself a small smile at the thought of cooking with fresh herbs, of foraging in the forest for nuts or berries, of having a little more freedom.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Anders watching him. Caught off guard, Wilder flushed and tried to compose himself. “It smells good,” he explained, gesturing toward the angelica. “We grew this at the monastery. I’m glad there are some things I recognize here; it’ll make cooking easier… if you don’t mind a lot of pottage.” He chuckled softly, though he was mostly speaking to himself. But Anders nodded thoughtfully, as though he’d grasped the gist of Wilder’s words. He nodded once, then again, a little more enthusiastically, before clapping his hands and heading toward the back of the room.

“Um,” Wilder murmured, watching Anders’s retreating figure. Unsure what else to do, he continued following him, clutching his hands awkwardly. Anders led him toward the hearth and gestured to a low, inviting bed of furs arranged beside it. Wilder took in the sight, noting how different it was from the cold stone floor of the monastery and the thin pallet he’d slept on there. The bed of furs was soft and looked warm, but there was a certain bleakness to the setup—no personal items, no decorative touches. It was as if the space had been constructed solely for function, a place to sleep and eat and nothing more. A chill crept over Wilder, a reminder of his uncertain place here, far from anything familiar.

Anders made a sweeping motion toward the bed, clearly indicating that it was meant for him. “Oh,” Wilder said quietly. The thought of resting on something so soft was unexpectedly comforting, though he was painfully aware of Anders’s gaze, watching him with a curious intensity. Gathering himself, he forced another smile. “Thank you for showing me where I’ll be sleeping, my lord.” Trying to ease the tension, he added, “Will you show me the rest of your home?”

His lord looked puzzled. Wilder cleared his throat, trying to think of a way to convey his intentions. “Would you like me to clean, or perhaps… cook something?” He mimed stirring a pot,then pretended to eat from an imaginary plate, hoping Anders would understand.

The corners of Anders’s mouth quirked, and for a moment, Wilder thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in the man’s eyes. Anders nodded, pressing a hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn, then pointed toward the bed and made a small, mimed gesture of eating, indicating that rest should come first. Wilder understood. “Yes, I’ll prepare something after I sleep,” he agreed softly.

At last, he lay down on the bed of furs, feeling their softness envelop him. They smelled faintly musty, like something stored away for too long, but they were warm, and he sank into them with a deep sigh. His body, weary from the long journey, relaxed completely. For the first time in days, he felt something close to comfort. As his eyes closed, the house around him faded, and sleep took him, a heavy, dreamless sleep that chased away all thoughts of monastery, of sea, and even, for now, of the whale bones.

???

When he awoke, warmth and comfort cocooned him, a sensation so rare that Wilder lay still, savoring it. Soft, thick furs encased him, and he could feel the gentle rise and fall of his own breath as if the world outside was content to wait. But then, the scent of something savory drifted over him, drawing him out of his drowsiness. The aroma carried with it hints of herbs, earthy and green, and the faint saltiness of simmering fish. The muffled sound of bubbling water and the low crackle of a fire made his stomach rumble, coaxing him out of his cozy nest.

Reluctantly, Wilder pushed back the furs, their warmth peeling away as he sat up. The longhouse glowed with the dancing light of the hearth, now a bright, crackling fire that filledthe space with a welcoming heat. The shadows it cast flickered along the timber walls, highlighting Anders’s figure as he stirred a pot suspended over the flames. Gone was the imposing warrior clad in heavy armor; Anders now wore a simple tunic and breeches, his sleeves rolled up to his shoulders. Yet, far from appearing diminished, he seemed even more commanding without the extra layers. His powerful arms, dusted with a sheen of sweat from the fire’s warmth, rippled as he stirred, muscles visible even beneath the thin cloth of his shirt. Wilder noted the solid strength of his calves, the breadth of his shoulders, and a quiet awe took hold. He hadn’t realized a man could be built like this—so tall, so solid, like the trunks of the great trees surrounding the house.

At the sound of Wilder stirring, Anders glanced over and, without a word, reached for a wooden bowl. With practiced ease, he ladled a hearty portion of the steaming broth and poached fish into it and handed it to Wilder, along with a spoon. The bowl radiated warmth in his hands, and he peered curiously into its contents, expecting the same monotonous fare he’d grown used to during his time on the ship.

Fish. It was, of course, fish. The irony of it, after the weeks of dried fish at sea, hit him all at once, and a laugh bubbled up from within. It started as a chuckle, but soon he was laughing uncontrollably, his shoulders shaking as he clutched the bowl. “Fish,” he managed to say between laughs, tears pricking his eyes as he thought of the endless meals of dried, salted fish. Here he was, still in a new, strange place, and yet—more fish.

Anders looked at him with a faintly puzzled expression, a soft sound of curiosity escaping him. He raised an eyebrow, glancing from the bowl in Wilder’s hands to Wilder’s face, clearly not understanding the humor but waiting for anexplanation. Wilder took a deep breath, trying to calm his laughter, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“It’s fish,” he said finally, as if that explained it all.

Anders’s brow furrowed, but he nodded slowly, looking down at the bowl as if affirming it. Yes. Fish. Wilder let out a final chuckle, shaking his head before dipping his spoon into the steaming broth, lifting it to his lips. He could smell the delicate mingling of fresh herbs—the angelica from the rafters—and it tasted every bit as appetizing as it looked. The fish was tender, flaking easily with each bite, the broth rich and buttery, filling his mouth with a savory warmth. After so long surviving on dried rations, this tasted like the finest meal he could imagine.

“Thank you, my lord,” he murmured, the words muffled by a mouthful. The warmth of the broth seeped through him, chasing away any lingering chill and filling him with a rare sense of contentment. He looked up and, to his surprise, found Anders watching him closely, a small, tentative smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

The transformation was startling. That one small expression softened Anders’s entire face, making him look almost… boyish. Wilder found himself staring, mesmerized by the way the smile warmed Anders’s hardened features. For a moment, the fierce warrior who had taken him from the monastery vanished, replaced by someone gentler, a man simply pleased to share a meal with him. It struck Wilder that happiness suited him, that the smile gave him a warmth and humanity that made it easy to forget the tension, the wariness he’d felt since being brought here.

But reality settled over him again, a shadow draping itself around the warmth. Despite the kindness of this moment, Anders was still the man who’d taken him from everything he’d known. He was still his captor, and Wilder was still bound to serve him, to work for him, to be the one who tended the fires,cleaned the floors, cared for the hen, and managed the house. A life of toil lay before him, and however kind Anders might seem, it didn’t erase the fact that he was here against his will, that he had no say in this new life.

Wilder forced himself to take another spoonful of the broth, savoring it even as these thoughts settled like a weight on his shoulders. For now, at least, he could enjoy this one small comfort. The meal was good, hearty, and, he realized, an unexpected kindness on Anders’s part—preparing a warm meal for him, a foreigner he’d taken from his home. He wondered if Anders understood how much such a simple act could mean to someone whose life had just been overturned.

When he looked up, Anders was still watching him with that same, faint smile, and Wilder couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something strange—a sense of connection, perhaps, or maybe just the beginnings of understanding. Taking another sip of the warm, fragrant broth, he wondered if, amid all the unknowns, there might be some peace to be found here, even if only in these shared, silent moments.

Chapter Three

Anders confused him.

He was not strict, or stern, and he never chided Wilder in any way or made his displeasure known, but Wilder knew he had to have displeased him many a time because Anders didn't trust him to do his chores alone. If he saw Wilder cleaning he would rush to take the broom or cloth from him, and if Wilder turned away while preparing a meal then he would find Anders in his spot, peeling vegetables or crushing herbs in the mortar and pestle or stirring the pot. If Wilder attempted to mend or repair something, then Anders would all but sprint to his side and take over, be it with needle and thread or hammer and nails.

At first, Wilder assumed that he was doing something incorrectly. Anders couldn't tell him what he was doing wrong, but he could show him how he wanted something to be done. However, no matter how Wilder tried to imitate him, Anders always managed to find some fault. More often than not they ended up working together, or with Anders shooing Wilder away to find some other task to complete in a subpar manner.

It was frustrating.

Wilder didn't want to be his servant. He didn't want to sweep the house with a broom of dried brushes and straw, or wipe the dust from what paltry amount of furniture there was, or wade through the never-ending weeds in the garden and pull them up by the roots, or feed logs into the fire to boil waterfor pottage and soup, or any other task that made Anders's life easier.

But if that wasn't what he was here for, then why had Anders taken him from the monastery's shores in the first place? It became Wilder's habit to find some time during the day to sulk with the little brown hen, who enjoyed his company whatever his mood and who especially liked to peck at the dirt beside him while he weeded the garden.

He'd decided to name her Avery, for as stubborn and bold as she was, the hen was also very sweet. Wilder worried that she was also very lonely, for there were only the three of them at the dwelling, and two of them not even chickens. All birds needed a flock. Despite his misgivings and Anders's dissatisfaction with him, Wilder took it upon himself to ask the man for a few more hens and a rooster for Avery's sake.

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