Page 41 of The Warrior and the Monk

No?Anders grinned.I can still use my mouth. And my hands.

"No! I wanted to ask you something. I wanted—" Wilder paused. "Well, I wanted to ask what made you—choose me?"

Whatever Anders had been expecting, it had obviously not been that.What?

"That day on the beach. You saw me and—you decided to trade your sword for my hand in marriage. Why me?"

Anders went red in the face.You were beautiful.

Beautiful? With tangled, sandy, wind-swept curls and wearing a set of plain robes? Wilder frowned. "I see."

Do you? You were... Anders's hands faltered. He started, then stopped, then started again.I was a warrior. There was nothing I wanted. There was nothing for me. No one for me.

He growled, clearly frustrated. Wilder waited as Anders collected his thoughts.

I saw you there on the beach. You were beautiful. I wanted to make a home for you. Here, with me. So I had to try.Anders looked at him.Do you see now?

Wilder kissed him.I do, he said.

???

The moment Wilder stepped into the bustling town, he could feel a change within himself. Though he had never been one to embrace the spotlight, he realized that the community around him, the life of the market, was as much a part of his new life as his quiet home with Anders. He had come to this place, not just for Anders, but for the people and the shared experiences they would bring him. And as much as he loved the solitude of their home, Wilder knew it was important—perhaps even necessary—to become a part of this vibrant web of connections. It was time for him to stop being just the quiet husband, to stop merely being part of Anders's life, and to find his own place within the town.

Wilder had not chosen this life blindly. When he had chosen Anders, he had chosen the community and the town as well. The monastery had been a life apart, where distance and silence were the norm, but here, in the heart of the town, life was different. People greeted him with warmth and curiosity, and Wilder could feel the weight of their kindness, which made him grateful, and a little overwhelmed.

As he walked beside Anders through the market, every scene felt like a moment of discovery. He saw a grandfather baking flatbread, his hands steady and practiced as he passed each fresh piece to a hungry child, who devoured it with a greed that only a child could muster. Nearby, a young woman ran a stall, her voice clear and strong as she pitched honey and jam to passersby. The sweetness of the treats and the energy of the exchange made Wilder feel part of something much larger than just the simple chores he did at home.

Fishermen walked through the streets, their nets heavy with the day's haul. Wilder watched, fascinated, as the fishmongers sorted through wriggling fish, tossing aside those deemed too small or imperfect. It was an unspoken code in the market—those fish would not find their way to the stalls but would become part of hearty stews in the homes of those who had caught them. And even those smaller fish had value, a way of ensuring nothing went to waste. One fisherwoman traded two of her prized herrings for flatbread, the transaction quick but sincere. It felt as though everything in this town was about giving and receiving, in both small and large ways.

The blacksmith caught Wilder’s attention next, bent over her anvil, sweat trickling down her face as she hammered away at a hot piece of metal. Her muscles were taut with strength, and yet, when she saw her wife arrive with a pitcher of water and a kiss, there was a softness to the moment. It was these glimpses, these fleeting interactions, that spoke to the heart of the town—people who worked hard, loved deeply, and found joy in both their labor and each other.

Ah, this is what it feels like to be part of something,Wilder thought, his heart swelling with a sense of belonging he hadn’t fully realized he was missing. The monastery had been quiet, distant, and isolated, but here, in the market, he could see that life pulsed with a different kind of energy—a communal rhythm that Wilder had not known he needed until now. It wasn’t just a place where he lived; it was a place where everyone played their part, where everyone mattered.

Wilder’s steps slowed as they passed a stall selling fruits and vegetables, where a kindly old woman handed him a basket of apples, promising more would be delivered to the wedding feast. She was one of many who had spoken of the food she would bring, the role she would play in the upcoming celebration. It was not just a wedding for Wilder and Anders—it was a celebration for the entire town, a moment when everyone would contribute, from the bread to the goat to the hazelnuts. The feast was a gift from all of them, a show of their pride in the union between Wilder and Anders, but also a reflection of how deeply interwoven their lives were with each other.

Soon, they ran into Kirk and Osgood, easily identifiable by their unique dynamic. Kirk’s loud voice was unmistakable as he haggled with the fishmonger, demanding a better price for the fish Osgood had casually chosen. Osgood, ever the calm presence, barely seemed to notice his husband's antics as he stood with baskets of goods in each arm, the very picture of serenity in contrast to Kirk’s animated frustration.

When they spotted Wilder and Anders, Kirk waved them over enthusiastically. “Just getting the last of it,” he said, passing a handful of coins to the flustered fishmonger before grabbing a string of fish and tossing it over Osgood’s shoulderwith a flourish. The exchange made Wilder smile, but it was clear that Kirk was, once again, negotiating the very air around him. Osgood’s silent affection for Kirk was palpable, the quiet way he watched his husband with fondness despite the chaos surrounding them.

As they conversed about wedding preparations, Kirk confirmed that the clothes were almost ready and the ceremony would take place in just a few days. But there was no need for specific timing; the wedding would occur when everyone was ready for the feast. "We’ll come for you, don’t worry," Kirk assured, already making plans for the day. "It’ll be out in the field—flowers, good weather, warmth. You’ll be fine."

Wilder couldn’t help but smile at the thought. A wedding in a field, surrounded by flowers. He squeezed Anders’s hand, feeling the warmth of that simple gesture, a quiet connection in the midst of a bustling town.

After parting from Kirk and Osgood, Wilder found his way to Frode’s house. The healer was there, grinding herbs with his mortar and pestle. As soon as Frode saw him, a wide smile spread across his face, and he set his work aside to embrace him. "Looking well, lad," he said, giving him an approving look. "A little more weight on you, a rosier complexion—good to see you happy."

Wilder blushed, feeling a little self-conscious. "Anders and I have been taking care of each other."

Frode’s face softened, and he nodded in approval. "I’m glad. You can expect rosehip mead for your wedding feast," he said, then leaned in to speak more seriously. "Now, about the ceremony—"

Before he could finish, a familiar voice interrupted them. Disa appeared, out of breath and with a wild gleam in her eye. "Wilder!" she shouted, practically grabbing him by the arm. "Come curb your man! There's going to be a fight in the market!"

"What?!" Wilder exclaimed, feeling his stomach lurch as Disa dragged him through the streets toward the gathering crowd.

There, in the center of the market, stood Anders, looking every bit the fierce warrior. His fists were clenched, his jaw set in determination, his muscles tense as though ready to spring into action. He was surrounded by four men, trying to restrain him, but his anger was palpable. He stood face to face with Harald, whose bruised cheek was a testament to the confrontation that had already taken place.

"Don’t listen to him," one of the men said urgently, their words tumbling over one another. "It doesn’t matter. Let it go."

But Anders’s gaze remained fixed on Harald, his fury radiating in waves. The tension between them was thick, and Wilder could sense the volatile mix of pride, honor, and something else—something deeper—that made it hard for Anders to let go.

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