Page 8 of The Warrior and the Monk

Communication was a constant issue between them. Anders didn't speak, and while Wilder could, he only knew a handful of words in Anders's language. Wilder settled for speaking aloud as he always did, as if there were no language barrier between them—and, indeed, it seemed sometimes that Anders just understood his gestures and tone of voice, or, at least, was content to listen while Wilder chattered away. When it was absolutely necessary that something be conveyed, Wilder resorted to his own tongue accompanied with emphatic pointing, or, as was becoming more and more usual as the days went on, drawing in the dirt with a stick.

Scratching an image into the ground was a method they could both use. It was a far cry from drawing illuminations on a page of vellum, but Wilder still thought his figures were fairly accurate and legible representations. Anders always knew what it was he had drawn, if not the reason why. And Wilder found that Anders himself wasn't a bad artist, though he was more tentative with his strokes and added far more detail than wasstrictly necessary. Wilder suspected that he thought that more detail meant that the concept he was trying to convey would be more easily grasped.

Wilder drew a hen in the dirt while Anders looked over his shoulder. He heard the man make a quizzical noise as he drew another hen, and another, and one more for good measure, and then he drew a rooster, complete with a wattle and comb. They were good likenesses, he thought with not a little bit of pride. Wilder cast aside the stick as he stood and wiped his hands. "My lord, I'd like for us to keep more chickens. They'll need more feed, and the house will be a great deal noisier, but we'll have more than one egg a day, and we could sell whatever we don't eat. And, well," Wilder added, blushing, "I think Avery would be happier if she had other hens around."

At Avery's name Anders perked up. He stared at the hen, who was now pecking quite aggressively at her drawn counterparts, then Wilder, hands clasped together, nervous and hopeful, and then, finally, he nodded. He took up the stick and drew a sun, a hen, and a few buildings clustered together. Next he drew what Wilder recognized as their own dwelling, a longhouse with its thatched roof. Near the buildings he drew a large stick figure that Wilder knew represented Anders himself—for he never spent much time drawing his own person—and near the longhouse, a smaller figure with Wilder's robes and Wilder's curly hair.

Was it a testament to how many days they had passed together or their artistic system of communicating that allowed Wilder to so quickly understand what Anders was saying? "In the morning you'll go to town and buy more chickens and I'll stay here." That was fine with him. It would be nice to have some time to himself, and when Anders returned they would have their own flock of chickens. "Yes, I understand. Thank you, my lord." Wilder grinned.

The corners of Anders's lips might have twitched into a smile, but he looked away before Wilder could see, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

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Shortly after breakfast the next morning, Anders prepared to leave for town. It was a task Wilder knew needed to be done, but Anders approached it with surprising reluctance, shadowing Wilder as he went about his chores and helping him pack provisions as though he feared leaving him behind.

Wilder had already assured Anders he would manage just fine. He’d clean the cooking pot and utensils, tend the garden—which was nearly free of weeds and ready to be tilled and sown—and even have supper ready for Anders’s return with their new flock of chickens. Despite these reassurances, Anders seemed hesitant, pacing near the door and watching Wilder closely as he worked. His brow remained furrowed as Wilder wrapped up their supplies: a full waterskin, one boiled egg—proof of how urgently they needed more hens—a wedge of hard cheese, and a stack of flatbread leftover from breakfast.

The flatbread had been Wilder’s own handiwork, made according to the recipe Anders had taught him. He’d mixed the leftover pea porridge from the night before with barley flour and water, kneaded it into dough, then divided and rolled it into palm-sized circles to fry in a pan. Though best eaten fresh and warm, the flatbread would keep until Anders reached the town. Wilder hoped it would remind him of home, even if only briefly.

Still, when Wilder clapped his hands together to signify he’d finished packing, Anders remained rooted in place, his expression tense. It was as if the man couldn’t quite bring himself to leave. Wilder tilted his head, unsure whether Anders thought him incapable of managing in his absence or fearedsome calamity would befall their home while he was gone. Perhaps Anders worried Wilder might vanish entirely, fleeing with Avery, the hen, and any valuables he could carry. Wilder had considered escape in the past—fleetingly—but he dismissed the notion now. It wasn’t practical.

"Yes, well, Avery and I will take care of everything here, my lord," Wilder said lightly, rocking back on his heels. He hoped his words would coax Anders into action, but the man still hesitated.

Finally, Anders made an abrupt motion, reaching for his belt. He pulled out his knife and extended it toward Wilder.

Wilder blinked, startled, then slowly took the weapon. He didn’t unsheathe it, though curiosity pricked at him. Instead, he offered Anders a cautious smile. "Ah, well. Thank you. I promise I’ll protect the house." The gesture felt significant—an unspoken test of trust. Anders was leaving him responsible for both the property and its defense. If Wilder proved himself capable, perhaps this would open the door to greater freedoms: accompanying Anders on future trips, or even venturing out alone one day.

Anders stepped closer, resting a broad hand on Wilder’s shoulder. He gave a firm, reassuring squeeze, his gaze steady. Then, at last, he turned and strode away down the path, his figure soon disappearing into the woods.

Wilder stood in the doorway for a moment, the knife still in his hand. He looked at it, at Avery strutting confidently across the yard, and then at the garden stretching out before him. "Just us for the day, then," he said aloud. A small smile tugged at his lips.

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The garden was finally ready. Wilder had weeded every stubborn root, unearthed and discarded rocks and stones buried beneath the soil, and tilled the earth until it was soft and welcoming for the seeds they would soon sow. The effort left him caked in dirt and sweat, his robes smelling particularly ripe from the day’s labor. Clearly, it was the perfect time for a proper bath—or, in this case, a prolonged, indulgent dip in the river beside the house.

Back at the monastery, bathing had been a strictly utilitarian affair. It was done with a rag and a bowl of freezing water, ensuring modesty at all times. First, the hands and face, then the arms and chest, always stopping to cover up again before moving on to the next part of his body. This process, though tedious, preserved his virtue and that of anyone who might accidentally stumble upon him.

But he wasn’t at the monastery anymore. He didn’t have to adhere to their rules. And after the hard work of the morning, Wilder felt he deserved a bit of freedom—and fun. With a grin, he kicked off his boots and peeled off his musty robes and braies, tossing them carelessly onto the riverbank. Before doubt could creep in, he dove into the river.

The cool water enveloped him immediately, washing away the grime of the morning. Wilder submerged himself fully, his toes sinking into the soft mud at the riverbed while the gentle current tugged at him. He resurfaced with a delighted whoop, shaking water from his hair like a wet dog and laughing at his own silliness. This was nothing like the sterile, joyless washing of the monastery. It was liberating.

The river was clear, refreshing, and alive, with foliage swaying lazily around him. The sun kissed his face as he floated on his back, letting the current carry him. There was always more work to be done—he’d need to light the fire and startpreparing supper soon—but for now, he simply enjoyed the quiet contentment of the moment.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, pulling him from his reverie. Was someone watching him? Wilder turned, half-expecting to see a stranger or an animal, but it was only Anders standing on the riverbank. He waved with one arm, the other draped with fabric, and near his feet a small group of chickens pecked at the grass. Wilder waved back, smiling, and scrambled out of the water. His bare skin glistened in the sunlight, and he hadn’t quite reached his clothes when Anders’s eyes widened in alarm.

Anders quickly averted his gaze, fixing his eyes firmly on some distant point beyond Wilder. He thrust the fabric toward him—it was a clean tunic, new and of good quality—and gestured for him to take it. Bemused, Wilder accepted it. "Thank you," he said, pulling it over his head. The tunic was woad-blue, soft to the touch, and generously oversized, falling nearly to his knees. Wilder made a mental note to adjust the fit with needle and thread later.

“It’s very fine, my lord,” Wilder said with a warm smile, smoothing the tunic. Anders didn’t respond with words, but his frown suggested dissatisfaction. Wilder wondered if the man disapproved of the way it hung on him, but his gratitude seemed to ease Anders’s mood.

Then Anders gestured for Wilder to hold out his hand. Curious, Wilder obeyed. Anders loomed over him, towering in a way that made Wilder acutely aware of their height difference. Few people weren’t taller than him, but Anders was something else entirely—broad and imposing yet awkward in moments like this. The sunlight caught on the damp curls clinging to Wilder’s forehead, and for a moment Anders simply stared, his expression unreadable.

Finally, with a soft sound—half amused, half exasperated—Anders pressed something into Wilder’s hand. It was a comb. Wide-toothed, skillfully carved, and polished smooth, though plain and without decoration. Wilder studied it, touched by the gesture.

“For me?” he asked, unsure. Perhaps Anders intended him to use it on his own hair. Then again, Anders’s curls were just as unruly as Wilder’s, so maybe he expected help with his own grooming. To clarify, Wilder brought the comb to his chest, resting it over his heart. "It’s mine? For me?"

Anders’s face relaxed, his shoulders losing some of their tension. Moving with careful deliberation, as if afraid to startle him, Anders reached out to tuck a damp lock of Wilder’s hair behind his ear. His hand lingered for a moment before he patted Wilder’s shoulder, his touch heavy but awkwardly gentle.

“Thank you, my lord,” Wilder said again, his voice soft.

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