Chapter Three

Anders confused him.

He was not strict, or stern, and he never chided Wilder in any way or made his displeasure known, but Wilder knew he had to have displeased him many a time because Anders didn't trust him to do his chores alone. If he saw Wilder cleaning he would rush to take the broom or cloth from him, and if Wilder turned away while preparing a meal then he would find Anders in his spot, peeling vegetables or crushing herbs in the mortar and pestle or stirring the pot. If Wilder attempted to mend or repair something, then Anders would all but sprint to his side and take over, be it with needle and thread or hammer and nails.

At first, Wilder assumed that he was doing something incorrectly. Anders couldn't tell him what he was doing wrong, but he could show him how he wanted something to be done. However, no matter how Wilder tried to imitate him, Anders always managed to find some fault. More often than not they ended up working together, or with Anders shooing Wilder away to find some other task to complete in a subpar manner.

It was frustrating.

Wilder didn't want to be his servant. He didn't want to sweep the house with a broom of dried brushes and straw, or wipe the dust from what paltry amount of furniture there was, or wade through the never-ending weeds in the garden and pull them up by the roots, or feed logs into the fire to boil water for pottage and soup, or any other task that made Anders's life easier.

But if that wasn't what he was here for, then why had Anders taken him from the monastery's shores in the first place? It became Wilder's habit to find some time during the day to sulk with the little brown hen, who enjoyed his company whatever his mood and who especially liked to peck at the dirt beside him while he weeded the garden.

He'd decided to name her Avery, for as stubborn and bold as she was, the hen was also very sweet. Wilder worried that she was also very lonely, for there were only the three of them at the dwelling, and two of them not even chickens. All birds needed a flock. Despite his misgivings and Anders's dissatisfaction with him, Wilder took it upon himself to ask the man for a few more hens and a rooster for Avery's sake.

Communication was a constant issue between them. Anders didn't speak, and while Wilder could, he only knew a handful of words in Anders's language. Wilder settled for speaking aloud as he always did, as if there were no language barrier between them—and, indeed, it seemed sometimes that Anders just understood his gestures and tone of voice, or, at least, was content to listen while Wilder chattered away. When it was absolutely necessary that something be conveyed, Wilder resorted to his own tongue accompanied with emphatic pointing, or, as was becoming more and more usual as the days went on, drawing in the dirt with a stick.

Scratching an image into the ground was a method they could both use. It was a far cry from drawing illuminations on a page of vellum, but Wilder still thought his figures were fairly accurate and legible representations. Anders always knew what it was he had drawn, if not the reason why. And Wilder found that Anders himself wasn't a bad artist, though he was more tentative with his strokes and added far more detail than was strictly necessary. Wilder suspected that he thought that more detail meant that the concept he was trying to convey would be more easily grasped.

Wilder drew a hen in the dirt while Anders looked over his shoulder. He heard the man make a quizzical noise as he drew another hen, and another, and one more for good measure, and then he drew a rooster, complete with a wattle and comb. They were good likenesses, he thought with not a little bit of pride. Wilder cast aside the stick as he stood and wiped his hands. "My lord, I'd like for us to keep more chickens. They'll need more feed, and the house will be a great deal noisier, but we'll have more than one egg a day, and we could sell whatever we don't eat. And, well," Wilder added, blushing, "I think Avery would be happier if she had other hens around."

At Avery's name Anders perked up. He stared at the hen, who was now pecking quite aggressively at her drawn counterparts, then Wilder, hands clasped together, nervous and hopeful, and then, finally, he nodded. He took up the stick and drew a sun, a hen, and a few buildings clustered together. Next he drew what Wilder recognized as their own dwelling, a longhouse with its thatched roof. Near the buildings he drew a large stick figure that Wilder knew represented Anders himself—for he never spent much time drawing his own person—and near the longhouse, a smaller figure with Wilder's robes and Wilder's curly hair.

Was it a testament to how many days they had passed together or their artistic system of communicating that allowed Wilder to so quickly understand what Anders was saying? "In the morning you'll go to town and buy more chickens and I'll stay here." That was fine with him. It would be nice to have some time to himself, and when Anders returned they would have their own flock of chickens. "Yes, I understand. Thank you, my lord." Wilder grinned.

The corners of Anders's lips might have twitched into a smile, but he looked away before Wilder could see, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

◆◆◆

Shortly after breakfast the next morning, Anders prepared to leave for town. It was a task Wilder knew needed to be done, but Anders approached it with surprising reluctance, shadowing Wilder as he went about his chores and helping him pack provisions as though he feared leaving him behind.

Wilder had already assured Anders he would manage just fine. He’d clean the cooking pot and utensils, tend the garden—which was nearly free of weeds and ready to be tilled and sown—and even have supper ready for Anders’s return with their new flock of chickens. Despite these reassurances, Anders seemed hesitant, pacing near the door and watching Wilder closely as he worked. His brow remained furrowed as Wilder wrapped up their supplies: a full waterskin, one boiled egg—proof of how urgently they needed more hens—a wedge of hard cheese, and a stack of flatbread leftover from breakfast.

The flatbread had been Wilder’s own handiwork, made according to the recipe Anders had taught him. He’d mixed the leftover pea porridge from the night before with barley flour and water, kneaded it into dough, then divided and rolled it into palm-sized circles to fry in a pan. Though best eaten fresh and warm, the flatbread would keep until Anders reached the town. Wilder hoped it would remind him of home, even if only briefly.

Still, when Wilder clapped his hands together to signify he’d finished packing, Anders remained rooted in place, his expression tense. It was as if the man couldn’t quite bring himself to leave. Wilder tilted his head, unsure whether Anders thought him incapable of managing in his absence or feared some calamity would befall their home while he was gone. Perhaps Anders worried Wilder might vanish entirely, fleeing with Avery, the hen, and any valuables he could carry. Wilder had considered escape in the past—fleetingly—but he dismissed the notion now. It wasn’t practical.

"Yes, well, Avery and I will take care of everything here, my lord," Wilder said lightly, rocking back on his heels. He hoped his words would coax Anders into action, but the man still hesitated.

Finally, Anders made an abrupt motion, reaching for his belt. He pulled out his knife and extended it toward Wilder.

Wilder blinked, startled, then slowly took the weapon. He didn’t unsheathe it, though curiosity pricked at him. Instead, he offered Anders a cautious smile. "Ah, well. Thank you. I promise I’ll protect the house." The gesture felt significant—an unspoken test of trust. Anders was leaving him responsible for both the property and its defense. If Wilder proved himself capable, perhaps this would open the door to greater freedoms: accompanying Anders on future trips, or even venturing out alone one day.

Anders stepped closer, resting a broad hand on Wilder’s shoulder. He gave a firm, reassuring squeeze, his gaze steady. Then, at last, he turned and strode away down the path, his figure soon disappearing into the woods.

Wilder stood in the doorway for a moment, the knife still in his hand. He looked at it, at Avery strutting confidently across the yard, and then at the garden stretching out before him. "Just us for the day, then," he said aloud. A small smile tugged at his lips.

◆◆◆

The garden was finally ready. Wilder had weeded every stubborn root, unearthed and discarded rocks and stones buried beneath the soil, and tilled the earth until it was soft and welcoming for the seeds they would soon sow. The effort left him caked in dirt and sweat, his robes smelling particularly ripe from the day’s labor. Clearly, it was the perfect time for a proper bath—or, in this case, a prolonged, indulgent dip in the river beside the house.

Back at the monastery, bathing had been a strictly utilitarian affair. It was done with a rag and a bowl of freezing water, ensuring modesty at all times. First, the hands and face, then the arms and chest, always stopping to cover up again before moving on to the next part of his body. This process, though tedious, preserved his virtue and that of anyone who might accidentally stumble upon him.

But he wasn’t at the monastery anymore. He didn’t have to adhere to their rules. And after the hard work of the morning, Wilder felt he deserved a bit of freedom—and fun. With a grin, he kicked off his boots and peeled off his musty robes and braies, tossing them carelessly onto the riverbank. Before doubt could creep in, he dove into the river.

The cool water enveloped him immediately, washing away the grime of the morning. Wilder submerged himself fully, his toes sinking into the soft mud at the riverbed while the gentle current tugged at him. He resurfaced with a delighted whoop, shaking water from his hair like a wet dog and laughing at his own silliness. This was nothing like the sterile, joyless washing of the monastery. It was liberating.

The river was clear, refreshing, and alive, with foliage swaying lazily around him. The sun kissed his face as he floated on his back, letting the current carry him. There was always more work to be done—he’d need to light the fire and start preparing supper soon—but for now, he simply enjoyed the quiet contentment of the moment.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, pulling him from his reverie. Was someone watching him? Wilder turned, half-expecting to see a stranger or an animal, but it was only Anders standing on the riverbank. He waved with one arm, the other draped with fabric, and near his feet a small group of chickens pecked at the grass. Wilder waved back, smiling, and scrambled out of the water. His bare skin glistened in the sunlight, and he hadn’t quite reached his clothes when Anders’s eyes widened in alarm.

Anders quickly averted his gaze, fixing his eyes firmly on some distant point beyond Wilder. He thrust the fabric toward him—it was a clean tunic, new and of good quality—and gestured for him to take it. Bemused, Wilder accepted it. "Thank you," he said, pulling it over his head. The tunic was woad-blue, soft to the touch, and generously oversized, falling nearly to his knees. Wilder made a mental note to adjust the fit with needle and thread later.

“It’s very fine, my lord,” Wilder said with a warm smile, smoothing the tunic. Anders didn’t respond with words, but his frown suggested dissatisfaction. Wilder wondered if the man disapproved of the way it hung on him, but his gratitude seemed to ease Anders’s mood.

Then Anders gestured for Wilder to hold out his hand. Curious, Wilder obeyed. Anders loomed over him, towering in a way that made Wilder acutely aware of their height difference. Few people weren’t taller than him, but Anders was something else entirely—broad and imposing yet awkward in moments like this. The sunlight caught on the damp curls clinging to Wilder’s forehead, and for a moment Anders simply stared, his expression unreadable.

Finally, with a soft sound—half amused, half exasperated—Anders pressed something into Wilder’s hand. It was a comb. Wide-toothed, skillfully carved, and polished smooth, though plain and without decoration. Wilder studied it, touched by the gesture.

“For me?” he asked, unsure. Perhaps Anders intended him to use it on his own hair. Then again, Anders’s curls were just as unruly as Wilder’s, so maybe he expected help with his own grooming. To clarify, Wilder brought the comb to his chest, resting it over his heart. "It’s mine? For me?"

Anders’s face relaxed, his shoulders losing some of their tension. Moving with careful deliberation, as if afraid to startle him, Anders reached out to tuck a damp lock of Wilder’s hair behind his ear. His hand lingered for a moment before he patted Wilder’s shoulder, his touch heavy but awkwardly gentle.

“Thank you, my lord,” Wilder said again, his voice soft.

Two gifts in one day—a fine tunic and a comb. Wilder glanced toward the chickens, scratching contentedly at the ground, and then back to Anders, who seemed momentarily pleased with himself despite his apparent discomfort. Perhaps he wasn’t doing as poorly with his chores—and his role here—as he’d thought.

◆◆◆

Avery now ruled a flock she could call her own. Five new hens and a rooster had joined her in the yard, settling into their pen at the far end of the dwelling. True to her nature, Avery approached the newcomers with the same no-nonsense demeanor she applied to all things—with mild irritation that quickly gave way to domination. Wilder couldn’t help but laugh as she strutted about, clucking commands with an air of absolute authority. The other hens, and even the rooster, seemed to fall in line almost immediately, following her in a haphazard parade as though she were a queen and they her loyal court.

“She’s made them her retinue,” Wilder remarked, leaning on the edge of the fence to watch the unfolding drama. Avery pecked at the ground, finding a particularly interesting bit of seed, only to squawk indignantly as one of the younger hens ventured too close. The poor creature scrambled back to safety with a panicked flutter, much to Wilder’s amusement.

The flock brought more than entertainment, though. Six fresh eggs each day—more than enough to liven up their meals. Wilder had already begun planning the possibilities: generous portions of scrambled eggs, fluffy and golden; rich flatbreads layered with melted cheese and topped with soft, poached eggs; or hearty stews enriched with yolks that turned the broth into something luxuriously creamy. The thought alone made his mouth water.

And there was another prospect that made him smile: if the rooster proved as charming as he was boastful, they might soon hear the tiny chirps of new life. Wilder pictured the yard bustling with tiny, downy chicks darting about like little golden puffs of dandelion seeds. The image filled him with a sense of warmth, a contentment that had been elusive for much of his life.

The chickens had become a surprising but welcome addition to the house, their presence breathing life into the quiet homestead. Wilder found himself checking on them often, scattering seed or simply observing their antics. They cheered him immensely. And, it seemed, Anders too. Every time Wilder looked up from the coop, grinning at Avery’s antics or marveling at the shiny, speckled eggs nestled in the straw, Anders was watching him. He never said much, but the soft smile on his face spoke volumes.

Wilder noticed it most when they were together near the flock. Anders would lean against the fence or stand just behind him, always at ease in his silent way. The gentle curve of his lips, the light in his eyes—it made Wilder’s chest feel warm in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Perhaps it was pride in their shared work, or perhaps it was something deeper.

◆◆◆

A strange noise woke him.

Wilder huddled in his bed of furs, unwilling to open his eyes. Had there been a noise at all, or had he dreamed it? There were certainly different sounds here. The waves at the monastery had been a relentless, constant crash against the shore. Here, the river was nearly silent; it was the owls and the crickets that conversed late into the night. But that hadn't been what had stirred him from sleep. Finally, with great reluctance, he peered out into the darkness. The fire was out, its ashes cold. He blinked.

There it was, that noise again.

Some sort of animal? A fox or a wolf, searching for the hens, sleeping at the other end of the house? He and Anders needed to—wait, where was Anders? Wilder searched for his form on the other side of the hearth and saw nothing but rumpled furs. Had he already gone to find whatever it was?

A low grunt from beyond the entryway. That was definitely Anders. Wilder rose onto his elbows, listening intently. What was going on? Was someone out there with him? Were they fighting? Did Anders need help? What was—

Suddenly, Anders began to pant, his breath heavy and wet. There was the rustle of fabric, the jostling of a belt, and a slick, slapping sound.

Oh.

Wilder's face burned as he realized just exactly what the noise was.

Anders was pleasuring himself.

Why? was Wilder's panicked first thought. He quickly dismissed it. Why wouldn't he? It was none of his business to wonder about Anders's habits. No matter what they were. And at least he'd had the decency to step outside while attending to his needs.

Wilder shifted uncomfortably in the bed of furs, trying and failing to block out the sounds, and trying and failing not to imagine what Anders looked like while he touched himself. He was such a large man. Twice Wilder's size. Surely that meant he was—proportional everywhere? Wilder thought of his broad, massive shoulders, his muscled forearms, his biceps, his calves, his thighs, and blushed further when he wondered about what hung between them. Anders had thick, dark curls, and his chest was hairy as well. Did that mean—?

The thought of Anders's naked body made him flush with more than mortification. Arousal spread through his body like a stain. The man who had captured Wilder and brought him to this place was—stroking himself just outside the house and Wilder was aroused at the image he held in his mind's eye. Anders, completely bare, one fist wrapped around his hard cock, teasing and stroking it, mouth open, lips wet, as he leaned against the wall of the longhouse.

He didn't need to imagine his moans.

Wilder rolled onto his belly and covered himself with his furs. They only somewhat muffled the utterly sinful noises Anders was making. He tried, ridiculously, to drown out the rest by singing hymns in his head.

Blasphemous as it was to admit, Anders was much more enthralling. The low pitch of his moans, the breathiness of his gasps, the wet, steady rhythm of his hand. Wilder thought, distantly, of lust, and of celibacy, and how once they had been nothing but distant concepts to him. Passion and desire, especially ones of the body, were to strictly avoided. That had never been an issue for Wilder before. None of the monks inspired any particular sort of daydreams. They were just men, most old enough to be his grandfather.

Anders was—also a man, yes, but he was a man that Wilder had never known could exist. God had created the earth, the sea, the sky, and all the creatures that lived in those places, humans included, but it seemed to Wilder that Anders had been sculpted differently. Even among the other warriors, Anders stood out. He was taller than they were, larger, stronger, but more alert, more aware of his surroundings, and—kinder, Wilder thought. More sensitive. Was that a natural inclination, he wondered, or had that been something learned, when he lost the ability to speak?

Another moan, more ragged, more desperate, jarred Wilder from his thoughts. Anders had not been rendered completely silent, and, for all that he seemed to focus on the maintenance of the longhouse, neither was he without his own desires. Surely he wanted companionship. Surely he wanted pleasure. He had to be lonely, living with only a man who didn't speak the same language and a flock of chickens. Wilder certainly was.

Wilder jumped as Anders groaned as if in pain. He'd—finished.

Careful but familiar footsteps drew closer to the hearth. If the fire had still been lit, what would he have seen? Anders, naked and sweaty, chest heaving, cock spent, as he slipped back underneath his furs?

Wilder fell asleep with great unease, concerned at this new discovery that Anders sought pleasure and satisfaction of the body.

That Anders wanted.