Page 19 of The Warrior and the Monk

Wilder froze. His mind stuttered, grinding to a halt. His thoughts scrambled over every interaction he’d had with Anders—his shyness, his awkwardness, the gifts, the kindness, thekiss. It all suddenly clicked, the pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t understood falling into place in a dizzying rush.

The kiss.

Wilder’s heart lurched, and before he could stop himself, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His body wavered, unsteady, but the realization was so sharp that it felt like his whole body moved in response. He tried to stand, to get up, to flee from this room, but his legs betrayed him.

He stumbled, but Frode was there, his strong hands catching Wilder by the arms, steadying him.

Wilder clutched at Frode’s sleeve, his voice unsteady and desperate. “What does it mean?” he gasped. “The word I’ve been calling him… it’smy lord, isn’t it? That’s what it means, right?”

Frode sighed, a deep, knowing sound. He brushed a lock of hair from Wilder’s forehead, his fingers gentle, almost maternal. “Oh, lad,” he murmured softly, his voice full of pity. “It means ‘my husband.’ You’ve been calling him husband all this time.”

Chapter Seven

Frode's gentle hands pressed a cup to Wilder's lips, the warm liquid swirling with the soft scent of chamomile. The physician’s voice was calm, soothing as he urged Wilder to drink. It did little to ease the ache in his chest, though, and even less to calm the gnawing dread that twisted inside him. The draught stilled his trembling hands, but the hollow weight in his stomach only deepened. His eyes grew heavy, the fatigue dragging him down, but there was no escaping the thoughts that swirled like a storm inside his mind.

My husband.

It echoed over and over, the words searing through his thoughts, each repetition more disorienting than the last. He closed his eyes, trying to push it away, but it clung to him like the damp clothes he’d been pulled from earlier. All this time—how had he not realized? From the very first moment he’d met Anders, the soldier on the ship had saidmy husband. The strange, thick accent, the way she’d said it with such ease. Wilder had simply mimicked it, never questioning the weight of it.

How had no one thought it strange?

The realization sank deeper, as if a stone had been dropped in his chest, sending ripples through everything he thought he knew. The soldier’s words, Anders’s quiet ways, the customs that now seemed so glaringly obvious.

But none of this made sense. Anders had never courted him. There had been no proposals, no exchanges of vows. There had been no wedding, no ring, no promise. Anders had not sought him as a partner. Anders had made a trade. He had given up a sword—hissword, the one Wilder had seen him carry so proudly. But he hadn’t given it for love, had he? No, he’d traded it for a novice. For a servant.

Wilder’s throat tightened, and he murmured, barely audible, “The sword…”

Frode, who had been watching him closely, took the cup from his hands and placed it gently on the table. His brow furrowed as he leaned closer. “What sword, lad?”

Wilder’s eyes were still glazed with confusion, but he pressed on, needing to make sense of it all. “Anders… he traded his sword for me. Didn’t he? It was an exchange. A payment…”

Frode’s expression shifted, and for a moment, Wilder could see the understanding flicker in the older man’s eyes. He sat down at Wilder’s side, his hands resting gently on his lap. “It’s the custom here,” Frode explained, his voice low, almost gentle, as if telling a child a simple truth. “A warrior’s life is often a solitary one. They fight beside their comrades, they live in isolation, but when it comes time to settle down, to raise a family, you give up your sword. You give up that solitary life. You trade it for a partner, for a life together. It’s not just a weapon. It’s a symbol of their commitment.”

Wilder’s head swam with the words, but a deep ache settled in his heart as Frode’s explanation slowly sank in. “So, that’s what it was,” Wilder whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “It was for me.”

Frode placed a hand on Wilder’s shoulder, his grip firm yet comforting. “There, there.” The old physician’s voice softened as he saw the tears welling in Wilder’s eyes. The tears spilled over, streaking down his face, but Frode didn’t pull away.Instead, he leaned closer, his hand gently patting Wilder’s arm. “It’s all right, lad. None of this is your fault.”

But it didn’t feel all right. None of it did.

Wilder’s mind drifted back to the longhouse, back to the days when everything had been so strange, so new. The first time he’d seen it—large and empty, full of echoes and the musty smell of neglect. The garden, overtaken by weeds, and the dust that seemed to coat every surface. Anders had been there, tall and awkward, the silence between them more deafening than any words could be.

Anders had looked at him with such confusion, with hope, and Wilder realized, with something else—something like happiness. They had worked side by side, shared moments of quiet understanding, shared meals, shared time. And yet, Anders had never crossed that line, never tried to claim what Wilder had never offered. The first time they’d shared a moment of true closeness—Wilder, naked and dripping from the river, Anders blushing so fiercely that it made Wilder ache with tenderness—he had thought Anders simply didn’t want him, that he was too shy.

But then there were the other moments, the unexpected kindnesses—Anders bringing him food, preparing meals with a care Wilder had never expected, and the tenderness in the kiss that followed their laughter. And yet, that kiss had been followed by a slap. Wilder’s own slap. His own confusion, his own fear, had driven him to act out of instinct. It hadn’t been rejection. It had beenfear. Fear of what the feelings meant. Fear of being wanted, but not understanding why. Fear of being caught in something that he had no idea how to navigate.

“He’s always been very kind,” Wilder murmured, his voice breaking as the tears came faster. He blinked slowly, feeling the dampness of his lashes. “But I didn’t know it. I was afraid.”

Frode gave him a small, understanding smile, though there was a sadness behind it, too. His hand tightened around Wilder’s, and he squeezed it, steadying him. “It’s all right, lad. You didn’t know.” His words were gentle, soft, but there was a weight in them that Wilder couldn’t escape. “None of this is your fault. You’ve been through a lot. Just rest. Let yourself rest.”

But Wilder couldn’t. Rest, at least not in peace. His mind churned with all the things he hadn’t understood—the way Anders had tried, over and over, in his quiet way, to show him kindness. The trade. The sword. And now, the truth he could no longer deny. Wilder wasn’t a servant. He wasn’t just a tool. He had been chosen, traded, but chosen. And Anders had given up everything to make a life with him.

But what now? What could Wilder do with that knowledge?

???

Wilder wished he could stay in that moment forever—tucked safely in Frode’s bed, the room warm and comfortable, the pillow soft against his cheek. There, he didn’t have to think about any of the things that haunted him. He didn’t have to think about how embarrassed he felt, how deeply ashamed of himself he was, or how sorry he was for all the misunderstandings that had brought them to this point. Frode had said it wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t caused any of this, but Wilder couldn’t stop the flood of self-recrimination. He couldn’t shake the feeling that if only he had done something differently, none of this would have happened.

He thought back to the very first moments when things had gone wrong. If only he hadn’t decided to spy on those strange warriors on the beach. If only he’d argued with Ellion more, made it clear that he didn’t want to go with Anders, thathe didn’t agree to anything. Maybe, just maybe, Anders would have understood, and all of this confusion would have been avoided. Maybe if he’d learned the language on the ship—just a little more, enough to understand the mistake, enough to see it in time—he could have prevented it. But now, lying here in this bed, the weight of his decisions crushed him.

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