Chapter Fourteen

While Anders, Osgood, and the others ventured out to hunt the bear—a task that was both dangerous and, in Wilder’s eyes, reckless but, alas, necessary—Wilder and Kirk sat together in the longhouse, shelling peas in the thick silence. The task, simple and repetitive, should have been soothing, but for Wilder, it was anything but. His hands shook as he plucked the peas from their pods, and his heart thudded erratically in his chest. Each sound—each rustle of a pod, each small pea that fell into the bowl—seemed to echo with his anxiety. The silence between him and Kirk stretched long, only punctuated by the soft sounds of the garden’s bounty being prepared. Wilder recited prayers to himself, the words a mantra to stave off the rising panic in his chest, but in the spaces between the prayers, his tongue felt heavy, and his thoughts wandered to his husband in the woods.

"Shall we make pottage for supper?" Wilder ventured after a long pause, his voice soft, almost tentative. Anything to fill the space between them, to try to distract from the gnawing fear.

Kirk, his face grim, snapped a pea pod in half with a loud crack, sending its contents scattering across the ground. He cursed under his breath, shoving the remains into his mouth and chewing angrily, his teeth grinding with frustration. "I’m furious," he muttered between clenched teeth. "Harald and Norman can’t manage a successful hunt, and now it’s up to my husband—and yours—to put the poor beast out of its misery. If the bear doesn’t tear out Osgood’s intestines, perhaps I’ll do it myself, for putting me through all this stress."

Wilder winced at the imagery, the sharpness of Kirk’s words stinging in the air. He plucked a few peas from the dirt, mindlessly trying to keep his hands busy. "I’m afraid," he confessed, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though the admission of his fear would make it more real, more tangible.

Kirk’s tense posture faltered, his anger deflating like a punctured balloon. He sat down heavily on the ground, the weight of his frustration shifting to weariness. "I am as well," he admitted, his voice low. He threw himself backward onto the grass, staring up at the sky as though seeking solace from the expanse above. "I don’t have much of an appetite right now."

"Neither do I," Wilder muttered. He couldn't focus on the task at hand, the peas, or anything else, when all he could see in his mind’s eye was Anders—his beloved husband—facing down the bear. What if Anders was too slow? What if the bear was too fierce? What if—he pushed the thought away with an effort.

Instead, he focused on the motion of his hands, the steady rhythm of shelling peas, one after another. It was a small thing to do, but it was grounding. For a moment, the world shrank down to the simple task of peeling away the pods and setting the peas in their neat pile. It was an action he could control, unlike the larger, far more dangerous events unfolding just outside.

It had been Anders and Osgood’s idea for Kirk to stay with Wilder during the bear hunt. Neither of them wanted their husbands left alone while the bear was still roaming the area, and so Kirk had arrived at the longhouse with a trunk filled with his belongings, a basket of freshly picked peas from his own garden, and a tired smile. When Wilder asked what would happen to his and Osgood’s home while Kirk was staying, Kirk had shrugged and said his siblings were taking care of it. "Isn't it about time they did something useful?" he’d added with a rueful grin. Wilder, who had no siblings of his own, could only nod in understanding. He had once lived with many brothers, at the monastery, and had learned early that, in a family, everyone had their role to play.

Now, the two men waited together in an uneasy silence. Their nerves were on edge, their bodies tense, but neither of them wanted to admit that the true discomfort lay in their longing for their husbands’ presence. They could be with no one but each other, and yet, they both ached for the company of the men they loved.

Wilder broke the silence, his voice trembling slightly. "Do they have to kill the bear? Couldn’t they just—lead it away, somehow? That way, no one else has to get hurt." He imagined Anders, setting a trail of berries and fish, leading the animal to a quiet, faraway glade where it could live out its days in peace, far from the homes of the villagers.

Kirk, who had been frowning into the distance, let out a heavy sigh. "Too late for that now, even if it could be done. Osgood told me that Harald and Norman—" He paused, catching Wilder’s sour expression at the mention of those two men. "Ah, you know them?"

"Harald, yes," Wilder answered sharply, his mouth tightening into a line. "And his friends. They are—not welcome here."

Kirk nodded. "Same in our household. They're far too old to be ne’er-do-wells, but that’s what they are. Those two managed to fail the hunt so badly that they actually made things worse—an injured, starving bear, a mangled leg. It’s hard for the beast to walk, let alone catch fish, but it's found that people are slow, and their homes are full of food. The larders, the livestock—easy pickings. The families of those it’s attacked will want recompense, and the hide of the animal that harmed their loved ones will give them some comfort."

Wilder’s stomach churned. He could understand the families wanting justice, but to kill the bear felt like such a final, irreversible choice. What about the bear? Was it truly just a mindless animal, driven only by hunger and instinct, or was there something more—something lost in the wild, in the forest, in its pain?

"What about Harald and Norman? Shouldn't they be helping the others in the hunt?" Wilder asked, his curiosity piqued. He realized, in that moment, that despite his time with Frode and his frequent visits into town, he knew very little of how things truly worked in the community. What were the laws, the customs? What was the right way to act when something like this happened? He made a mental note to learn more—when he and Anders were properly married, he would ensure he knew his place in the town, too.

Kirk scoffed. "If they were anyone else, they’d be helping. But they’re not. Osgood detests them, as does your Anders, am I right? But it doesn’t matter, because they're in town arguing with the earl. The families of the injured are demanding gold in compensation. And of course, Harald and Norman argue that they’re not to blame. The bear’s a wild animal. It does what it will. But none of this would have happened if they’d been better hunters," he said, shaking his head.

Wilder’s frown deepened. It seemed so typical of Harald and Norman—men too proud to admit their failures, too quick to shift blame elsewhere. And now they were involved in something far bigger than they could control.

Kirk, who had been pacing as he spoke, returned to Wilder’s side and handed him his share of the peas that remained. "Here, Wilder, take these. I need something else to do besides complain. Finish these, and I’ll work on your wedding clothes."

At the mention of the wedding clothes, Wilder’s face lit up. "Oh! You brought them here? Can I see what you’ve done so far?"

Kirk nodded, a gleam of pride in his eyes, and returned to the trunk that he’d brought with him. With a flourish, he produced a belt woven in red and yellow threads, and a half-finished tunic in dark blue, with golden wheat embroidered along the sleeves. The tunic was beautiful even in its unfinished state. Wilder couldn’t believe how lucky he was to own something so fine. "I still have the collar to finish," Kirk added, "but give me another week or so, and it’ll all be done."

Wilder’s fingers brushed over the fabric, and he couldn’t help but smile. It was more beautiful than he had ever imagined. He had never owned such fine clothes—he had seen such things only on rich visitors to the monastery, and they were a far cry from what he could afford. The thought of wearing such a tunic, of having something made just for him, sent a thrill through him. "They're wonderful," he said, his voice filled with awe. "I almost cannot believe that they are mine. A—a prince would be proud to wear them." He gestured to his head as if placing an invisible crown.

Kirk chuckled, though he looked pleased. "Well, I wouldn’t go that far," he said with a grin.

The next few hours passed in a blur. Wilder continued shelling peas, his mind occasionally wandering back to Anders in the forest. He wondered how the hunt was going, whether the men had found the bear, whether Anders was okay. Kirk worked on the tunic, pausing only to mutter curses about Harald and Norman or to pet Avery, who had taken an instant liking to Kirk and his soft, absent-minded murmurs.

And yet, despite the work and the distraction, Wilder’s thoughts kept returning to Anders, and the bear, and the fear that gnawed at him. He knew, with a quiet certainty, that it would be some time before he could focus on anything else—not until Anders returned, safe and sound.

◆◆◆

It was three long days before Anders and Osgood returned. The silence had felt endless for Wilder, each day stretching on as he worked the fields, tended to the garden, and tried—unsuccessfully—to ignore the gnawing anxiety that lingered in his chest. He had kept himself busy, but the moment his hands and knees were covered in the rich earth of the garden, pulling weeds from the rows of vegetables, his thoughts always turned back to the forest, where Anders and Osgood had gone to hunt the bear. He could feel the weight of the waiting in his bones.

Then, on the third day, as Wilder dug his hands into the damp soil, his heart leaped at the sound of approaching footsteps. He looked up, wiping the sweat from his brow, and saw two large, weary figures emerging from the edge of the forest. They were leading a horse and cart, the cart creaking with weight, as they made their way slowly along the path to the longhouse. There was no bear in sight, no hide draped over the cart. But the fact that they had returned was enough to bring a rush of relief. Anders and Osgood would not have come back unless the job had been done. That was not the way of either man. They were known for their grit, for their determination to finish what they started, no matter the cost.

Wilder’s heart pounded in his chest, and before he even realized what he was doing, he scrambled to his feet and dashed toward the house. He had to find Kirk.

"Kirk!" he called out, his voice trembling with excitement. His feet barely touched the ground as he ran. "Kirk, they're back! Anders and Osgood are back! Kirk?"

He spotted his friend in the yard, feeding the hens and collecting eggs. The sight of him caused Wilder to stop, his breath coming in sharp bursts as he waved frantically. "Kirk!" he repeated. "They're back! Anders and Osgood are back!"

Kirk looked up from his basket of eggs, his brow furrowed with mild annoyance. With an exaggerated sigh, he set the basket down and raised his hands in mock surrender. "What? Should I stop my chores just for him?" Kirk shot Wilder a sly grin, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "If he's not missing any limbs, then he can come to me." With that, he turned, giving Wilder a playful roll of his eyes, and began to walk away, trailing after the hens who had already lost interest.

Wilder, too excited to be dissuaded, shook his head in disbelief. "You’ll see him soon enough, Kirk! I’m certain he’s well!" He turned on his heel and bolted toward the longhouse, feeling the rush of adrenaline fill him as he pushed open the door and hurried inside.

The house felt cold and empty. He hurried to stoke the fire and set a basin of water to heat. There was work to be done—preparations to make. As he worked, his mind wandered back to the forest and the hunt, but he forced himself to focus. He set the table with bread and the leftover stew from earlier in the morning, added a bottle of mead from the shelf, and swept the floor as quickly as he could. He fluffed the pillows, rearranged the furs on their bed, and, by the time he was finished, he heard the faint sound of footsteps outside.

When he stepped out into the yard, there they were—Anders and Osgood, standing awkwardly near the cart. They were covered in the grime of the forest, their clothes caked with mud and sweat, but there was something in the way Anders’s eyes glinted as he looked toward Wilder that made his heart swell.

Anders turned to Osgood, his voice tired but warm. "Thank you," he said, his rumble of words full of quiet gratitude.

Osgood shrugged, giving a wry grin. "If you had let me finish it, it would have been quicker," he teased, but there was affection in his tone.

Wilder practically flew to his husband’s side. "Anders!" he cried, his voice breaking with emotion as he reached out to pull him into a tight embrace.

Anders hugged him back, though it was a bit clumsy, both of them too weary to move with the fluid grace they usually shared. His beard was unkempt, his face rough and tired, and there were dark circles under his eyes, but he was smiling, a soft smile that filled Wilder’s chest with warmth. Are you well, Wilder? Anders signed, his face filled with concern.

Wilder pulled back slightly, looking him over with a quick glance. "Of course I am! It’s you I’m worried about! Were you successful? Is it done?" His voice caught on the last words, filled with anticipation.

Anders’s eyes softened, and he nodded.

Wilder let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. "Then—the bear?"

Before Anders could answer, Osgood stepped forward with a loud laugh. "Put out of its misery, though not without a fight. Most of it has gone to the townspeople—meat, bones, claws, teeth, you name it. The hide’s gone, too." Osgood’s eyes gleamed as he glanced at Anders. "And the earl had Harald and Norman pay the families of the injured. As for the hide," Osgood chuckled, "Anders, being the generous man he is, made the two of them a gift of it. After all, they wouldn’t know what to do with such a fine fur on their own."

Wilder tried to imagine the look on Harald’s face when Anders presented him with the bear’s hide, the hide he had failed to acquire for himself. He could picture it clearly—his disdain and frustration. It made him smile. He turned to Anders, rubbing his chest with the heel of his palm. "Oh, I know how generous my husband can be."

Anders, trying and failing not to look smug, rumbled a laugh deep in his throat, like a contented kitten.

"Speaking of husbands—" Osgood interrupted, his voice rising above their quiet laughter. He waved toward Kirk, who had remained standing in the distance, his arms crossed as he watched the reunion with a bemused expression. "Kirk," Osgood called.

Kirk hesitated for a moment, then shot them both a sharp look. But before Wilder could respond, Kirk marched over with an exaggerated swagger, his boots hitting the dirt with each step. And then, without a word, he flung himself into Osgood’s arms, wrapping them around his neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Done are you, you great fool?" Kirk asked, his voice tinged with both relief and affection. "Let me see you—are you still whole?"

Osgood grinned and wiggled his fingers. "I haven't lost the parts to please you, if that's what you're worried about."

Kirk gave him a playful shove, but it lacked the usual bite. "You’ve lost your wits if you think I’ll lay with you again, after all the stress you've put me through," he said, though the fondness in his voice was unmistakable.

"I spent days in that forest thinking only of you," Osgood said with a grin, brushing a few strands of hair out of Kirk’s face. "Didn't you think about me, even a little?"

"I thought of how peaceful my life was for once," Kirk replied with a scoff, though his face softened as he kissed Osgood’s cheek. "You haven’t shaved."

"No, I did not stop to make myself presentable," Osgood admitted, his voice low and teasing. "Our bed lies cold, and I have not had my mouth on you in days. I came straight here to collect you and bring you back to our home."

The words seemed to evaporate between them, and soon they were communicating in a mixture of growls and kisses. Wilder, standing awkwardly by, cleared his throat with as much discretion as he could muster. When the couple finally turned to face him, their eyes wide in surprise as though they had forgotten he was there, Wilder cleared his throat again, louder this time.

"Will you be staying for dinner?" he asked.

Kirk paused for a moment, his hand still resting on Osgood’s chest. "No," he said. "We should leave and see if our home is still standing. My siblings have been there far too long."

Osgood muttered something under his breath, his gaze fond but tired. "So long as there’s still a bed, I will be content."

It took some time for Kirk to gather his things, but once they were packed into the cart, Osgood lifted his trunk as though it weighed nothing. Kirk and Wilder split the remaining peas between themselves, and Wilder insisted on sending him off with a handful of eggs, some bread, and cheese for the journey.

"One week!" Kirk called from his seat on the cart. "You'd best prepare yourself for your wedding!"

Wilder smiled and turned to Anders, who was gazing at him with utter adoration. "I think I’ll make quite the sight!" Wilder said, his voice light.

Anders’s smile grew, and he looked at him as though Wilder were the most beautiful thing in the world. You will , he signed softly. They’ll see that I have the loveliest husband in the land.

◆◆◆

To Wilder's dismay, Anders announced his intention first to bathe and then to get back to work. Their firewood was running low, and he wanted to expand the garden and needed to plow a new field, and the fish—did they need more fish? How was their larder in the few days that had passed? These were the things that Anders had worried about while he'd been away.

Wilder frowned. While Kirk and Osgood were busy enjoying themselves, his own husband wanted to busy himself with chores. "But Anders, you've been gone for days! Stay here with me and rest."

There is still work to be done. The firewood...

"Leave it for tomorrow," begged Wilder. "We'll work alongside each other like we always do. For now, let's rest."

Anders sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. As you will , he signed. Let me wash first. He gestured to the basin on warm water and turned away to undress.

But he still held tension in his shoulders. His brow was furrowed. His thoughts were obviously still on the hunt, and on the work that had to be done in the morning.

Kirk's advice tugged insistently at Wilder's thoughts. If you ever need to give him a bit of rest, just ride him. He'd assured Wilder that Anders wouldn't be able to resist it.

As his husband divested himself of his clothes, Wilder quickly grabbed a clean cloth and dipped it in the water. He paused to admire Anders's body. In the firelight he was especially lovely—built like a hero from a tale, with his powerful back and his strong, broad shoulders, the muscle of his arms, the thickness of his thighs, the dark hair that covered his chest and trailed down his belly. Even his scars—of which Anders had been so embarrassed of, so ashamed—had a beauty to them, because they were marks of Anders's life, of healing, and Wilder loved to trace his fingers along his arms, his back, to gently kiss his the pale, white line across his neck and feel Anders's pulse against his lips. Wilder loved God, at times had loved the monastery, but neither had stirred the same passion in him as Anders did. Truly he had not known desire before Anders.

Quietly, he asked, "Anders? Let me wash your back for you?" He wrung out the cloth; water trickled back into the basin.

He received a grunt of affirmation in reply and Wilder thought, Yes, he is tired. "Come here and sit near the fire and warm yourself."

Anders sat, and Wilder knelt beside him with the basin and before he did anything else leaned close and sniffed him. Sweat, dirt, the wet dew of the forest, campfire smoke.

The hunt. I hadn't much time to bathe, Anders signed, his hands faltering self-consciously.

But Wilder shook his head. "I missed your smell."

With as much care as he had once illuminated manuscripts, Wilder wiped the sweat and grime from his husband's back. He pressed a little harder in the places where he felt knots, smoothing out the tension in Anders's back, and was rewarded with a deep, appreciative moan. Wilder dipped the cloth again, rubbed along the back of Anders's neck and shoulders, watching as rivulets of water ran down the length of his spine to the base of his tailbone. He thought it a very beautiful sight indeed. It was all very beautiful, to be together with Anders again, near the warmth of the fire in their longhouse.

In a fit of joy and longing, he kissed the nape of Anders's neck and wound his arms around him. "I was so worried about you."

Anders made a soft noise and covered Wilder's fingers with his own.

They stayed like that for a few long, sweet moments until Wilder pulled away and said, "Turn around and I'll get the rest of you clean."

He did not move easily or quickly and Wilder feared that Anders had some injury that he had not told him about, but then he saw that Anders was half-hard. Anders glanced at him and signed, Your touch , and then looked away, slightly abashed.

Wilder smiled, extremely pleased that the brush of his fingers could cause such a reaction. "Close your eyes," he said, and dabbed gently at Anders's face with the cloth before moving down to his throat and his chest. Anders's nipples hardened as Wilder rubbed at his pecs. Leaning forward, Wilder dropped the cloth entirely, pressing another kiss to Anders's neck while his fingers trailed below Anders's navel into the coarse hair of his belly and then lower still.

He took Anders's cock in his hand and stroked it, slowly, to fullness. Wilder marveled at how right it felt, to have his husband's cock in his hand, how hot it was, how heavy in his grip, how Anders leaned against him and shuddered, panting, as Wilder squeezed his length and rubbed the head with his thumb. For a time he teased Anders with his fingers and then he pulled away. "Go and lie down in bed," he murmured.

As always, Anders did as Wilder asked. He crawled to the furs, skin flushed and wet, rolling onto his back with a groan. Wilder wiggled out of his breeches, and then, straddling Anders's waist, yanked his tunic over his head and tossed it to the side.

Often he was underneath Anders, pressed into furs or, in one memorable instance, onto the grass, legs wrapped around his husband's waist as Anders thrust inside him with powerful snaps of his hips. What a different sight it was to have Anders below him! To see Anders's chest rapidly rising and falling as he stared at Wilder with awe and wonder, to feel his heartbeat as he rested his palms above it. From here, everything was clearer: his husband's dark eyes gone black with lust, his lips, parted and wet, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.

He said, "Let me take care of you. I don't want you to lift a finger." He leaned back, pressing himself against Anders's cock. He could feel the warm precum leaking against his backside. Wilder took a deep breath that turned into a gasp as Anders suddenly thrust against him, rubbing his cock in between Wilder's cheeks.

At Anders's hopeful expression, Wilder, blushing, gave him a light slap on the chest. "I told you that you weren't to do anything, Anders. Be good for me." As he spoke Anders seemed to grow more eager, and not a little dazed. He nodded frantically, a soft whine escaping his throat.

Wilder found himself more pleased than he thought he would be, that Anders would do as he said, because he knew that Wilder would take care of him and bring him pleasure. It was a very heady feeling, intoxicating, and arousing in its own right. Precum beaded at the head of his cock. Anders's gaze was fixed on it. Another whine left his throat, but he did not move.

"Good."

Anders's cock twitched in response.

Wilder leaned forward and, with one hand, reached behind himself to touch his rim. Gently, he prodded at his entrance with a finger, then slipped it inside, and not long after added another. He stared into Anders's dark, shining eyes as he opened himself up with his fingers. Anders held his hips in place to keep him steady while Wilder prepared himself. His hands were rough, his grip hard enough to bruise, and when Wilder gasped as he pumped his fingers in and out of himself Anders audibly swallowed.

"Yes—I'm ready." Wilder said it as much to himself as to Anders. "I'm ready for you, Anders."

Anders released him. Wilder lifted his hips, spread himself, and sank slowly, slowly, onto his husband's cock. Inch by inch Anders filled him. The sensation was intimately familiar and yet utterly new. He had never taken Anders's cock like this—atop of him, in charge of their joined pleasure as he rolled his hips, his own cock bouncing each time he slammed himself down onto Anders's. Wilder's thighs burned with the effort. His curls were soaked. Sweat dripped from his chin and splattered on Anders's chest. His husband let out a ragged moan, hands curling into fists as he clutched at the furs. The loveliest husband in all the land, Anders had said of him. But could anyone see Anders like this, with his sweaty curls and his flushed, red cheeks, his mouth wet and open, the rise and fall of his bare chest, the muscles of his arms as he scrabbled at the fur blankets in desperation, and not think him extraordinarily lovely and Wilder extraordinarily lucky?

He ran a hand along his own chest, pinching his nipples, and was exhilarated not so much by the feeling itself but by Anders's reaction to it. That when he caressed himself Anders alternated between rough, hoarse groans and whimpering pleas, his eyes wild. What a delight it was—what a pleasure—to be the cause of such yearning.

Wilder wrapped a hand around his cock and gave it a few quick pumps. There was no real grace to the movement; he found it difficult to maintain his rhythm riding Anders's cock as well as stroking his own, but for all it had to lack in sensuality it felt good, and when Wilder threw his head back with a cry Anders made a sound like the breath had been knocked from his lungs.

"Oh, God! Anders!" He collapsed as he came, falling atop Anders's chest and wailing as he spilled against his stomach. As he shivered Anders grabbed him and held him and thrust once, twice, and then came inside of him with a loud groan of relief. He held Wilder there until they were both a sticky, panting mess.

Thoroughly exhausted, Wilder twined his legs with Anders's and murmured, "Surely the chores can wait until the morning."

One of Anders's calloused palms ran along Wilder's back and came to rest on his ass. He grunted in agreement and then gave Wilder a squeeze.

Laughing, Wilder rolled off of his husband and onto the blankets. He kissed Anders's shoulder.

Do not think , Anders signed as the fire dimmed, that I did not know what you were up to.

Wilder settled back against the furs with a content sigh. "As long as you rest, I don't care what you know. Know now that I am thinking about riding you tomorrow morning, so that you may be too spent to even step one foot outside."

His husband made a noise that did not sound at all displeased by that.