Chapter Twelve

Wilder woke up well-rested and warm, wrapped in Anders's arms.

It'd been the best night's sleep he'd ever had.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and saw the day shining through the longhouse entrance, sunlight settling over his skin like a kiss and birdsong drifting to his ears. He wriggled in the furs until he and Anders were facing one another, and then, gently, carefully, Wilder tapped the tip of his nose with his forefinger.

Anders's brow furrowed. He mumbled something—it was low and raspy still, but in his sleep he spoke with ease, while awake words formed more hesitantly on his lips—and Wilder smiled and tapped his nose more insistently. Anders shook himself awake with a snort. He clumsily grabbed Wilder's hand and Wilder could see him taking in his surroundings with every slow blink. Next to the hearth, in bed, with—

He smiled, bringing Wilder's hand to his lips to kiss his fingers. Good morning, he said.

"Good morning," Wilder replied. "Did you sleep well?"

Another kiss was pressed to his neck as Anders answered with a deep, rumbling growl. One large, rough hand slid down his back to cup his backside. Between them, Anders's arousal stirred against Wilder's thigh. He blushed. What a strange and wonderful thing, to be someone's husband and to be desired so! What a strange and wonderful thing to spend the morning in a lover's embrace! There were chores to be done, but there were always chores to be done, and they would still be there whether or not he and Anders enjoyed one another's company, so Wilder laid in the bed of furs and very contentedly waited for more of his husband's hands, his lips, his mouth.

◆◆◆

Afterwards, it was with a delicious kind of soreness that Wilder went about with his daily chores. A satisfied exhaustion, a happy ache—what remained of Anders's attention, besides the mark on his neck where Anders had sucked a bruise. He'd been apologetic in the afterglow. As they laid there, sweaty and panting once more, Anders had moaned in dismay at the sight of the tender, reddened skin and seemed so upset with himself that Wilder had to reassure him that it did not hurt and all was well and he quite liked it, besides. He liked having it there on his neck, a visible reminder of Anders's ardor, and that he and Anders belonged to one another.

The animals, for all their familiarity with their surroundings, were indifferent to the change in the household's atmosphere. To them, life simply carried on as it always had, with or without the presence of humans in the early hours of the day. They greeted Anders and Wilder’s late morning appearance with an assortment of soft bleats and clucks, some of the goats bounding excitedly in their direction, while Avery, the rooster, seemed put off by the disruption of routine. Avery was the sort of bird that found any minor inconvenience an affront to his dignity, whether it was the absence of a morning treat or the goats mucking about in his space. As Wilder tossed weeds toward the goats, watching them devour them with enthusiasm, he couldn't help but feel a slight appreciation for their insatiable appetites. If only they’d had goats at the monastery, he thought. The chores there would have been so much simpler. Instead of hauling water from the well and lugging sacks of grain, the goats could have taken care of most of the plants.

A few more weeds landed by his side, and he glanced up, pausing as the sound of footsteps interrupted his musings. It was the kind of sound that didn’t belong to any of the regular folk—strangers often carried themselves differently, walking with a purpose but yet also a sense of unfamiliarity in the air around them. Wilder squinted against the morning sunlight, looking toward the road where a man was approaching. The stranger was hooded, his cloak draped loosely around him, and he carried a sturdy walking stick in one hand, a large satchel hanging from his shoulder.

Wilder rose to his feet, wiping his hands on his trousers. As he did, he caught sight of the goats, who had noticed the stranger approaching and, much to his amusement, had already begun charging at him with that distinct, joyful energy that only goats seemed capable of. The animals—determined to create chaos—rushed the stranger, their bleats loud and their tiny hooves pounding the ground.

The man reacted immediately, swinging his walking stick wildly in the air, barking at the goats, "Back, beasts! Away with you!" His voice was sharp and laced with frustration as he wielded the stick like a weapon, trying to ward them off.

Wilder couldn’t help but laugh, but it wasn’t the time for that. Rushing toward the stranger, he quickly stepped between the goats and the man, delivering a firm smack to the animals' rumps. "Go on, now! Go cause trouble somewhere else!" he called out, his tone stern and authoritative. The goats, recognizing the familiar sound of Wilder's voice, retreated reluctantly, but not without giving the stranger one last round of curious sniffs and nips before they turned their attention toward the chickens.

Wilder gave a quick glance back at the man, feeling somewhat embarrassed for the goats’ antics. "I apologize for them," he said, his voice softening, "They kept escaping the pen, and now we just let them wander around. Can I help you with something? Are you here to see Anders?"

The stranger paused, regarding Wilder with a look that seemed to assess him. He shook his head, pushing back his hood, revealing a sharply angled face and brown eyes that studied him with a hint of suspicion. His short brown hair was tousled, as if he’d been traveling for some time. "You’re Anders's husband? Wilder?" The words came out curt, clipped, as if he wasn’t accustomed to giving pleasantries.

Wilder blinked, slightly thrown by the bluntness of the question but nodded all the same. "I am," he confirmed, a little wary. He wasn’t used to strangers arriving unannounced and certainly wasn’t expecting anyone.

The man’s eyes narrowed even further, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Then I’m here for you. Anders came to see me yesterday. I’ll be making your clothes."

Wilder blinked again, unsure what to make of this new information. "Clothes?" he repeated. The idea of Anders commissioning clothes for him had not crossed his mind. Why hadn't Anders simply bought a set of clothes at the market like anyone else? And why this particular man? Wilder’s thoughts flickered back to the previous day. If Anders had gone off to visit this stranger, it would explain why he had come home late—without any dinner to show for it. But the question remained: Why clothes?

"For what?" Wilder asked again, still feeling a sense of bewilderment creeping in.

The man’s expression didn’t soften. "For your ceremony."

Ah, the ceremony. Disa had mentioned it—a ceremony to make their union official in the eyes of the town. The thought made Wilder’s heart flutter. It had only been a fleeting mention, but now he understood. Anders had been making plans for their wedding. A real wedding, in front of their community. Wilder felt a rush of warmth at the thought, his smile spreading wider. "Of course! And, you are?" he asked, eager to know more.

The man seemed to find this question amusing, or perhaps just unnecessary, as he raised an eyebrow at Wilder. "Kirk," he said flatly, before turning and marching toward the longhouse without another word.

Wilder stood frozen for a moment, taken aback by the suddenness of it all. "Of—of course," he stammered, feeling more bewildered than ever. "Please, make yourself at home," he added, though Kirk had already barreled past him and was headed straight into the house. Wilder could only follow after him, his mind racing with questions.

◆◆◆

From the entryway of the longhouse, the animals peeked their heads in, curious about the unusual spectacle unfolding near the hearth. The goats, ever inquisitive, nudged each other to get a better view, while the chickens flapped their wings nervously as if they too had questions. Avery, the rooster, puffed himself up in exaggerated indignation but kept a cautious distance, watching the strange man at work.

Wilder stood perfectly still, arms outstretched, draped in a plain, thin tunic, feeling utterly out of place. Kirk, the tailor, circled around him with a measuring tape in one hand and scraps of fabric in the other. His face was intense, brow furrowed as he mumbled to himself, held bits of different-colored cloth to Wilder's freckled cheek, and clucked his tongue in dissatisfaction. The sound was frequent, and it struck Wilder like an unspoken reprimand.

"Yes?" Wilder finally asked, hoping to offer some assistance, unsure what was expected of him.

Kirk’s eyes flicked up, a brief flash of frustration in his gaze. "What?"

Wilder shifted uncomfortably, looking for some sign of progress. "No, nothing," Kirk muttered after a pause, then gave a long-suffering sigh. "It’s only—can I help in some way?"

"You can stop moving," Kirk ordered sharply.

Wilder’s breath hitched, and he froze even more, if that were possible, trying desperately not to twitch under the man’s relentless scrutiny. The slightest movement could undo whatever progress Kirk had made. Despite his best efforts to remain still, he couldn't help but glance toward the goats, who were eyeing the newcomer with mischievous curiosity.

Valiantly, Wilder tried to ignore the bit of bright red wool that Kirk jabbed near his ear, only half-listening as he asked, "Do you make the clothes for everyone’s wedding?"

Kirk tossed the scrap of fabric onto the table with an exaggerated flick of his wrist. He grabbed a piece of charcoal and marked a section of the fabric before deftly sliding a bone needle through it. "Not everyone," he said, his voice flat. "Some don’t care for my style of embroidery. Some don’t care for me in particular. But enough people come to see me when they’re ready for marriage. Your Anders, for one. Surprised my husband and I to see him yesterday."

"Oh, yes, you mentioned earlier—so he met with you to discuss, ah, what we’ll be wearing?" Wilder asked, trying to make sense of it all.

"That’s what I said." Kirk gave him a strange look. "He didn’t tell you?"

Wilder blushed, feeling the heat rush to his cheeks. "Well, last night we were... busy with—other things."

For the first time since his arrival, Kirk’s lips curled into a grin. "I’ll bet. I remember when my man and I were first wed. Got nothing done except for each other."

The remark struck a chord with Wilder, who found himself chuckling despite the blush still staining his face. He recalled their own wedding night, a whirlwind of passion and emotions that had left him barely able to think of anything else. But it had been... wonderful. They had only just begun to enjoy their marriage, and the desire between them seemed to be growing each day, each touch, each kiss.

Reluctantly, they had left the bed to start their daily chores, and Anders had set off for the forest after receiving a flurry of kisses from Wilder. It wasn’t just that day. All morning, Wilder had been distracted, lost in memories of the way Anders felt against him, the heat of his body, the weight of his presence. Was this what it was like for all newlyweds?

Wilder blinked at Kirk’s teasing smile and found himself asking, "Will that stop eventually?"

Kirk raised an eyebrow, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "Can’t speak for others, but not in my experience. Osgood still fucks me like we’re stealing moments together in the fields. Or, he would, if I wasn’t so worried about his back. Thinks he’s a workhorse, that one, but stubborn as an ass. Anders’s much the same, I think. My advice, if you ever need to give him a bit of rest, just ride him."

Wilder’s mouth dropped open. "What?!" he shrieked, horrified, his face burning.

Kirk took Wilder’s flustered response for confusion and shrugged. "Climb atop him and set the pace yourself. It’ll drive him wild, I guarantee that. What do you think?"

Wilder could feel his heart thundering in his chest, completely overwhelmed by the suggestion. "Think of what?!" he sputtered, unable to process the advice.

Kirk held up a square of dark blue cloth, a look of nonchalance on his face. "Of this color here."

Wilder blinked, his relief palpable. He pressed a hand to his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps. "It’s very lovely," he managed to say, still a little rattled by the conversation.

"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 had imagined 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 turn into 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.

But, as much as he relished the thought of a hearty meal, there were other matters that needed attention. He cleared his throat, trying to focus. "I met Kirk today," he said, breaking the silence. "Did you see him on the path?"

Anders’s eyes widened in surprise, and he shook his head, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Wilder shrugged. "He took my measurements for my new tunic. Were you going to tell me about it, or was it meant to be a surprise?"

Anders paused, his hands faltering for a moment as he looked at Wilder, clearly flustered. He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. Meant to tell you last nigh t, he signed, his fingers moving quickly. But when I came home, you were... naked, and... He trailed off, his face flushing deep red.

Wilder felt his own cheeks burn in response. He hadn’t been expecting this conversation to take that turn. He quickly turned his gaze away to hide his embarrassment, but he couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. "I thought as much," he murmured. "But, we should discuss it now. Kirk told me some things. He said that we’ll have a ceremony with the townspeople in attendance—"

Anders nodded eagerly, his dark eyes lighting up. Yes , he signed. Where I’ll show my love for you, and declare you as my husband.

Wilder smiled at the thought, his heart swelling. "I’ll do the same, yes?"

Anders’s nod was quick, his expression one of pure joy. Yes , he agreed, his hands trembling slightly in excitement.

Wilder’s mind raced ahead, trying to keep up with the thoughts that were coming fast. "And then Kirk said that our guests will be the ones to prepare the wedding feast. Is that true?"

Anders nodded again, this time more slowly, as if confirming something he hadn’t quite thought about before. That’s right , he signed, his fingers precise.

Wilder was quiet for a moment, processing the difference in tradition between their two cultures. "If we had married where I’m from, we would have had to procure all the food for the wedding feast ourselves," he said, his voice thoughtful.

Anders frowned, the frown deepening with confusion. The couple feeds the guests? he asked, not quite understanding.

Wilder nodded. "Yes, that’s how it was where I’m from. The guests would bring gifts, like bolts of cloth or things for the household. Sometimes even money. But the couple had to provide the food, the drinks, the entertainment, everything." He paused, remembering what he had heard about other weddings. "But this... this is better, I think. A feast just for us."

Anders seemed somewhat mollified by that, though still unsure. At least they bring something , he signed.

Wilder chuckled, shaking his head. "Yes, I think I like the idea of having it prepared for us much better," he said, his voice light. "Now, shall we get started on dinner?"

They returned to the longhouse together, their hands still stained with the blood of the deer. Wilder lit a fire in the hearth, feeding the flames with small twigs and dry branches, while Anders worked on preparing the meat for roasting. The smell of the fire and the venison filled the air, rich and earthy, comforting in its familiarity.

As the flames danced in the hearth, Wilder turned to Anders, his curiosity piqued once again. "What sort of man is Kirk’s husband?" he asked.

Anders made a soft noise of thought, his lips curling slightly in a small, bemused smile. I find him strange , he admitted. But Kirk is strange as well, so they’re well-matched.

Wilder couldn’t help but laugh at that. "Do you think we’re well-matched?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

Anders’s face softened, and he signed without hesitation. Yes. We’re both very strange.

Wilder smiled, returning the look. There was something about Anders’s quiet certainty that made him feel grounded, even in the face of so many unknowns.

As they continued to work side by side, Wilder paused and hummed the tune that had been stuck in his head ever since he left Kirk’s workshop. "Here," he said, his voice light as he hummed the melody. "Kirk was humming this today. Tell me if you know the song."

Anders’s dark eyes sparkled as he listened intently, his expression shifting from curiosity to recognition. Wilder’s heart fluttered in his chest, and as they worked together, cooking the evening’s meal, the sound of their laughter and the hum of the song mingled with the crackle of the fire, filling the longhouse with warmth.