Page 27 of The Warrior and the Monk

"Beautiful."

Wilder recognized the word immediately, though it wasn't just the word itself. It was how Anders said it—his tone, the care with which his lips formed the syllables. The tenderness in his voice was nothing like the hungry, predatory look Wilder had once received from Harald's companion, who had used the same word. That word had felt wrong, uncomfortable, even foreign. But Anders’s gaze, filled with admiration and awe, made the word feel like a precious gift. Wilder had done nothing to earn it, but he couldn’t deny the warmth it sparked in him. It was enthralling, intoxicating to be the object of such devotion.

He stepped closer, drawn in like a moth to the flame of Anders’s gaze. Anders’s hand cupped his cheek, his thumb tracing the line of Wilder’s jaw in a way that made his heart beat faster.

"Beautiful," Anders repeated, his voice thick with affection.

Wilder felt heat rush to his face. The word felt foreign and clumsy on his tongue, but he tried, slowly, to mirror it back to him. Anders chuckled softly at Wilder’s hesitance, his smile full of encouragement.

"Beautiful," he said again, repeating the word as if to make sure Wilder understood its weight. He then patiently corrected Wilder’s awkward attempts, breaking it down, helping him say it more clearly until Wilder could finally manage the word with some certainty.

"You are beautiful," Wilder murmured, his cheeks burning with the effort. He pressed a hand to Anders’s chest, his fingers brushing over the solid muscle beneath the fabric of his tunic. "Anders is beautiful."

Wilder hoped he was conveying everything he wanted to say—the strength, the tenderness, the kindness that Anders exuded, the way he’d treated Wilder, the animals, the world around him. It felt like the simplest words weren’t enough. He wanted to say more, to speak of Anders’s dark eyes, his broad shoulders, the way he made Wilder feel cherished in a way he hadn’t known was possible. The desire to communicate everything was almost overwhelming.

He groaned in frustration, his longing for more words, for understanding, filling him up. He wanted to know Anders better, to talk and be understood. He didn’t want this silence between them anymore.

"I want to speak with you," Wilder said, his voice tight with emotion. He felt a swell of longing—longing to be heard, to share his thoughts freely. "I want us to know one another."

Wilder’s mind drifted to the practical concerns that weighed heavily on his heart. If he was to continue learning, to continue improving his language skills with Frode, it would mean living in the town. Frode would have to take him in, devote his time and resources to teaching him, and it would be a burden for Anders to travel to see him, spending entire days walking to and from town. Wilder couldn’t ask that of either man, especially when he knew it would cause Anders physical pain to speak for long periods. The effort it took for Anders to form words, his rough, strained voice, would only make the task more difficult.

And yet, Wilder couldn’t help but want more. He couldn’t help but wish for a way to make the communication easier between them. He thought back to the time they had spent together at Anders’s home, when they had resorted to drawings and crude gestures. It hadn’t worked as well as they had hoped, mostly because their understanding of each other’s feelings and intentions had been murky. But what if there was a better way? A way that allowed them to communicate faster, more naturally.

Wilder looked up at Anders, his brow furrowing in thought. Then, almost instinctively, he raised his hand to Anders’s lips, brushing his fingers across them. They weren’t soft like the flowers, but there was something gentle about them, something tender that made Wilder’s pulse quicken.

Anders’s lips were warm, a contrast to the coolness of Wilder’s fingertips, and he felt Anders’s smile as his skin touched them. A realization hit Wilder—there was a way for them to communicate without using their voices. A language of gestures, of signs, one of their own making, could fill the silence between them. Wilder was no longer content to wait for spoken words.

He tapped his fingers lightly against Anders’s lips, then held his hand up and mimed a gesture. "Like this—let us talk like this. We can learn together."

Anders tilted his head, his expression puzzled, as if trying to figure out what Wilder meant. Wilder, as always, was struck by the way Anders looked so endearing when confused, like a large puppy unsure of how to respond. It was a tenderness that made Wilder’s heart ache.

Wilder quickly pulled away from Anders, who let out a soft noise of displeasure at the distance. He grabbed a round loaf of bread from the table, holding it up and tapping his chest with it. "Bread," he said aloud, feeling slightly embarrassed by his efforts.

He then repeated the gesture with Anders, tapping Anders’s chest with the bread and saying the word again, this time in Anders’s language.

Anders blinked at him, confusion still in his eyes, but Wilder noticed the slight narrowing of Anders’s gaze, a flicker of recognition. Slowly, Anders nodded, though his brow was still furrowed. They had established the word for bread, but Wilder could sense there was something more—something they hadn’t quite bridged yet. Wilder placed the loaf back down on the table and made a circle with his hands, his thumbs and index fingers forming a ring. "Bread," he said again, looking to Anders for understanding.

A spark of realization flashed in Anders’s eyes. He reached for a plate, holding it up as if to show he understood. Wilder smiled. They had done it. They had bridged the gap between them, if only for a moment. Each new word, each new gesture brought them closer to understanding. And with each new word, their excitement grew, that shared joy of discovery.

They continued like this, finding words for everything—fish, water, honey, tunic, knife—each word, each gesture,another thread woven into the fabric of their relationship. With the combination of their two spoken languages and the language they would create with their hands, they could build something of their own. Wilder felt the promise of something new between them, something real.

Then, as they reached the body parts—hands, ears, nose, eyes—Wilder found himself focusing on the mouth and lips. He traced his finger gently over Anders’s lips, feeling the heat rise between them. It wasn’t just a casual touch anymore. As Anders’s hands moved to Wilder’s hips, pulling him closer, Wilder realized how intimately they were touching. His breath caught in his throat, and his body responded to the warmth of Anders’s hands, the strength in his touch.

But they were in Frode’s house. This wasn’t the place for such intimate gestures. Wilder pulled back slightly, panting as he murmured, "Anders—not here. We should return home."

Anders stilled, staring at him, as if processing the request. Wilder repeated himself, his voice thick with the pull of desire and the knowledge that what they were doing, what they were feeling, was still new, still fragile.

"We will go home," Wilder said, his voice soft but firm.

Before he could say more, Anders acted. He laughed—a deep, rumbling sound full of warmth and mischief—and in one swift motion, he scooped Wilder up, spinning him around with ease. Wilder let out a surprised yelp, the world spinning with Anders’s laughter, his joy, as they tumbled into something more than words, into something he was finally ready to explore.

Chapter Ten

Eager as they both were to return to Anders's—no, totheirlonghouse, Wilder insisted they wait for Frode to return. The herbalist had been a rock for him in his time of need, both a teacher and a steadfast friend. He had taken care of Wilder in ways that went beyond the physical—guiding him through the difficult journey of healing, both body and soul. It wouldn’t feel right to leave without saying something, without showing the gratitude Wilder felt deep in his chest. But Anders, always a little restless, couldn’t sit still for long. He’d paced the house, tapping his fingers against the walls and sighing with impatience. So while Wilder worked to tidy the room, Anders took it upon himself to visit the market for supplies, his eagerness to begin their journey clear in his every step.

They had added “market” to their shared vocabulary. It was a simple gesture, one palm turned upward, slightly cupped, with the other hovering over it as though dropping coins into the outstretched hand. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs—another word, another piece of the puzzle, and another step toward understanding each other more fully. They also practiced "kiss." Wilder’s fingers pressed to his own lips, then gently to Anders’s, the meaning clear. Anders repeated the motion, his fingers brushing over Wilder’s lips before touching his own. Kiss, kiss. It felt like a small, private victory in a world of silence and struggle. And then, naturally, they practiced the action itself—a soft peck on the cheek for each of them. Wilder chuckled at the slightscratch of Anders’s beard against his skin, a sensation that made his heart flutter in unexpected ways.

"I’ll be right here," Wilder reassured Anders, a warm smile on his face.

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