Page 26 of The Warrior and the Monk

Wilder crossed his arms, shrugging with nonchalance, though he felt the blush creeping up his neck. "We argued," he said, his voice awkward but firm. "That—that’s all."

Harald’s eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to retort, but whatever words he had planned to say were lost when a shadow fell over them. The sneer on Harald’s face faltered as his eyes flickered to the figure approaching.

Wilder didn’t even need to look up. He felt the large hand settle gently over his own, a warm, familiar touch that made his heart leap in his chest.

He turned and saw Anders standing behind him, his eyes wide, a hopeful expression on his face. Wilder’s breath caught in his throat, and everything around him seemed to fade away—the bustling town, the laughter of the men, even the humiliation of the argument with Harald.

"Anders!" Wilder gasped, his heart filling with so much joy that it almost overwhelmed him. "You're here! Did you get my gift? Did you like it?" He had been so excited to see him that the words spilled out in his own language before he even realized it. When he noticed the puzzled look on Anders’s face,he corrected himself quickly. "Sorry. Did you like the bread and apples? The—the mead?"

Anders’s smile was hesitant, but it reached his eyes. He nodded, the faintest flush creeping onto his cheeks. In his other hand, he held a bouquet of wildflowers—blue and purple blossoms, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the surrounding earth tones of the village. His arm trembled slightly as he offered them to Wilder, his gaze soft and filled with something that Wilder couldn’t quite place.

The townspeople who had been watching the exchange saw it for what it was—a public gesture of reconciliation, of a husband’s apology for whatever disagreement they had had. But to Wilder, it meant so much more than that.

This was courtship, as Wilder understood it.

Anders was starting from scratch. But this time, Wilder was ready.

Chapter Nine

Wilder had never actually received flowers before. Courtship, a subject deeply tied to human emotions, had always been a foreign concept to him. Raised among the stoic monks who had little patience for the whims of the flesh, he had heard the topic spoken of with distaste by the older, more disciplined brothers and with longing by the younger ones, who often whispered of what they had never allowed themselves to have. Wilder had learned that some men could suppress their worldly desires, while others, despite their vows, still yearned for the touch of a lover. He had heard of those who, when the chance arose, would sneak into the town to seek out companionship from someone who had no tonsure.

Though courtship and love had been subjects of scholarly discussion in the abbey, they were always secondary to the more sacred matters of the faith. Letters, sweet words, and gifts like jewels, silks, and flowers were tokens that Wilder had only ever read about or heard spoken of, never experienced firsthand. Love itself, with its pleasures and agonies, was as distant and abstract as the wild creatures he'd read about in bestiaries. He understood it intellectually, but emotionally, it was something alien, a concept he could never quite grasp.

And now, here he was, standing in the middle of the street, cradling a bouquet of blue and purple flowers in his arms, each bloom more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. The petals were so delicate, each one perfectly arranged, apicture of nature's grace. The scent was fresh and sweet, carrying with it hints of pollen and earth, a reminder of the fertile soil from which they had sprung. Wilder's fingers brushed over the blossoms, and he couldn’t stop the smile that stretched across his face. This was it. This was what it meant to be someone’s beloved.

"Thank you, Anders," he said softly, breathing in the fragrance. The flowers felt like something sacred in his hands, a tangible manifestation of Anders's feelings for him. "I like them very much."

Anders’s expression softened as he took in Wilder’s words. It wasn’t the hesitant, uncertain smile that Wilder had come to know, but a broad, open grin that lit up his face. For a moment, the ruggedness of Anders’s features faded, and Wilder saw a man who looked younger, gentler—who looked at peace. It was as if all the harsh years of struggle, of being a warrior, of facing life with a sword in hand, had been shed with this simple act. In that moment, Wilder saw Anders as he truly was: a man not defined by his past, but by his desire to be loved, to be seen, and to offer all of himself in return.

Wilder’s heart swelled, a mixture of awe and tenderness rushing through him. He had been so blind to this side of Anders—the side that wanted nothing more than to be close, to share moments of joy and affection. Anders had cast aside his weapon, his title as a warrior, to live as a man in love. He had not pushed Wilder, had not demanded anything from him. Instead, he had waited patiently, offering care and kindness, hoping for a sign that Wilder was happy with him, that Wilder wanted him in return.

Could Wilder give that to him now?

Blushing, Wilder bit his lower lip, feeling a sudden heat in his chest. He could. He could finally offer that much. He wanted Anders to be happy, not just content, but truly joyful. Hewanted Anders to see him, to know that he was loved, just as Anders had always loved him.

Before he could voice his thoughts, the quiet moment was shattered by a sudden, unexpected sneeze. Wilder jumped in shock, his heart racing as he spun around to see Harald, standing not far behind him, wiping his nose with an exaggerated flourish. Wilder had entirely forgotten that the group of men had still been lingering near the blacksmith’s shop, watching them.

Anders’s expression immediately hardened. His soft smile vanished as he turned toward Harald, and his dark eyes narrowed with a dangerous intensity. Wilder watched in awe as a low growl rumbled from Anders’s chest, deep and menacing. It was the kind of sound that a beast might make before charging, the kind of warning that only someone who had fought battles could produce. Harald’s eyes widened, his bravado faltering for the first time since Wilder had met him.

The shift was immediate. The playful, almost bashful man that Wilder had seen moments before was gone. Anders stood taller, his body tense with the promise of violence, and Harald, recognizing the change, took a step back, stumbling into his companions in a hurried attempt to put distance between himself and the anger brewing in Anders. The other men, who had been watching with amusement, seemed to sense the change as well, retreating from the confrontation without a word.

Wilder shivered—not out of fear, but from a sudden, overwhelming realization. Anders’s fierceness, his strength, his physicality—all of it was for him. It had always been for him, if only Wilder had understood it sooner. The muscles that had been honed for battle, the strength in his arms, his thighs, and his back—all of it was meant to protect him, to shield him, and perhaps to love him with the same intensity. It was a revelation, one that made Wilder’s heart race in a completely different way.

Wilder cradled the bouquet in one arm, his other hand instinctively reaching for Anders's sleeve, pulling him gently. "Anders?" he asked, his voice soft, almost hesitant. His mouth felt dry as he spoke, the weight of the moment pressing on him. "Let us go to Frode's house."

Anders’s gaze shifted away from Harald, who was now all but forgotten, and his face softened immediately. His shoulders relaxed, and his dark eyes filled with something akin to relief, as if the tension he had carried since their argument had finally begun to dissipate. He nodded eagerly, as if he had been waiting for this moment, for this invitation. He took Wilder's hand, his fingers curling around Wilder's with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the fierceness he had just shown.

Together, they began to walk toward the edge of the market, away from the watching eyes of the townspeople. As they left, Wilder could feel the weight of the gaze on them—some curious, some approving, and others perhaps envious. The townspeople were already whispering, no doubt interpreting the scene as a typical story of a married couple who had weathered their first disagreement and were now reconciling. They would see Anders’s joy as the joy of a man who had returned to his husband's good graces. And, in a sense, they wouldn’t be wrong.

But Wilder knew the truth. The joy that radiated from Anders was not just the relief of a reconciled argument. It was the joy of a man who had been given the opportunity to court the one he loved, to offer his heart and soul, and to be accepted in return. For the first time, Wilder had chosen him—had agreed to walk this path with him. And Anders was exuding every bit of that happiness, as if his entire world had shifted into place.

The house was empty when they arrived, an almost oppressive silence hanging in the air. Wilder stepped inside, taking in the stillness, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight that filtered through the small windows. He found a note etchedinto a strip of bark, placed neatly on the wooden table. Frode had gone out to visit patients, which Wilder realized was, in fact, a blessing. It meant they had this rare time alone together, a chance to finally discuss—no, to explore—what had quietly been growing between them. Their relationship.

Wilder set the flowers down on the table, carefully unwrapping the bundle, and found a pitcher of water. As he arranged the blooms, his hands lingering over their soft petals, he paused and looked up at Anders. The word caught in his throat for a moment as he tried to find the right thing to say. He didn’t have the vocabulary, but he fumbled through what he knew, reaching for the word he felt best captured his feelings.

"These are—" He stopped, sorting through his thoughts, pulling out the simplest description that fit. "Wonderful."

The word felt almost insufficient, but Anders smiled, his face lighting up in the warmest way. He stepped closer, his hand reaching toward the flowers, and with a tender motion, brushed one finger against a petal. Then he pointed at the flowers, and then at Wilder, his dark eyes shimmering with something Wilder couldn't quite place. He spoke in a soft rasp that seemed to strain his throat but still carried an unmistakable reverence.

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