Page 23 of The Warrior and the Monk

But as he looked at the mead and the bread, something still didn’t feel right. A bottle of mead and a loaf of bread were not enough to convey everything he wanted to say, not when he still felt the weight of his past actions. What if Anders didn’t want to see him? What if he couldn’t forgive him? The questions swirled in his mind, his hands now nervously wrapping the bread and mead together in a cloth.

As he moved around the kitchen, trying to put his thoughts in order, he spotted a couple of bright red apples on a nearby shelf. He picked them up and polished them on his tunic, hoping the gesture would help to balance the simplicity of the meal. They were small, but vibrant, and Wilder figured that it was the least he could do. He wrapped everything together into a neat parcel, cradling it in his arms as he sighed deeply.

But was it enough? Would Anders even accept the gift? Would he understand that it was meant as an apology and a gesture of goodwill? Wilder didn’t know, but he couldn’t let fear stop him. He just needed to find a way to make things right.

The thought of going to Anders’s home, of seeing him again after the chaos of their last encounter, left him with a nervous knot in his stomach. He hadn’t seen the man since that disastrous day, and he didn’t know the way to his house.

"Maybe someone in town could deliver it," Wilder muttered to himself, half-hoping for some sign that things could be smoothed over without having to face Anders directly.

Suddenly, Frode’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and Wilder jumped in surprise.

"Oh! Going into town?" Frode’s tone was casual, as if he’d read Wilder’s mind. "Do you think you could make a few deliveries for me?" He handed Wilder a small basket, which contained several jars of ointments and small wooden boxes filled with herbal pills. "Here’s a list of who gets what."

Wilder looked at the basket, feeling a sudden surge of panic. Deliveries? He hadn’t even begun to get used to the town, let alone interact with the locals. And to act in Frode’s stead—he wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility.

"I—I don’t know," Wilder stammered, his hands tightening around the parcel of mead, bread, and apples. "Are you sure? I don’t want to make a mistake and make things more difficult for you."

Frode tutted, a fond smile on his face. He held up the list in front of Wilder’s face, tapping it gently. "Can you tell me what the first line says?"

Wilder blinked, his heart still racing. He leaned in to look at the list. "A salve for the blacksmith," he muttered, still unsure.

"Which of these jars contains the salve?" Frode asked, pointing to the jars laid out before him.

Wilder’s gaze flicked from the list to the jars. He quickly spotted the one labeled "salve" and pointed it out. "This one."

Frode smiled, a look of quiet pride in his eyes. "Well, there you have it. It’s that simple. You’re more than capable of running a few errands, Wilder. Go on now."

Wilder’s stomach twisted with anxiety, but something about Frode’s reassurance calmed him, even if only slightly. He nodded, taking the basket from Frode’s outstretched hands, feeling the weight of both the task and the mead in his arms. He didn’t know if he was ready to face Anders yet, but this was a step in the right direction. One small delivery at a time.

???

Wilder made his way through the village with a sense of quiet resolve, each stop taking him closer to Anders, though the path was fraught with the strange mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. His first stop was at the blacksmith’s shop. When he arrived, the large wooden doors were open, the rhythmic sound of hammer meeting metal echoing from within. He stepped inside and was immediately struck by the heat of the forge, the scent of smoke and iron filling the air.

The blacksmith was a large woman with broad shoulders, thick arms, and a booming voice that seemed to match her imposing presence. She wore a worn leather apron and had a bandage wrapped around one of her forearms. She glanced up from her work, her face a mask of concentration, but she waved him over with a nod.

Wilder walked toward her, lifting the basket and holding it out to her. "Frode sent this," he said quietly, "a salve for your arm."

The blacksmith didn’t waste any time. She grabbed the jar from his hands without a word, quickly unwrapped the bandage around her forearm. Wilder could see the angry, but healing, burn that marred her skin, the wound still raw in places.With a practiced hand, she slathered the salve generously over the burn. It was a rough, quick motion, and when she was done, she looked up at him.

"Danger of the job," she said with a matter-of-fact tone, almost as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. "Thank Frode for me."

Wilder nodded, taking in the sight of the burn as she wrapped her arm back up. "I will," he said.

There was a brief silence before the blacksmith asked, "Are you Anders’s husband?"

The question caught him off guard, and he flinched involuntarily. Disa had advised him to pretend, both for Anders’s honor and safety. He had planned to keep up the ruse, but the reality of it hit him harder than he expected. The weight of the lie made his stomach twist. He swallowed hard and nodded, murmuring, "Yes, I am."

She studied him carefully, her gaze sharp, as if she were trying to read his very thoughts. After a long moment, she spoke again. "You're very newly married, aren't you? It takes some time to adjust. You’re new to this place, too, and living with Anders must be difficult."

Wilder’s heart ached, but his voice was firm, more so than he’d intended. "Anders is kind." The words came out almost too sternly, but he couldn’t let her think that Anders was anything but good and noble. He couldn’t let anyone think it was Anders who was at fault for what had happened. It was Wilder who had been the problem.

The blacksmith raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Oh, I don’t doubt that. But he’s very quiet, isn’t he?"

Wilder’s mind wandered briefly to the memories of Anders—the way he had drawn in the dirt with a stick, the quiet conversations they'd had as they worked side by side, the moments of gentleness between them. A slow smile touched hislips. "No," he said, his voice suddenly more certain than before. "He always talks. I just didn’t know how to listen."

The blacksmith seemed to consider this for a moment before offering him a slight nod. "I see. Well, thank you for the salve. I’ll let Frode know it worked." With that, she turned back to her work, leaving Wilder to gather his thoughts.

Wilder’s heart was still heavy with the weight of his words. He had wanted to say more, wanted to explain that the hardest part of living with Anders hadn’t been Anders himself, but Wilder’s own fear and misunderstanding of the kind of husband he needed to be. But now, it was all he could do to walk away, leaving the blacksmith to her work and his thoughts to stew.

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