Chapter Fifteen

Both day and the hearth's fire waned. By the dying light of the embers, Wilder nestled against Anders's side. They were both sweaty, sticky, and their energy utterly expended; for the past few hours they'd done nothing but reacquaint themselves with the other's body. Wilder had been without Anders for nearly his entire life, and now that he knew his touch it had been almost painful to go without it. To have a husband, to be a husband, was to share a life.

When Anders had been away Wilder had keenly felt his absence. It was not only their lovemaking that Wilder had missed, but also Anders's body, his presence. The sound of him in the morning, the rustle of his tunic as he pulled it on, the careful way he lit the fire when he thought Wilder was not yet awake, the warmth of his hand on Wilder's shoulder when he gently shook him to start the day together. His heavy footfalls around the garden, the river, the animal pens, always nearby if Wilder needed him. The evidence of his work throughout the day; a mended fence, a string of fish, clothes laundered and drying in the sun. The steady beat of his heart when Wilder laid his head against his chest, his arm thrown across Wilder's waist as they laid down to sleep.

Was this love? Wilder thought it had to be. He had not known it before, not like this, but he knew now that his life was irrevocably changed. In the time that Anders was gone he'd had Kirk for company, and good company and a good friend he was, but he was not who Wilder wanted by his side. The garden had been weeded and watered, the animals fed and groomed, the floor swept, the clothes washed—all the repetitive, necessary, boring tasks, and yet, he'd longed to share them with Anders. And now he was back, and Wilder would hold him fast and never let him go. He wanted Anders here, with him, in this warm longhouse in the forest.

Once again, Wilder thought about how this was not a life that he had ever expected. He'd thought he would spend his days at the monastery, in prayer and solitude. Certainly he never imagined that one day he would be carried away to a distant land with a new people, a new language, a new culture.

Anders was certainly more well-traveled than Wilder. He had to have been on many voyages before he'd arrived at the monastery. Why, out of all the people he must have met in his life, had he chosen Wilder to be his husband?

In a whisper, Wilder asked, "Anders?"

His husband did not open his eyes but grunted and turned his head to kiss Wilder's cheek in a bleary reply. Maybe Wilder had exhausted him too much; in the future he would use Kirk's strategies with more care. He gently stroked Anders's broad, hairy chest with his fingers, studying his strong jaw, the lines on his face that were smoother now that he was resting, his dark curls, damp with sweat.

"Are you awake? Anders?"

A wry smile spread across Anders's face. Yes , he signed against Wilder's hip. Anders shifted, rubbing his face and stretching before saying, I'm too tired for another round.

Wilder said, "That's not what I wanted!"

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 beautifu l.

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 shoulder with 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.

Wilder stepped forward, the familiar feeling of standing between two strong, determined men filling him with a sense of helplessness. He knew that whatever had sparked this conflict would not end easily. But he also knew that his place—his role—was not to fight, but to help Anders find his way back to the calm he had found in the fields with him.

Wilder couldn’t help but feel a surge of fury building within him as he watched Harald’s smirk twist into a cruel sneer. The words were meant to wound, and they hit their mark with devastating precision. "A pretty little husband, but what vows can you make to him? You can barely talk!" Harald’s voice was dripping with contempt, and for a brief moment, it felt as though the air itself had thickened with the weight of his venomous words.

Wilder’s chest tightened, but he could feel Anders's presence beside him, the tension in the air coiling around them both. The words had hit Anders harder than Wilder could have anticipated. He could see the stricken look on his husband's face, the sharp pang of vulnerability, and it broke his heart in a way he couldn’t fully explain. He couldn’t bear to watch Anders falter under Harald's cruelty. Without thinking, Wilder surged forward, pushing his way through the crowd, his voice rising above the murmurs and shifting chaos.

"Anders!" he cried, desperate to close the distance between them. He was almost frantic now, needing to reach Anders, to touch him, to ground him before this moment could slip into something irreversible.

The crowd parted just enough for Wilder to reach Anders’s side, his hand outstretched. He grabbed Anders’s hand and squeezed it tightly, grounding them both in the connection they shared. "Anders," he repeated, his voice softer now, but no less urgent. He turned to face Harald, his gaze hardening. "Our vows are of no importance to you! Anders will make his vows to me. I understand him."

It was all Wilder could manage, all he could say in the face of such cruel mockery, but it felt true. They had built something strong, something real, and that was more than any derisive comment from Harald could ever take away.

Harald’s voice rang out again, dripping with derision. "Can anyone understand you, with how clumsily you speak? What a farce the ceremony will be." His eyes gleamed with the kind of malice that made Wilder’s blood run cold. He could see Anders bristle beside him, could feel the anger radiating off him in waves, his hand tightening on Wilder's. The tension between the two men was palpable, but Wilder refused to let it break him.

Before he could respond, Anders’s voice rasped out like gravel, raw and guttural. "Then you need not worry—Wilder and I are well-matched."

Wilder felt the weight of Anders’s words, the promise behind them. But Harald wasn’t finished. He leaned forward, his smirk deepening, eyes narrowing in challenge. "We’ll see, won’t we?" he hissed, daring them to prove him wrong.

"No," came Anders’s voice, low and deadly. “You will not. I'll tear your eyes from their sockets first."

The words hung in the air, sharp as a blade. A shocked hush fell over the crowd. It wasn’t just the threat of violence; it was the intensity in Anders’s voice, the raw power behind it that made the entire market hold its breath. Wilder’s heart raced, a flicker of fear rushing through him. Had Anders gone too far? His pulse quickened as he glanced around at the silent onlookers, wondering if his husband’s fury had crossed a line. A low murmur rippled through the crowd, but it wasn’t directed at Anders.

"You heard the man," a matron said, her voice loud and sure, cutting through the tension. "You don’t want to test him, Harald."

A baker, her hands dusted with flour, chimed in with a grin, "You tend to court that reaction. It was Kirk who last promised to put your eyes out, if I recall." Her voice was teasing but held a sharp edge. There was an unspoken understanding in the market, an unspoken loyalty to the people of the town. It wasn’t just about defending Anders—it was about protecting the sense of belonging, the unity they had all cultivated together.

Another voice broke through, one of a man with a hearty laugh. "Now, no need to sully a wedding with bloodshed. If you've seen one ceremony, you've seen them all. Just sit this one out. There'll still be feasting after, aye?" His tone was lighthearted, attempting to defuse the growing tension.

Wilder’s breath caught in his chest, his body still coiled with anticipation, but it seemed that the threat had passed. Harald, clearly angered and embarrassed, scowled, shaking off the hand of the man who had tried to soothe him.

"Do what you like," Harald muttered, his voice a low growl. "I have better to do than waste my time watching you all eat and drink yourselves into a stupor for this sorry excuse for a couple." His final glance was a venomous glare, and with that, he turned on his heel and stalked off, his presence retreating like the fading echo of a storm.

Wilder exhaled sharply, the tension in his chest easing. But the moment hadn’t passed quietly; the crowd remained still for a moment, processing what had just transpired. And then, as if the spell had been broken, a man nearby clapped Wilder on the shoulder, his voice warm and cheerful as he said, "Well, I don’t! I love a wedding! I look forward to yours," and the crowd slowly began to stir again, as though the incident had never happened.

Wilder turned to Anders, who still seemed tense, the flicker of anger not entirely gone. He tugged gently at his sleeve. "Thank you," Wilder said softly, his voice filled with a mixture of gratitude and concern. "Anders, let’s return home."

Anders nodded stiffly, his jaw set. Without another word, he threw his pack over his shoulder, the weight of the moment still clinging to him as they made their way through the market. The noise and bustle of the crowd seemed distant, muted by the storm that had just passed between them.

As they neared the edge of the market, Anders suddenly let out a violent cough. It racked his body, making him stumble for a moment, and he quickly turned away, his face flushed red. Wilder’s heart clenched.

"Oh, Anders," he murmured, his voice gentle with concern. "Does your throat hurt?"

Anders gave a rueful nod, his expression a mixture of frustration and resignation. "It’s true," he said, his voice rough. "I won’t be able to make my vows to you properly. Not with…" He gestured to the scar across his throat, the evidence of a past injury that had left him with a voice that could never be as clear as it once was.

Wilder’s heart ached for him. Anders , he began slowly, his hands deliberate, this is how we talk, just you and I. We’re saying our vows to each other, and that’s all that matters.

Anders didn’t reply, but he didn’t need to. Instead, he reached for Wilder’s hand and kissed it softly, his lips brushing gently against Wilder’s palm. It was a simple gesture, yet it spoke volumes. Wilder understood, deeply, the meaning of that kiss. It was a vow in itself, a promise shared in silence. They didn’t need the approval of anyone else; they had each other, and that was enough.

◆◆◆

A few days later, Wilder woke to the sound of Avery's furious squawking, her voice filled with panic and outrage. The rest of the hens joined in, their frantic calls echoing through the longhouse, amplifying the already tense atmosphere. Wilder’s eyes snapped open, heart racing as he sat up. Was it a fox? A hawk? Something that could threaten the flock? Avery, fiercely protective of her ladies, would defend them to the last, but a creature with a sharp beak or claws could easily overpower her.

Anders let out a startled “oof!” as Wilder scrambled over him, his movements frantic. Wilder could hear the ruckus outside growing louder, the hens’ shrill cries almost deafening in the quiet morning air. Without thinking, he leapt out of the furs, his feet hitting the cold wooden floor, his pulse pounding in his ears as he rushed for the door. Was it too late to save the hens? Was the yard already a bloody, feathery mess? The thought made Wilder's stomach tighten, and he ran barefoot across the damp, dewy grass, his tunic billowing around his legs. "Oh, Avery!" he called out, his voice strained with worry as he made his way to the yard.

But when he rounded the corner, Wilder came to an abrupt halt, nearly tripping over his own feet. His eyes took in the scene before him, and he blinked in confusion. There were no bloodied feathers or signs of a predator. Instead, three men stood huddled together in the yard, one holding a stick that he was brandishing at the hens, trying to keep them at bay. But the hens were having none of it, especially Avery, who led the charge with unmatched fury, pecking at their boots with all the grace and power of a small, enraged warrior.

Wilder, still half-asleep and still caught in the rush of adrenaline, stared at the scene for a moment longer before calling out, "I—hello?" His voice cracked slightly, as if the sheer absurdity of the situation was enough to break through his panic.

One of the men turned toward him, and the voice that spoke was familiar. Wilder’s brow furrowed as he took a closer look, finally recognizing the three warriors. They were the same ones who had sailed with him and Anders on the long journey, strong and capable men, all of them. The sight of them in his yard, struggling to deal with Avery and her warband of hens, was so ludicrous that Wilder couldn’t help but smile, despite the situation.

"Call off the hens, if you would!" one of the men said, his voice full of frustration.

Avery was undeterred. She charged forward again, giving a battle cry that was more of an indignant cluck than anything else. The three men made sounds that could hardly be described as courageous, their feet dancing back from Avery’s relentless pecking.

"It is difficult to tell Avery what to do," Wilder said, striding forward and scooping her up into his arms. She immediately began pecking at his fingers in an affectionate but firm manner, as though reminding him of the importance of her fierce defense of her territory.

"I apologize for her," Wilder added, looking at the trio of warriors with an apologetic smile.

One of the warriors raised an eyebrow as he surveyed the rest of the flock, still following Avery’s lead and keeping their distance from the men. "The others?" he asked, eyeing the hens warily.

"They cause no trouble when not following Avery," Wilder explained. As if on cue, the rest of the hens, who had been agitated just moments before, slowly lost interest now that Avery was no longer charging forward, her task momentarily complete. Avery huffed against Wilder's chest, giving him a haughty look as though to say, You’re lucky I’ve decided to spare you for now.

Wilder gently stroked her back and lowered her to the ground. "Enough now," he said, his voice soft but firm. Avery, with one last disdainful glance at the men, rejoined her flock, though not before giving Anders’s foot a quick, pointed peck as he finally emerged from the longhouse.

"There you are, Anders," one of the warriors said, grinning. "Don't suppose you missed all that, did you?"

Anders chuckled, rubbing his chin as he approached. He was clearly amused by the whole spectacle, his grin wide.

The three men quickly launched into a flurry of excuses, their embarrassment evident as they tried to explain their intentions.

"Didn't want to harm your livestock—" one man said.

"Don't know naught about birds, who has time to learn about birds when you're learning the sword—" another added, clearly trying to save face.

"Ah, well, let's keep this all to ourselves, shall we?" the third man interrupted, his voice friendly. "Anyhow, let's get you both ready for your wedding," he said, gesturing toward the edge of the forest. Wilder followed his gaze and saw a cart wreathed in wildflowers, two horses tied nearby, their heads lowered as they sniffed at the vibrant blooms on the cart.

Wilder’s heart skipped a beat. The wedding? Today? He hadn’t been expecting it, not this soon. "Oh, but we're not ready—we didn’t expect—" he began, his voice trailing off in confusion. His mind was spinning with thoughts of the chores that needed doing, the last-minute preparations that hadn’t been made. He had been so caught up in his life with Anders, in their new home, that he had completely lost track of the upcoming ceremony.

One of the warriors, noticing his sudden panic, smiled and pointed to himself. "That’s what we’re here for. You two get yourselves ready, and we’ll take care of the work. It’s still early yet."

Another of the men gave Wilder a once-over, his gaze lingering on Wilder’s bare legs and feet with something like admiration. "Take your time," he said with a wink.

Wilder’s cheeks flushed, but it was a different kind of reaction than he had experienced with Harald and his men. These were men Anders knew well, men who had sailed with him, fought beside him. The teasing was lighthearted, not cruel. It was an unfamiliar but pleasant feeling to be looked at with such appreciation, and Wilder couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed by the attention. He gave them a shy smile in return.

"I’ll wash up," Wilder muttered, glancing back toward the longhouse. "Inside," he added as the man's gaze went hopefully toward the river. He could tell the man was hoping for a chance to enjoy the view, but Wilder wasn’t quite ready for that.

As he hurried inside to wash up, he heard Anders growl in mock frustration, followed by one of the warriors muttering, "Stop that teasing. You might make him nervous before the ceremony."

Nervous? Wilder couldn’t contain his excitement. By the customs of the land, he and Anders had been married since that first day when Anders had driven his sword into the sand and claimed him. But in Wilder’s heart, they had truly wed long before that, on the day at Frode's house, when they began to learn one another’s language—hands and fingers speaking the words they could never say aloud. Every touch, every gesture, every shared moment had been a vow, culminating in their first, real kiss.

He quickly stripped off his tunic and crouched at the basin of water, scrubbing at his skin with a damp cloth. As he worked, he heard the sound of Anders’s footsteps approach, and then the comforting shadow of Anders’s presence loomed over him. Fingers brushed his bare back, warm and familiar.

I’ll help you wash , Anders signed against his skin, his motions soft and tender.

Wilder smiled and handed him the cloth. "Thank you."

Anders hummed a little as he worked, his hands gentle as they moved over Wilder’s skin. When they made love, Anders was deliciously rough, a contrast to the softness with which he treated Wilder when they were at peace. It felt comforting, reassuring, that Anders held him so carefully, as though he were something precious.

But today, Wilder felt a little impatient. He was eager to be clean for the ceremony. "Anders, don't be so timid!" he urged, grinning.

I don’t want to hurt you ," Anders signed, eyes full of concern as he held the cloth, water dripping from it.

Wilder grinned. "You're not nearly as soft as this when we're in bed."

Anders paused, his hands still. That is different, he signed, before pushing a little harder with the cloth. Wilder moaned softly at the sensation, his body responding to the pressure.

A shout from outside interrupted them. "Hey! None of that before the ceremony, now!"

Wilder grinned, rolling his eyes. "Right, we should be getting ready." He let Anders finish washing him, then allowed a brief kiss and a playful squeeze on the bottom before quickly drying himself off. The excitement building within him couldn’t be contained.

But when Anders presented him with his clothing for the ceremony, Wilder balked. "But that’s—those are just my old robes. I didn’t even know you kept them! You want me to wear those to our ceremony?"

Anders simply threw the robes over his shoulder, freeing his hands. You arrived in these. You are leaving your old life for your new one. With me, he added, his smile shy and warm.

"But I get to wear the clothes Kirk made me?" Wilder asked, still a little uncertain.

Yes. At the feast, after the ceremony, Anders assured him.

Wilder took the robes, reluctantly at first, but then he understood. It was a kind of tradition, a symbol of the past they were leaving behind. He supposed it was fitting, though he had hoped for something a little more... formal.

You won’t be wearing them for long, Anders added, with a wink.

Wilder laughed, finally mollified. He looked forward to the moment when he would be able to wear the beautiful tunic Kirk had made for him. The craftsmanship was stunning, and it would feel like a new chapter in his life.

Once Anders had washed and dressed, Wilder went outside to check on their visitors, who were already hard at work. He brought them fresh water, cheese, and oatcakes with butter. The warriors eagerly accepted the food and drink, devouring it like men who hadn’t seen a proper meal in days.

"You’ve done fine work," Wilder said, surveying the yard with pride, noting the content animals and flourishing garden.

"Thank you," one of the warriors mumbled, licking his fingers as he finished his meal.

Another man asked, "You do this every day? The... gardening, and taking care of the animals?"

Wilder nodded. "Oh, yes."

"And you cook?" the same man asked, his voice curious.

"Yes, but Anders and I both do that," Wilder answered, smiling.

The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That’s a strength, then? Cooking?"

Anders nudged Wilder’s side, signing with a grin, This is also to show the warriors what it’s like to be wed, and have a household.

Wilder laughed, a lighthearted, almost joyful sound. "Oh, I like that," he said, amused by the thought.

◆◆◆

The cart had been lined with furs for their comfort, and the outside was decorated with garlands of fresh flowers. Wild violets of all shades of blue and purple were tied together alongside the white petals of what must have been an entire field of chickweed. Each bloom seemed to capture the essence of the landscape—wild and unrestrained, yet soft and delicate. The flowers danced lightly in the breeze, their sweet scent mingling with the earthy scent of the horses and the fresh morning air.

Noticing Wilder admiring the blooms, the warrior with the broom chuckled. "You wouldn't believe how difficult it was to keep these beasts from eating those," he said with a grin, patting the horses’ flanks. They nickered softly in response, their long, flowing manes swaying with each movement.

Wilder raised an eyebrow, his smile curling. "I'm sure we can find a better treat for them at the feast. There’s bound to be a couple of apples, at least." He turned to Anders, a playful glint in his eye, and added, "We wouldn’t want the horses to steal the show, would we?"

Anders nodded, his lips curving into a soft smile. Let me help you up? He knelt down, placing one palm atop the other, his strong arms outstretched toward Wilder.

"Thank you," Wilder replied with a grin, stepping lightly into Anders's hands. Using them as a step, he hauled himself into the cart, landing softly in the pile of furs that had been laid out for their comfort. The furs were thick and warm, smelling faintly of the animals they came from but also of the herbs used to preserve them. He sank into the softness, letting out a contented sigh as Anders soon joined him, settling beside him with an easy grace. Wilder shuffled over to his side, resting his head gently against Anders's shoulder. He could feel the warmth of his skin through his tunic, the steady beat of Anders's heart beneath his cheek. It was a steady, reassuring rhythm that Wilder had come to rely on—something that grounded him in moments of doubt.

Two of the men took hold of the horses’ reins, guiding them down the road while the third man, carrying a broom, followed behind, sweeping the cart's tracks from the dirt road.

To lose any bad spirits, Anders explained when Wilder looked at him with a puzzled expression.

Wilder nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a new tradition for me.” He could understand the symbolic gesture, though it struck him as more practical than spiritual—if only to keep the roads as smooth and uninterrupted as possible for the journey ahead.

“All settled?” one of the warriors called back to them, his voice loud with a teasing edge. “We’ll get there eventually, I suppose. I don’t know that these poor creatures have ever had to haul as large of a lump of groom as Anders here.”

The warrior’s teasing tone was light, but Anders merely raised a brow and gave the man a playful gesture that Wilder was sure was understood the world over. The warriors burst into laughter at the exchange, and Wilder, unable to stop himself, chuckled too. He patted Anders’s hand affectionately, his heart racing in his chest as the cart gave a sudden jerk, then rolled onward toward the town.

How much faster they traveled in a cart! Wilder thought, watching the countryside pass by at an exhilarating pace. He had never really thought about the practicalities of carts before, but now he wondered. He and Anders ought to get one too, he mused. How much would a cart cost? And the horses? He shifted slightly in his seat, pondering the future as the breeze tugged at his hair. If their garden crops were healthy and bountiful, and if the hens continued laying eggs—and he could make cheeses from the milk of the cows, the sheep, and the goats—then maybe they could afford a cart. But then there was the matter of breeding the animals. They would need to find a stud for all of them the following year. What might that cost? Where did they stand, exactly, in the area's economy? There was still so much Wilder didn’t know.

He turned to Anders, his brow furrowing as his thoughts became a whirl of possibilities. "I’ve been thinking," he began, speaking both with his hands and his mouth, trying to find the right words. "If we could buy a cart, we could travel more easily. Maybe expand the garden more next year? But I don’t know if we’ll have enough to do that, even if the hens lay more eggs and the cows keep giving milk. Maybe we could sell some of the cheese, but then... would that be enough? And the horses—how much do we need to spend for them? And what about stud fees? I don’t really know—"

Anders blinked, his expression softening as he reached out, gently placing his hands on Wilder’s arms to still his movement. I will buy you whatever you like, he signed, his motions firm with a quiet certainty. There is no need to worry.

Wilder’s voice softened as he blinked, caught off guard by Anders’s words. "I'm not worried, I’m..." he trailed off, a wave of emotion settling over him. "I am thinking about our future," he finished quietly, his words more vulnerable than he had intended.

Anders’s gaze softened further. His thumb traced along the back of Wilder’s hand, a soothing gesture that grounded Wilder in the moment. Then, Anders leaned in, trailing two fingers along Wilder’s neck, following the steady pulse to his jaw. With a gentle movement, he turned Wilder’s face toward his and kissed him sweetly on the lips. The kiss was soft, tender—something that filled Wilder’s heart with warmth, quieting the thoughts swirling in his mind. Wilder made a soft, breathy noise against Anders's lips, and his lashes fluttered against Anders’s cheek.

With a sigh, Wilder pulled away, whispering, "Anders." The weight of everything—the questions about their future, the uncertainty of what came next—melted in the softness of the kiss. For a moment, he didn’t need to worry. He only needed to be with Anders, in that quiet peace they had built together.

Behind them, the warrior with the broom remarked, "Marriage doesn’t look too bad from here, at least." His tone was lighthearted, but there was an unmistakable warmth in his voice, as though the sight of the two of them together, so comfortable and content, had struck him in a way he hadn’t expected.

Wilder smiled, his heart fluttering in his chest. "I suppose it doesn’t," he murmured, resting his head back against Anders’s shoulder.