Page 21 of The Warrior and the Monk

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Wilder’s gaze remained fixed on the closed doorway, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and guilt, his heart heavy with everything that had just unfolded. The harsh words and gestures of Anders, the misunderstanding of their bond—it all played out in his mind like a cruel and painful scene that hadno end. It wasn’t just his life that had been altered, but Anders’s as well. Neither of them had asked for this, but here they were, caught in a trap of their own making, bound by circumstances neither had fully understood.

As he sat there, still trying to absorb the conversation he’d just witnessed, he heard the voices of Frode and Disa rise in the next room. Their words were rapid, too fast for Wilder to follow, and though their tones were not angry, the frantic energy in their voices made it clear that they were grappling with something. It could have been an argument, or perhaps just an exchange of nerves, but it sounded as though they were discussing something important—something Wilder was not a part of.

Unable to escape the noise, Wilder pressed his hands against his ears, trying to drown out the rising tide of voices. The panic in his chest grew, swelling with every moment he sat helplessly in place. His thoughts swirled in a painful spiral, and before he knew it, his head was on the table, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He couldn’t make sense of any of it.

"I’m so sorry," he whispered into the wood, his voice thick with regret. "I’m so sorry for it all." His breath hitched, and tears soaked his face, wetting his skin and blurring his vision. How could he have let this happen? How could he have been so blind to what Anders had truly wanted? The apology felt hollow, meaningless. It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

But then he heard Frode’s voice, soft and steady, trying to comfort him from the other room. "Everything will be alright, Wilder," he said, but his words felt like a distant echo.How could it be?How could everything possibly be all right when everything had gone so wrong?

The thoughts came crashing through Wilder’s mind like waves in a storm. He was here, in a strange land, far from his monastery, far from the life he had known. He had been broughthere against his will—by mistake, no less—by a man who had only wanted companionship, not realizing that Wilder had not freely offered it. The weight of it all pressed on him, two lives ruined, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

But Frode’s words pierced the fog of Wilder’s thoughts. “Nothing’s ruined. Please, don’t cry. You’ll make yourself sick again.”

The tone in Disa’s voice was softer now, more sympathetic, but it did little to ease the storm inside Wilder’s heart. He straightened up from the table, wiping the wetness from his face with a rough hand. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice still strained. "I don’t understand. None of this makes sense."

Frode translated, his voice gentle as he relayed Wilder’s confusion to Disa. The conversation that followed was low but tense. It was clear that Disa and Frode were trying to find a way to fix the mess they had all found themselves in.

“Look, I’m sorry too,” Disa said, her voice soft but filled with regret. “Had we known, we wouldn’t have acted as we did. But let me talk to Anders. We’ll figure something out. For now, though, just—please—keep this to yourselves. Let everyone think this is just a lovers’ quarrel. It’s better that way, for Anders’s honor and for your own well-being.”

Wilder blinked, trying to make sense of her words.Lovers’ quarrel? The very idea of that made his stomach churn. He shook his head, his thoughts tumbling over each other. “My—my well-being?”

Frode’s voice was calm but firm as he explained. "If everyone finds out you’re not really married to Anders, you might end up with more unwanted suitors than you can handle. For now, the best thing would be to keep up the illusion—that Wilder is just upset about something, and he’s staying here for a while, nothing more."

The thought of maintaining the ruse felt like a knife in his chest. How could they possibly pretend, continue this charade? It might protect Anders’s honor, but what about the truth? What about the hurt that lingered between them? And more than that, how could he impose on Frode, who had already done so much for him?

“That’s… that’s not right,” Wilder said, his voice barely above a whisper, his hands trembling as he spoke. “Anders can’t possibly—he can’t pretend like everything is fine. And I— I can’t impose on you, Frode. I won’t do that.” The words were sharp and bitter in his mouth, but they came from a place of deep discomfort.

Frode’s expression softened, and he reached out to place a reassuring hand on Wilder’s shoulder. “It’s no imposition,” he said gently. “You need somewhere to stay for now. If it helps, I can put you to work. Help me gather ingredients and make medicine. That way, you’ll stay occupied and feel useful.”

Wilder looked down at his hands, the weight of his situation pressing on him.Where else would I go?The truth was, he didn’t have any other option. With a heavy sigh, he finally nodded. “Yes. Yes, thank you.” He paused, his voice trembling slightly. “Can you please tell Disa to tell Anders that—that I’m not angry with him? That I’m sorry… and that he was—he was kind to me?”

Frode relayed the message, and Disa’s face softened as she heard the words. She looked at Wilder for a long moment, as if weighing something in her mind. She seemed on the verge of saying something else, but she didn’t. Instead, she nodded solemnly, shook Frode’s hand, and then Wilder’s, before turning and leaving the room.

The silence that filled the space after she left was thick, heavy, and unsettling. Wilder couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to be said—so much more—but no one waswilling to say it. The world felt different now. He was no longer just a stranger in a foreign land. He was a stranger in his own life, someone who had been pulled into a story not his own. And the question of what came next seemed impossible to answer.

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Three days passed, and with each passing moment, Wilder began to feel a little more like himself again. His strength slowly returned as he helped Frode around the house, grinding herbs and learning the intricacies of the healer’s craft. The work, though simple, gave his hands something to focus on, and his mind something to cling to. The more he helped, the more he felt a sense of purpose—a small, fleeting comfort in a world that seemed to have spun out of control.

The town itself had begun to reveal its character to him, bit by bit. It was quiet, nestled in the shadow of thick, evergreens, the narrow streets winding between clusters of small houses and sturdy buildings. The locals were kind enough, though they often greeted him with wary eyes, and Wilder couldn’t help but feel like an outsider still. It was a strange feeling to be in a place that was both familiar and foreign to him, but slowly, he was starting to adapt. The language was still a challenge, but he’d made progress, and every day spent with Frode helped him pick up new words, new phrases, until they didn’t seem so distant.

One morning, as they crushed dried rose hips together in the back of the healer’s shop, Wilder asked a question that had been nagging at him since he’d arrived.

“How did you come to live here?” His fingers worked the pestle in a steady rhythm, the scent of the rosehips filling the air as he pressed them into powder.

Frode glanced up from the jar he was preparing and gave a small chuckle, as though the question had caught him by surprise. “Well, I’ve lived in a lot of places in my life,” he said, his voice warm with the ease of old memories. “I wanted to travel, and I did. Traveled with scholars, with merchants, with pilgrims. Sometimes I’d stay in a place for a few days, sometimes a few weeks, sometimes a few months. More rarely, a few years.” His gaze drifted to the window, and for a moment, Wilder thought Frode was lost in thought. “But I suppose I just reached that age where I wanted to settle down.”

He smiled, as though the memory brought him peace. “I was traveling with some members of a trade caravan, and they stopped here. It was the middle of winter, snowing like you wouldn’t believe. Cold like you wouldn’t believe. The river had frozen over, and the deer crossed it with such grace.” He paused, a distant look in his eyes. “The pine trees were dark and green against the white, and the sky was so clear. The sun was bright despite the chill. I thought it was beautiful, and if I could find this place beautiful even in the middle of winter, then I knew I could happily live here. And I have.”

Wilder was quiet for a moment, imagining the scene Frode had painted with his words—the snow, the bright sun, the calmness of it all. It sounded like the kind of place where you could breathe deeply and find peace, the kind of place that could heal wounds. He felt a pang of longing for a place like that, a place where he could put down roots.

“You could have gone somewhere with no winter at all,” Wilder said, curiosity taking over. “There are places with warm seasons, aren’t there?”

“Oh, indeed,” Frode said, his voice a little lighter. “But I do dislike the heat. And in those lands, it often rains for weeks, sometimes months. The humidity, the sweat. No, no, thank you. I prefer a thick blanket and some hot mead. I’ve found I do quitenicely in places like this.” He grinned, clearly amused by his own preference for the cold.

Wilder smiled a little, his hands pausing in their work. “Do you… find the people here friendly?” he asked, unsure why he was suddenly asking about something so personal. It felt like a change in topic that was perhaps a little too sudden, but the question had been hovering at the back of his mind for a while.

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