Page 34 of The Warrior and the Monk

"It is," Kirk agreed, squinting at Wilder as he adjusted the cloth. "Especially with your complexion. Blue suits you. The color of the deep ocean. Trimmed with gold thread. And a belt of yellow and red. Yes, I think that’ll do very nicely."

Kirk continued to make marks on the plain tunic Wilder wore, humming a low tune to himself. The sound was unexpected, coming from the tailor, whose focus had been so sharp and meticulous until now. Wilder listened to the unfamiliar melody, wondering if it was a song that people in the town learned from their childhood, passed down from parent to child, or perhaps sung at festivals and gatherings. It felt like something that could become familiar to him, something he could hum later when he was cooking with Anders in the evening, just to see if Anders knew it, too.

Wilder glanced at the tailor. "Will Anders have a new set of clothes as well?"

"Hm?" Kirk grunted, his hands busy with the cloth. "Oh, yes. We discussed it yesterday. A green tunic."

Wilder waited for more details, but Kirk didn’t offer them. "Is that all?" Wilder pressed.

"I’ll embroider the hem, too. He already has a belt to wear, he said."

"That seems a bit plain," Wilder said, unsure of Anders’s taste.

"Ah, well, it’s what he asked for. He wants all eyes to be on you."

Kirk’s sly grin made Wilder’s face turn even redder. "Anders underestimates how distracting he can be," Wilder muttered, though it was true. Anders had a presence—his size, the way he moved, his intensity. Nothing he wore could ever be plain. Not when he was the most remarkable man Wilder had ever met.

Kirk nodded, seeming to approve of Wilder’s assessment. "That’s good that you like each other so much. I’m glad Anders found you. He seems happier than I’ve ever known him to be. He was meant to be a husband, not a warrior."

Curious, Wilder asked, "Did you give up your sword, too?"

Kirk’s laughter rang out, loud and rich. "Hah! I’ve been told I have a combative nature. It was my husband who wielded a weapon. The only time I ever saw him show fear was when he presented my mother with the blade. She likes him just fine now, but before..." He trailed off, a small smile on his lips. "Anyway! We’re done here. Give me that tunic back, and I’ll be getting home."

Wilder nodded quickly, eager to see Kirk on his way. "How long will it take to finish? The clothes?"

Kirk waved a hand dismissively. "Don’t worry, you’ll be wearing them for your wedding feast."

Wilder’s heart skipped a beat. "A wedding feast! I didn’t even think of that! I haven’t even begun to make preparations! I have to ask Anders when it will be held! How many people will be coming? I need to go to town—"

"Peace, Wilder," Kirk interrupted, holding up a hand. "That’s our responsibility. The town’s, that is. You and Anders need only concern yourself with the ceremony. That’s no real hardship. Say your vows, display your love for one another, and you’re done and ready to enjoy the food. I know I was famished after my ceremony."

Wilder breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness for you," he said, giving a nervous chuckle. "It was very nice to meet you. Thank you for all your help. Should I pay you now, or after you're finished with our clothing?"

"Don’t worry about it now," Kirk said, adjusting his satchel on his shoulder. "Pay me in the coming year, when you and Anders have settled more comfortably into your life, and when you’re more established." He nodded toward the garden. "I’ll take a basketful of crops, and a couple of your newly-hatched chicks, when they arrive."

Wilder nodded, feeling a wave of gratitude. "Is that enough?"

"It’s what I’m asking for, so yes," Kirk said with a grin. "Now, see me off and make sure those goats stay away from me."

Wilder followed him out of the house, feeling lighter than when the day had begun. With the clothes to look forward to, and the ceremony taking shape, he could finally breathe easy. Perhaps everything would come together after all.

???

There had been no deer at the monastery. The land around the abbey was too open, too exposed, and too close to the sea for any of the wild creatures to seek shelter or forage near the stone buildings. The area was flat, dominated by dry sea grass and saltwater, nothing that would tempt a deer to venture close. It had always been a disappointment for Wilder, who hadimagined that the monastic life might bring him closer to nature, but the animals stayed hidden deep in the forests beyond.

But now, living with Anders, the landscape was entirely different. The forest stretched for miles, dense with trees, and teeming with wildlife. Deer were plentiful there, and Anders was a skilled hunter. Wilder had learned to appreciate the way his husband moved through the woods, silent and focused, tracking the creatures with practiced ease. It was a quiet kind of magic to watch him at work.

This time, Anders appeared at the entrance of the longhouse, his broad shoulders framed in the doorway. He waved to Wilder, and it took him a moment to realize that the sight before him was no simple hunting prize. A massive stag was draped across Anders's shoulders, its great antlers tangled in the folds of its thick fur. Despite the size of the animal, Anders carried it with ease, as though it weighed nothing at all. Wilder’s heart swelled with admiration, his eyes tracing the lines of the animal’s powerful frame, the muscle in Anders’s arms as he shifted the deer into a more comfortable position.

Wilder’s mouth watered at the thought of venison. In the months since he’d first tasted the meat, he’d come to love it, but he had also learned just how much work went into preparing an animal of that size. He didn’t mind the meals—he found them delicious—but the mess that came with dressing a deer was something he’d never quite grown used to. It had taken him by surprise the first time, and he had despaired over the cleaning process, his hands slick with blood, his hearth covered in the mess of it all.

From then on, Anders had made it a habit to skin and dress the game far away from the longhouse, and Wilder had been grateful for that arrangement. This time, however, Wilder had followed him, carrying a bucket of water in one hand and a ceramic pot in the other to hold the offal that they would turninto sausages—or perhaps bake into pies, depending on how they felt.

"Good hunting today, I see," Wilder called out as he approached, his voice light but filled with admiration.

Anders paused in his task of skinning the deer, turning to flash him a brief smile. "It’s been a good day," he said, his voice low and warm. He reached for the pot when Wilder held it out, and together, they worked in quiet rhythm, Anders offering the liver, the kidneys, and the heart. The intestines, Wilder knew, would need careful attention if they planned to use them as casings for sausages. The hide, thick and strong, could be tanned into leather. And the meat—well, there was always enough meat to last them for weeks. What they couldn’t roast or stew in the next few days, they would dry for jerky. It would serve them well on long trips, or as extra rations to tide them through the colder months.

As Anders worked, Wilder found his mind wandering, musing over all the possibilities for their meals in the coming week. The lingonberries that had ripened in the garden might pair beautifully with the venison. He imagined the tartness of the berries cooked with onions, a dash of rosemary, and a spoonful of melted fat, all poured over slices of roasted deer. The thought made his stomach growl in anticipation.

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