Page 25 of The Warrior and the Monk

"Yes? You do as well? You give the sword?"

"No!" Disa laughed, shaking her head. "That’s more like the intention. You’ve entered into the marriage, but it’s not really official until you have the ceremony. Everyone gets to see you become one."

Wilder smiled, relieved that they shared that much in common. "Oh, yes. We have that, too."

Disa let out a sigh of relief. "Some things aren’t so different, then. That’s good."

Before he could respond, she clapped him on the back with a grin. "Where are we going next?"

Wilder held the basket close to his chest, the weight of it now feeling more significant. Inside, the parcel containing the rosehip mead, the flatbread, and the apples, all wrapped in cloth and tied with a bow, was a symbol of his apology, of his thoughts for Anders. "Please give this to Anders," he asked, suddenly feeling shy and unsure of himself.

"From Frode?" Disa asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No," Wilder replied, his voice small now. "From me."

Disa studied him for a moment, then gave him a knowing nod. "I see. Then I’ll take this to him. Let him know you’re thinking of him."

Before Wilder could even muster a "thank you," Disa had winked at him and was off, her stride confident as she took the basket and made her way to Anders.

???

The next day, Wilder found himself reluctantly obeying Frode's suggestion to explore the town on his own. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get to know the village better; it was just that it felt strange, walking alone without any immediate purpose. But Frode had insisted, and Wilder wasn’t one to ignore the healer’s advice. So, he wandered through the cobbled streets, unsure of where he was headed, but trying to absorb everything around him.

The early morning air was fresh, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, and the townspeople were already up and about, shaking off the last remnants of sleep. The ships were docked at the harbor, their masts swaying gently in the breeze, while fishermen rowed out into the water, their boats bobbing like little toys in the early morning light. Everywhere he looked, there was a sense of purpose: merchants setting up their stalls, shopkeepers sweeping the dirt from their doorways, women carrying baskets of vegetables to the market, and the rich smells of breakfast cooking on every corner—fried fish, sizzling oil, freshly baked bread, and the earthy scent of vegetables being tossed in the pan.

Wilder smiled at a few people who nodded in passing, returning their greetings with a hesitant wave. The conversations around him buzzed in a language he barely understood, and yet, it felt like a small victory each time he managed to catch a word here and there. It was one thing to talk to Frode's patients, where the interaction was transactional and necessary, but it was an entirely different challenge to greet someone on his own, when he could only just manage to cobble together a conversation. The language was still a barrier, but it was one he was determined to overcome.

As he walked further, he drifted toward the edge of the town, where the forest began to rise in towering shadows. The trees stood like sentinels, their dark, heavy trunks disappearinginto the mist that hung low over the ground. Wilder stopped, his gaze drawn to the thick undergrowth, the tangled vines and wild foliage that seemed to reach out toward him. He stood there for a long moment, lost in the quiet of the forest, trying to recall the path to Anders's home. The memory of it—of the small house tucked away in the trees, the scent of the garden, and the soft, familiar sounds of the animals—felt like a distant dream now.

Had Disa delivered his gift to Anders? Was he eating well? Was the garden still tended to, and was Avery still running around, causing chaos as always? Wilder’s thoughts turned to the animals—his heart pinched as he wondered about the goats. Had Anders been able to handle them on his own? His mind flickered back to his belongings, wondering if they had been discarded in the wake of his departure. His bed of furs, his blue tunic, his knife, his lovely comb... He had no real right to any of it now. But the thought of those items, reminders of the life he had tried to build with Anders, made him ache.

What if Anders had gotten rid of everything, let the goats run wild in the garden, and moved on? The idea left a bitter taste in his mouth, though it quickly dissipated into something more unsettling. What if Anders found someone else? Wilder frowned at the thought. If that happened, he could only hope the man would understand the importance of the garden, of caring for Avery and the goats, and appreciate all that Anders had done. It was a selfish hope, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. His mood soured, and he turned away from the forest, walking back toward the bustle of the village with a quiet huff. He had no intention of lingering on those thoughts for too long.

The town was much more alive now, as people filled the streets, and the noise of their chatter grew louder. The scent of bread baking in the ovens and the calls of vendors hawking their goods surrounded him, and Wilder pushed through the crowd, eager to escape into the quiet of Frode’s apothecary. He neededto focus on something else, something that didn’t involve Anders or his unspoken regrets. Maybe he could find a book or some new herb to study.

As he neared the blacksmith’s shop, a voice broke through his thoughts.

"What's Anders’s pretty little husband doing here?"

Wilder froze, his chest tightening as he recognized the voices. He glanced up to see a group of men standing near the blacksmith’s shop, their faces leering and cruel. They were the same ones who had come to Anders’s house, trying to take advantage of his hospitality. The thought made his stomach turn.

"Didn’t you hear?" one of them continued, his voice dripping with mockery. "He’s at the healer’s place now. Been there for a week or so."

Wilder’s teeth ground together. "Now we know a husband has to be more than kind, don’t we?" another one chimed in, the group snickering behind him.

Recognition dawned on Wilder, and he scowled, clenching his fists. He turned toward them, ready to deliver a retort when Harald, the one with the cold blue eyes and a permanent sneer on his face, called out to him. "Want to come home with me? I’ll be sure to keep you warm at night!"

The audacity, the vulgarity of it, left Wilder momentarily speechless. How brazen they were—talking like this so publicly, with no regard for decency. He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks, his anger flaring.

"You are braver when Anders isn’t around," Wilder snapped, meeting Harald’s mocking gaze. He pointed at his jaw. "How’s your face? Still sore from where I hit you?"

Harald’s expression darkened at the reminder of their last encounter. He shoved past his companions, a fire igniting inhis eyes as he approached Wilder. With a threatening glare, he stood toe-to-toe with him in the middle of the street.

"You were prettier when you didn’t have such a smart mouth," Harald growled, his voice low and threatening.

Wilder’s eyes narrowed, and his resolve hardened. He didn’t care what Harald thought of him, not really. But he wouldn’t stand by and let the man disrespect Anders. Not now, not after everything. "Anders is a good man," Wilder said, his voice steady despite the simmering fury in his chest. "Do not speak of him so."

Harald sneered, his lips curling. "Oh? If he’s so good, why aren’t you keeping him company?"

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