Chapter Ten

Eager as they both were to return to Anders's—no, to their longhouse, 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 slight scratch 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.

Anders nodded, his usual easy grin returning as he left the house to gather what they would need for the trek through the forest. In the meantime, Wilder set about tidying up. He made the bed, swept the floor, and organized Frode’s collection of herbs and spices. The quietness of the house surrounded him, and his thoughts drifted. There had been a time when he had felt certain that his life would end within the walls of the monastery, that his days would be spent in silence and solitude, his only companions the ancient texts and the echoes of chanting monks. But now, he was here, with Anders. They were preparing to leave for their home, for their shared life. Wilder’s heart swelled at the thought. It felt both surreal and inevitable—he had called Anders his husband for weeks now, even if he hadn’t known it at the time. But now, it was real. It was happening. He was ready for it. Or was he?

His thoughts were interrupted by Frode’s voice, a sudden and comforting presence in the doorway. "I passed by the marketplace. Anders is looking quite pleased with himself," Frode said, his eyes scanning the spotless house. "So, am I right in assuming you two have had time to talk?"

Wilder leaned the broom against the table and gave Frode a soft smile. "Yes," he said quietly. "I’m returning to Anders’s home. To—our home."

Frode’s expression softened, and for a moment, he looked almost wistful. "You’re certain? You know I don’t mind having you here. You can stay as long as you like. I don’t want you to feel pressured into making a decision you’re not ready for."

Wilder felt a lump form in his throat. Frode’s kindness was overwhelming, but he knew in his heart what he wanted. He could never thank Frode enough for everything he had done—helping him heal, teaching him, guiding him. But now, his life lay in a different direction, and it was one he was ready to take.

"Thank you, Frode," he said, his voice soft but steady. "But I want to live with Anders. Entering the monastery, leaving the monastery—I didn’t have a choice in those. But I have one now, and I’m choosing Anders. I think that—that I can—" He fumbled over his words, heat flooding his face. It was as though his heart had outrun his ability to speak, and he wasn’t quite sure how to put everything he felt into words. He was saved from spilling his emotions all over the freshly swept floor by the sound of Anders’s arrival. The door creaked open, and Anders ducked inside, his broad frame filling the doorway. A linen bag was slung over his shoulder, and in his hands, he carried a leather satchel. He nodded at Frode in greeting before turning to Wilder, handing him the satchel with a pleased smile.

"For me?" Wilder asked, eyes bright with surprise.

Anders nodded, a slight blush creeping beneath his beard.

It was a plain but finely crafted satchel, light against his waist and a rich, polished brown that spoke of careful work and quality. Wilder smiled, his heart warmed by the gesture. "Thank you, Anders," he said, his voice thick with appreciation. He set the satchel down on the table for a moment to retrieve the bouquet of flowers that Anders had given him earlier, carefully tucking them into the bag. The delicate blooms seemed almost to peek out shyly, as if they too were part of a new chapter in his life. Anders, for his part, went red beneath his beard, rubbing the back of his neck in a rare show of bashfulness. But there was no mistaking the pleased glint in his eyes, a warmth that made Wilder’s heart skip.

Frode, clearing his throat with an air of gentle amusement, stepped forward. "It is good to see you, Anders. You seem to be doing well." His gaze went first to Anders’s throat, where the scar from the injury still lingered. To Wilder’s surprise, Anders bowed his head slightly, allowing Frode to touch the healed skin. "That’s healed nicely, I think," Frode observed, his fingers gentle against the scar.

Anders made a soft noise of agreement, his lips pressing into a tight line as he acknowledged the pain that had passed, but with a look of gratitude toward Frode for his care.

Frode stepped back, looking at both of them now, his eyes narrowing slightly as if appraising something he had already known but now fully acknowledged. "And have you and Wilder made your intentions with one another clear?"

Anders’s hand found Wilder’s, and he nodded once more, a simple, but sure gesture.

Frode looked satisfied. "Excellent. Visit whenever you like. You’re always welcome here." He paused, his gaze turning a little more serious. "Now, take care of each other. Make sure to communicate, yes? As best as you can."

Wilder blushed, glancing at Anders before answering, his voice quiet but earnest. "We’ve—made progress. And I think we’ll continue to do so." He glanced at Frode, his heart swelling with gratitude. "Thank you, Frode. I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me."

Frode chuckled, shaking his head slightly as he gave them both a knowing look. "You’ve nothing to thank me for. Now, get going, while there’s still daylight. It’s a long walk to your home."

Wilder felt a surge of emotion in his chest. There was no need for grand speeches, no need for more words. The path was clear before him now. He was ready to walk it, side by side with Anders. With Frode’s blessing, with the satchel of gifts, with a heart full of hope, Wilder turned to leave. And this time, it felt like home was waiting for him.

◆◆◆

Something very near to smugness played at the corners of Anders’s lips, a subtle, knowing grin that Wilder couldn’t help but find both amusing and disarming. It was as though Anders was perfectly aware of the effect his presence had on the world around them—and yet, he seemed utterly unconcerned by it. The former warrior stood tall, his broad shoulders squared in that unmistakable posture of pride, taller than nearly everyone they passed. His chest puffed out, a silent declaration of his strength, of his place in the world. It was a little like a rooster, strutting proudly through the barnyard, and Wilder couldn't help but smile at the image.

Anders’s arm was firmly around Wilder’s waist, a gesture that felt both possessive and tender, and as they walked through the streets, the pace was slow and deliberate. Wilder had to take two steps for every one of Anders’s long strides, but Anders, ever the gentleman, slowed his pace to match him, never once pulling ahead. It was clear he didn’t mind being seen, didn’t mind the attention they were drawing as they made their way through the town. People stopped what they were doing—vendors paused mid-sale, sailors halted in their chores—and all eyes turned toward them. Some of the older women whispered to one another, sharing knowing looks, while children peered out from behind their mothers, watching with wide, curious eyes. The townspeople were watching, but Wilder didn’t think there was anything malicious in their gaze. If anything, they seemed pleased. They weren’t looking at them with judgment or curiosity born of gossip. They were looking because they knew the story—knew that Wilder and Anders had been through something difficult and had come out the other side together, stronger than before.

Disa had told them that some of the town had assumed they’d had a lover’s spat, and now, as they walked through the streets together, hands nearly brushing, heads held high, Wilder realized that was exactly how it appeared. A reconciliation, a union that had been tested and was now stronger for it. They walked side by side, united not just in their shared history, but in the certainty that they were building something new together. They were a couple, and the townspeople seemed to be happy for them.

The path they took led them toward the longhouse, back to their home, and as they neared the familiar clearing where the trees began to part and the house emerged from the landscape, Wilder’s thoughts began to race. Anders had assured him that all was well, but Wilder couldn’t help but feel a twinge of concern. He needed to see for himself. The garden—how had it fared in his absence? The animals—were they well cared for? Would Avery, the horse he had helped train, remember him? And, perhaps most pressing of all, what would their days look like now that they were truly together? Would the routines they had once known still hold, but now, with the knowledge that their hearts were intertwined in a way they hadn’t fully realized before? Would it be different? Would it be more relaxed, more intimate?

His mind wandered to the kiss they had shared, that first real kiss after everything that had happened. He remembered the touch of his fingers on Anders’s lips, the softness of Anders’s mouth against his, the way his heart had fluttered at the tenderness in the action. He thought about that night, when Anders had pleasured himself while Wilder lay beside him, the sounds filling the air, and Wilder’s pulse quickening at the thought. A bed of furs large enough for two, the warmth of Anders’s body close to his—it was an image he couldn’t shake, one that made his chest ache with longing.

In the quiet of his thoughts, Wilder felt a rush of uncertainty. He had learned, through his years in the monastery, that such acts were reserved for marriage. They were supposed to occur only once the vows had been made, within the sacred union of husband and wife. But now—now, here he was, in a new place, a new life with Anders. And what he had learned in the monastery and what he felt in his heart were at odds. It was difficult to reconcile those teachings with the reality of what he and Anders shared. Was it sinful to imagine Anders beside him by the hearth, the warmth of their bodies mingling under the soft furs? Was it wrong to want to kiss him again, and again, and to let their bodies speak the language their mouths had not yet learned? Had they already sinned, simply by kissing?

But no. By the standards of Anders and his people, they were already married. Disa had spoken of a ceremony, of a union that would be witnessed by the townspeople, but it seemed that in this place, what mattered was intention. And in that sense, they were already united. They didn’t need a grand declaration, nor the pomp of a public ceremony. They had their vows, spoken not with words, but with actions, with eyes and hands and hearts. Anders had already traded his sword for the title of husband, and as far as the town was concerned, and as far as Wilder was concerned, that was all that mattered. The customs here, in this place, were simple and clear. They had committed to one another in the truest sense of the word, and it was enough. They were married, but they were also courting. Wilder smiled at the thought. All couples, he realized, had to learn to live together, to navigate the rhythms of a shared life. This was just another part of that process. And though the world he had known before may have held different rules, he now saw that there was no sin in the love he shared with Anders. It was a love that was as natural as the forest they would soon enter, as pure as the earth that supported them.

Satisfied with his own reasoning, Wilder leaned against Anders’s side with a pleased sigh, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing as the weight of his worries lifted. The warmth of Anders’s arm around him was a comfort, and as they entered the forest together, Wilder felt a deep sense of belonging. This was his life now, his future, and it was good. The sound of their footsteps on the forest path was steady and rhythmic, like the pulse of the earth beneath their feet, and for the first time in a long while, Wilder allowed himself to relax. He was home. With Anders. And nothing else mattered.

◆◆◆

The first time Wilder had entered the forest, he had been certain he was being kidnapped. The dense canopy of trees, the thick, suffocating undergrowth, and the eerie quiet had all seemed oppressive, like a prison with no way out. He had felt small, helpless, and utterly alone as the world around him swallowed him up. The second time he had entered the forest, fear had gripped him—he had been running, terrified of something he couldn’t even name. His heart had raced in panic, his feet slipping through the mud as he fled from a wrath he thought was inevitable. The rain had pelted him, cold and merciless, but still he had run, convinced that something far worse awaited him at the end of his flight.

Now, walking beside Anders, the forest felt different. The trees, once looming and dark, now felt welcoming, a part of the world they were building together. Anders, his partner, his equal, was by his side. There was no need for fear, no need to flee. This time, Wilder took a deep breath and allowed himself to enjoy the walk, to appreciate the beauty of the forest around him. The air was cool but fragrant, filled with the scent of damp earth and growing things. The forest seemed to stretch on forever, a never-ending tangle of greens, browns, and the soft gray of the mist that hung lazily between the branches.

The ground beneath their feet was thick with grasses, the bright green blades tugging at their ankles as they walked. Above them, the trees were dense, their dark leaves clustering together to form a canopy that whispered with every breeze. The branches rustled softly, creating a calming rhythm that blended with the distant call of birds and the quiet hum of insects. Moss grew thickly on the trunks of the trees, the speckled green and gray patches soft and plush to the touch. Rocks jutted from the earth, ancient and weathered, worn smooth by the passage of time. Flowers—wild, untamed—bloomed everywhere, their colors bold against the backdrop of green. Blue, yellow, purple, red, and pink, all splattered across the landscape like a painter's forgotten strokes, adding splashes of life to the otherwise quiet forest.

"It's pretty," Wilder murmured, his voice soft in the peaceful stillness of the woods.

Anders’s gaze swept over the forest, taking in its beauty. He seemed to be savoring the moment, just as Wilder was. He turned to Wilder, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he pointed to the ground. His head tilted slightly, his eyes questioning. Sit? His gesture was clear, an offer of rest, a break from their walk.

Wilder smiled and nodded, appreciating the pause. "Yes, let’s."

Anders’s face broke into a smile as he crouched down, his movements fluid and natural. They settled on the ground, finding a patch of soft moss to sit on. Anders reached into his pack and pulled out the food they’d brought along for the journey—a simple but satisfying meal of bread, butter, and sausages. Wilder could smell the richness of the pork as Anders handed him a piece, and his mouth watered. It had been a long time since he’d had red meat—only when he’d been sick at the monastery had he been allowed it, and even then, it had never tasted quite like this. The sausage was savory, spiced with wild garlic and thyme, and the buttery bread melted in his mouth.

The food was rich, the flavors bold and comforting, and Wilder, perhaps a little too caught up in the deliciousness, found himself wiping his fingers on his pants, then sucking them clean without thinking. The grease left on his fingers made the taste linger, and he relished it, his mind briefly drifting from the world around him. The pigs here must be well-fed, he thought, with so much acorn and mast growing in the forest.

It was only when he glanced up at Anders, catching him staring with wide eyes and his mouth slightly open, that Wilder realized how rude he must have looked. His face turned crimson with embarrassment. He mumbled, "Forgive me," and reached to wipe his hands on the grass, feeling awkward under Anders's intense gaze.

But Anders’s reaction was not what Wilder expected. Instead of the amusement or reprimand Wilder had feared, Anders grabbed his wrist gently, a firm yet tender touch. His eyes were steady, and there was a strange intensity in them. Then, Anders did something that Wilder had never expected.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Anders brought Wilder's fingers to his lips, his gaze never leaving Wilder's face. Wilder’s breath caught in his throat, his heart skipping a beat. Anders kissed his fingers softly, then, with surprising boldness, he popped them into his mouth. Wilder froze, his mind blanking as Anders sucked his fingers clean, his tongue tracing the length of Wilder’s skin with careful attention. The heat of Anders’s mouth was enough to make Wilder’s pulse race, and he could feel his body reacting before he even realized what was happening.

The sensation was unlike anything Wilder had ever felt. He couldn’t focus on anything except the warmth of Anders’s mouth, the softness of his tongue, the way Anders seemed to savor the taste of him. It was a slow, deliberate act, and Wilder felt every moment of it like a spark running through him, setting his blood alight. His heart pounded, and his body reacted in ways he wasn’t prepared for. He shifted uneasily, his breeches suddenly uncomfortably tight, his thoughts scattering in a rush of heat and arousal.

"Anders," he murmured, his voice shaky, his chest tightening with a strange mixture of desire and embarrassment. He didn’t know what he was feeling or how to handle it, but Anders’s gaze was still locked on him, and it was so intense that it made his entire body tremble.

Anders didn’t break his gaze, his eyes practically devouring Wilder, but there was something else there, too. Something deeper. He continued to lick Wilder’s fingers, the sound of it filling the space between them. Wilder couldn’t help but flush deeper, his face burning with the heat of it all. His body was responding to Anders in ways that felt new and overwhelming, and yet it felt right. Too right.

Wilder couldn’t look Anders in the eye anymore. His knees were suddenly shaky, and he moved to kneel, his gaze dropping to the ground in an attempt to steady himself. That was when he noticed the undeniable evidence of Anders’s arousal, the bulge in his trousers, unmistakable. His pulse quickened even more. He couldn’t do this. Not here. Not in the open, where anyone could walk by and see them.

"Wait, Anders," Wilder said, his voice trembling slightly. "Could we—could we not here?" The words barely made it past his lips, but he knew they were necessary. He didn’t want to be seen—not yet, not in such a way. "I... I’d rather be closer to the longhouse, at least."

Anders’s expression softened immediately, and Wilder was surprised by how gentle his reaction was. He didn’t seem disappointed, or angry, or frustrated. Instead, Anders just gave him a small smile, a quiet understanding in his eyes. He rummaged through his bag and pulled out a cloth, wiping Wilder’s fingers clean with slow, deliberate movements.

Still feeling embarrassed, Wilder muttered, "I’m sorry."

But Anders just shook his head, his eyes full of warmth. No need to apologize, he seemed to say. It’s fine.

With that, Anders helped Wilder to his feet, his hand resting on Wilder’s back, a steadying presence. And as they stood there together, in the heart of the forest, something between them shifted. It was subtle, but it was there—something unspoken but understood. They were partners, equals, and whatever came next, they would face it together. Wilder smiled, his heart still racing, but now, with more than just desire—it was something more. The forest was still there, dense and dark, but Wilder felt lighter, somehow. Ready for whatever was ahead.

And so, hand in hand, they continued onward. The longhouse was waiting for them, and so was everything that lay beyond it.

◆◆◆

He heard the river before he saw it. The quiet burbling of the water, the sound of fish splashing below the surface. Wilder walked a little faster, eager to see the longhouse once more.

"Oh!" Wilder grabbed Anders's sleeve and let out a breath of wonder.

The land hadn't changed. It was still a beautiful view, with sun shining down on the lush foliage and the sparkling river. But the house— The first time Wilder had seen it he'd sighed in disappointment at the sad sight of it. Large and empty and in desperate need of repairs, with the yard overgrown with weeds.

Now it looked completely different. In the time that Wilder had been gone, Anders had obviously been laboring over it. The roof had been freshly thatched with dried straw and rushes. The walls had been fixed. And the longhouse was the same exact size, Wilder knew, but still, it just seemed—cozier. The garden flourished. It looked as though Anders had weeded it and watered the plants just that morning. All the animals milled about, the goats, the cows, and the sheep grazing on the grass, the chickens pecking at the dirt for bugs and worms, and Avery watching over them in her imperious way.

This was what Anders had wanted all along. A home, and Wilder here by his side to share it with him.

"It's just as you told me," Wilder said. "You've been taking great care of everything while I was gone."

Anders looked bashful. He squeezed Wilder's hand and simply—stared at him, as though waiting for something.

Wilder stared back, puzzled, and then exclaimed, "Ah!"

Did he want to continue what they'd started in the forest? Anders had been so eager then. Even if it was only because Wilder had been uncomfortable with being amorous so out in the open, it still had to have stung at least a little bit, to be rejected like that. He was waiting for Wilder to make the next move.

Taking a deep breath, Wilder led Anders closer to the river. Once they were standing by the water's edge, he said, "We should—bathe. It was a long walk, after all."

Anders's brow furrowed. Then, a moment later, he realized Wilder's meaning, because he enthusiastically nodded and just as enthusiastically—and rather clumsily—pulled his tunic over his head and then kicked off his boots. Wilder chuckled to himself as he undressed, setting his new satchel and bouquet carefully on the ground, neatly folding his tunic and breeches and setting them beside his own boots before wading into the river. The water was chillier than last time, but it was refreshing all the same.

Wilder ducked under the water and popped back up with a shake of his head, his curls dripping and stuck to his cheeks. Behind him, he heard Anders splashing through the water toward him, his shadow slowly overtaking Wilder. "Anders?" he asked, turning.

And audibly swallowed as he glanced down between Anders's legs.

That night when he awoke to the sounds of Anders pleasuring himself—then, he'd only been able to imagine what Anders looked like. The length of him, the thickness, how muscled his thighs, how hairy he might be.

Well, now he knew. Anders's legs were as thick and muscled and hairy as the rest of him, and his cock, already impressive in appearance from Wilder's extremely limited experience, grew harder and more flushed by the moment as Anders hungrily took in Wilder's nude form. Wilder shivered, both from the intensity of Anders's gaze and from his wet, bare skin exposed to the air.

What a difference there was between the two of them! Wilder was a head shorter than Anders and half his size. For as gentle and shy as Anders was, raw strength was visible on every inch of Anders's body. It was nearly overwhelming—the thought that Anders could have done anything he wanted from the moment Wilder had left the beach with him, and yet all he'd done was cook Wilder egg tarts and kiss him and—pull his fingers into his mouth. Wilder had to turn away, flustered at his own arousal.

Warmth enveloped him. Anders's arms wrapped around his waist, his chest to Wilder's back. His cock, pressed against Wilder's ass, throbbed with heat. Was that all because of him? Anders, who was the handsomest of men, found something pleasing in Wilder's freckled skin and lean muscle? Anders's roving hands and quickened breath certainly seemed to indicate so.

Kiss, Anders signed with a pleading expression. Kiss.

Wilder turned his head and kissed him, then gasped as Anders shifted, his cock squeezing between Wilder's thighs, rubbing their lengths together. Anders thrust once, then again, and again. One hand squeezed greedily at Wilder's ass, while the other explored his chest, fingers pinching his nipples. Wilder moaned. An extremely pleased sound rumbled from Anders's chest. He pressed ever closer, kissing Wilder more firmly, tongue tracing Wilder's lips as he rubbed and squeezed and pinched every part of Wilder he could touch with his hands.

He shivered when Anders ran his palm along his stomach and reached lower to wrap his hand around Wilder's cock, wet and glistening with water and precum. Anders groaned as though just having his hand around Wilder gave him pleasure. He pressed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to Wilder's neck as he stroked Wilder's cock. With a wanton moan, Wilder clutched Anders's arms, nails digging into his skin. Anders's touch was too much and yet not enough. His own pleasure was building and building—Wilder bit his lower lip, his muscles tensing. "Anders," he said. "Anders, Anders, Anders—"

He came in Anders's hand, smearing his rough, calloused fingers with hot, sticky cum.

"Oh, God." Wilder's legs shook with the force of his orgasm. "God." He would have collapsed boneless in the water had Anders not been hugging him to his chest. Glancing down, Wilder saw the mess dripping from his stomach and Anders's hand and, to his amazement, the tip of Anders's cock poking from between his legs as the man continued to rut frantically as he chased his own release. Dazed and slightly giddy, Wilder thought, he's using my thighs.

Anders let out an almost bestial groan. Though he'd been expecting it—waiting for it—Wilder was still surprised by Anders's climax. The sheer amount of it, spilling on Wilder's legs and into the river, how Anders continued to fuck his thighs through it until his desperate groans turned to wet pants against Wilder's ear. He growled, "Wilder," and kissed his shoulder. Eventually his hips stopped, and they stood there holding one another with the river running around them.

A little unsure of what to say but certain some response was necessary, Wilder said, "I liked that."

Anders grinned and tugged at Wilder's spent, softening cock, as if to say, I'm well aware.

They washed, slowly, and with a great deal more kissing.