Chapter Four

It did not happen again. At least, not loudly enough for Anders to wake Wilder from his sleep, leaving him groggy, bewildered, and blushing with a heat that surged through him, head to toe. Wilder was profoundly grateful for this reprieve, because the memory of what had happened continued to gnaw at him regardless. He had replayed it over and over, trying to make sense of it, yet the confusion and tension only deepened with each passing thought.

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Wilder found himself grappling with the paradox that was Anders. Here was a man who, not long ago, had abducted him from the quiet sanctity of the monastery—Wilder’s entire world—to bring him into this strange, unpredictable life as a servant to the one who’d torn him away. Anders was, by any standard, a warrior of intimidating presence: massive, impossibly strong, with a stony demeanor that seemed chiseled into his face by years of hardship. This man, who worked tirelessly and carried himself with such relentless stoicism, should have been easy to hate, easy to fear, and impossible to understand. But Anders was far from easy to define. Beneath the hard lines and silence, there was a surprising shyness, a sweetness even, that slipped out in moments so fleeting that Wilder sometimes wondered if he’d imagined it.

And then, of course, there were the nights. The strange, quiet nights when Anders, thinking himself alone, succumbed to his own impulses, seeking pleasure in the darkness. Wilder couldn’t quite shake the memory of those low, guttural sounds Anders had made, muffled but unmistakable, punctuating the silence. The sounds had stirred something deep within Wilder, though he wasn’t certain if it was discomfort or curiosity. Perhaps both. Anders seemed lonely. Was he merely a lustful man? Was he succumbing to the simple needs of the flesh, no different than any other human being? Or was this a side of Anders that Wilder had never expected to glimpse—the side of a man haunted by solitude, reaching for some small comfort in the dead of night?

But why did this knowledge bother him so deeply? Was it because he had expected a monster? Someone ruthless and brutal, who would confirm every nightmare he had entertained about being kidnapped and forced into service? Anders had certainly taken him in a monstrous way, wrenching him from the monastery without a second thought. Yet since then, he had shown himself to be almost…kind. Wilder wasn’t sure what to make of this kindness, nor of Anders’ strange moments of vulnerability. He found himself puzzling over it, sometimes in frustration, sometimes in reluctant sympathy, but always with an ache for understanding.

More than anything, he wished they could truly communicate, bridge the silent gulf that stretched between them. Wilder longed for a connection he couldn’t articulate—something that would help him make sense of this strange life, and of the strange man at the heart of it. Perhaps then, he wouldn’t feel like he was adrift on an uncharted sea, reaching for something solid that was always just out of reach.

In the end, nothing truly changed between them. Anders remained as he was, silent and stoic, while Wilder tried to make sense of the conflicting feelings his presence stirred. Only now, there was a new awkwardness, a peculiar awareness. Sometimes, Wilder would find himself looking at Anders, only for the memory of those midnight sounds to flash unbidden in his mind. His face would flame with embarrassment, and he would quickly turn away, struggling to banish the thought. Yet it lingered, a mystery that seemed destined to haunt him.

◆◆◆

The success of keeping the small flock of chickens seemed to light a spark in Anders, prompting him to try his hand at raising even more animals. Wilder quickly noticed, however, that Anders was rather out of his depth. It was clear he had little experience with any creature beyond the chickens, and those only seemed to tolerate him because he brought them food. Avery and the other hens, sensing his hesitation, pecked relentlessly at his boots. Fortunately, his boots were thick and sturdy, reaching high enough to protect his feet and ankles from the sharp beaks. Yet Anders simply stood there, looking down at the birds with a mixture of confusion and bewilderment as they scuttled around his feet, clucking and ruffling their feathers aggressively.

Every so often, after an especially feisty peck or indignant cluck, Anders would glance over at Wilder, seeking some sort of reassurance. Wilder couldn’t help but find it endearing. Smiling encouragingly, he said, "That's just how they are. Don’t worry about it." This seemed to boost Anders’s confidence, or at the very least lessen his anxiety, because he took Wilder’s words to heart. Soon after, Anders ventured into town not once, but twice more, returning each time with a greater assortment of supplies and livestock.

Before each trip, Anders would carefully relay his intentions through sketches—his preferred method of communication when words failed him. With a serious look, he showed Wilder a detailed drawing of himself surrounded by animals: fluffy sheep on one side and mischievous goats on the other, each rendering more expressive than the last. "Do you know anything about sheep and goats?" his drawings seemed to ask, and Wilder, after studying the illustration of wooly sheep with round, gentle faces and goats with their playful, impish eyes, nodded confidently.

"Oh, yes," Wilder replied, "I know how to care for them." His reassurance was all Anders needed. The following day, he returned with three ewes, two nanny goats, and a selection of seeds for the garden Wilder had recently tilled. It was a small start, but it felt promising, a new venture full of possibilities. The sheep were gentle, their soft baaing and docile nature bringing a calm presence to the farm, while the goats, true to their nature, began causing mischief almost immediately. They sought food wherever they could find it: the chickens’ feed, Wilder’s freshly laundered linens, even the young, tender green shoots that had miraculously sprung up in the garden as if they had just been waiting for the rocks to be cleared away and the soil to be turned.

One day, Wilder walked outside only to see the goats making a beeline for the newly sprouted vegetables. He reacted quickly, grabbing the nearest implement—a ladle—and charging at them, shouting as loudly as he could. The goats scattered without a second thought, darting away from the garden bed with no remorse, but in the process, Wilder had startled not only the goats but Anders and the sheep as well. The sheep, who had been gently nudging Anders for attention, took a few tentative steps back, while Anders stared, wide-eyed, at Wilder’s display of unexpected ferocity.

After Wilder spent a few anxious moments inspecting the precious sprouts to ensure they were unharmed, he noticed Anders’s gaze lingering on him, a mix of surprise and, perhaps, admiration in his eyes. Wilder turned away quickly, brushing dirt off his hands, and tried not to read too much into the look.

The next morning, Wilder awoke to a small but meaningful transformation in their little homestead. A sturdy fence now enclosed the garden, protecting the delicate plants from the goats’ endless appetite, and the mischievous goats themselves were tied securely to a tree, far enough away from the chickens, the garden, and anything else they might be tempted to chew. Nearby, Wilder noticed a series of images scratched into the dirt near the house entrance—an indication that Anders had gone back into town, this time in search of cows.

The thought of fresh milk brought a genuine sense of excitement. Fresh milk would mean they could enjoy soft cheese, something that would be a delightful addition to their meals. The hard cheese wheels they had in the larder, aged and nutty, were wonderful in their own right, but soft cheese, with its mild flavor, would be perfect to pair with fresh vegetables or stir into porridge for a richer taste.

As Wilder went about his morning chores, he realized it made perfect sense that Anders would want to bring more livestock into their home. More food—better food—was an enticing prospect, and Wilder imagined that Anders, though often silent and reserved, took a certain pride in these new ventures. There was something deeply satisfying in growing and raising one’s own food, and now, it seemed, they were building a life, however humble, that was as nourishing for the spirit as it was for the body.

◆◆◆

Wilder still prayed. He was sure that he would never stop; there would never come a time when he would be without prayer in his life. But these days, Wilder prayed less often than he once had. In the monastery, prayer had been the center of his existence, woven into every part of his day, from dawn to dusk. Here, though, it was different. Now, he prayed in the morning, if he managed to wake before Anders. On those mornings, he’d slip out of bed quietly, bow his head, and offer his words to God while Anders continued sleeping. If Anders woke him first, though, gently shaking his shoulder, he’d accept the bowl of porridge or plate of fried eggs Anders handed him, and would wait until after breakfast to begin his prayer. He would pray again sometime in the afternoon, usually after his chores were done—or, more frequently now, after wrangling the mischievous goats. And at night, Wilder would kneel by the fire, his head bowed, fur pooling around his feet as Anders watched him from a distance, his dark eyes thoughtful and unwavering.

The monk who had been his teacher, Ellion, would have been appalled by this shift. He would have called Wilder’s reduced hours of prayer lazy and undisciplined, an affront to God and Their divine glory. Yet, Wilder thought with a faint bitterness, Ellion was the one who had thrust him into a stranger’s arms, abandoning him for his own sake. God, in Their infinite wisdom, would surely understand that his prayers were no less heartfelt or sincere. Faith wasn’t something that could be measured by quantity alone.

These days, after finishing his chores and saying his prayers, Wilder often found himself with an unfamiliar feeling—free time. The animals were fed, watered, and enjoying the warmth of the sun, and the sprouts in the garden were thriving, their tender green shoots reaching upward. Anders was still in town, hopefully with a cow or two in tow, and it would be several more hours until Wilder needed to start preparing dinner. How strange it was, he thought, to have time simply to be . At the monastery, his life had been bound by a strict schedule with every hour spoken for. Between praying, studying, and working, there had been no time left unaccounted for; he ate and slept as a matter of course, nothing more. Yet here, in this isolated homestead where he was the sole servant, he found himself with something he had scarcely ever known: time to himself.

With a quiet sigh, Wilder looked up at the sky, bright and open. It was a fine day, clear and mild, and it felt a shame to spend it sitting idle indoors. Perhaps he could at least enjoy it. Remembering the wide-toothed comb Anders had gifted him, which he always kept carefully tucked among his furs, Wilder gathered it up, then found a basin from the longhouse. He filled it with cool, clear water from the river and set it on a stump near the house, positioning himself to catch the sunlight.

As he sat and gazed at his reflection in the basin, Wilder began to carefully comb through his hair. His curls, as unruly as ever, would likely never be tamed, yet he didn’t mind that. The monks back at the monastery had always found his curls to be an affront of sorts, a reflection of what they saw as a similarly chaotic personality: Wilder was too curious, too stubborn, too lazy, too loud, too…everything. The monks had tried countless times to brush and restrain his hair, and the rough handling had often left him on the verge of tears, their sharp admonishments ringing in his ears. No one had ever seemed to know how to be gentle.

Life in a monastery had been hard enough for an adult, but Wilder often thought it was even harder for a child, especially for one like him, full of spirit and questions. Monasteries weren’t made for children; they were made for monks.

Now, he ran the comb through his tangles, patiently untangling each knot. His hair was already longer than it had ever been, curling wildly around his face, and he liked it that way. He liked his hair, unruly as it was. He liked the comb Anders had given him. And he liked the image reflected back at him in the basin—his face fuller, his hair soft and thick, and, for once, no tears in his eyes. Wilder smiled, and his reflection smiled back, a vision of quiet contentment.

Just as he was beginning to feel at peace, Wilder heard footsteps—a group of them, approaching steadily. They were not Anders’s familiar heavy steps, nor the gentle lowing of cows. Instead, there were too many feet, a cacophony of boots crunching the dirt, mixed with harsh laughter and rough voices. Wilder looked up and saw a group of four men approaching, each one bearing the unmistakable look of a warrior.

They were tall and broad, each thickly built with strong shoulders and scarred faces. None of them matched Anders in size, but there were four of them, and Wilder felt a prickle of unease. He couldn’t hide his nervousness, and his fingers instinctively traced over the teeth of his comb as though seeking comfort in its familiar texture.

The men drew closer, and, not knowing what else to do, Wilder forced himself to speak, calling out in a voice just loud enough to be heard. “Hello.”

The men stopped short, their eyes narrowing as they regarded him with expressions of surprise and curiosity. Wilder wondered if they’d expected Anders, if they had come here for him specifically. But Anders hadn’t mentioned any visitors in his drawings; there had only been the depiction of the town, the cows, and a rough stick figure to represent himself. Nothing about four large, scarred men staring at Wilder as though he were some strange creature that had crawled out from the riverbank.

“Can I help you?” Wilder asked, after a silence that had gone on a beat too long. One of the men, leaner than the others, with dark hair and icy blue eyes, gave his companion a nudge and broke into a grin. It was not a friendly smile; rather, it seemed mocking, as though Wilder’s presence amused him somehow. Wilder felt his unease deepen. Surely, their languages weren’t so different that they couldn’t understand his questioning tone.

Finally, one of the men spoke, his voice rough and questioning: “Anders?”

Wilder pointed back toward the path they’d just taken. “Out in town,” he said, voice steady despite his racing heart. “He’s buying cows. I don’t know when he’ll be back, but it should be soon.”

But the men didn’t seem content with this answer. Their gazes remained fixed on him, heavy with a strange intensity that set Wilder further on edge. And then, without so much as a word, the four men turned and strode past him, making their way directly into Anders’s longhouse as if they had every right to do so.

Wilder watched them go, heart pounding as he stood rooted to the spot, comb still clutched in his hand. A dozen questions raced through his mind. Who were they? Why had they come here, and what did they want with Anders? And, more importantly, what would Anders do when he returned and found them here?

With a sense of foreboding, Wilder turned his gaze back toward the path, silently willing Anders to return soon.

◆◆◆

Visitors, it seemed, were the same regardless of whether they appeared at the monastery or at a secluded house by the river. And as always, Wilder’s role was to serve. He brought the men mugs of mead, grateful that there were just enough to go around, and set out a platter piled with bread, cheese, and dried fruit to ease their hunger while they waited for Anders to return. The men dug into the food without hesitation, rough hands reaching for chunks of bread and cheese. Wilder watched them, wondering if they'd even thought to thank him, when the man who had initially asked for Anders raised his mug and the plate in a mock salute, saying something that made the others burst into laughter.

Though he didn’t understand their language, Wilder caught enough of their tone to suspect they were teasing him. He forced a polite smile, though it was strained. His attempt was met with a returned smile from the same man, who raised his mug again and, more slowly this time, said in Wilder’s language, “It is fine service.”

The sound of his own tongue spoken by this stranger startled Wilder. It had been weeks since he’d heard it—long enough that the words didn’t register immediately. Fine service. “Do you—do you understand me?” He stared at the man, incredulous. All this time, they could have included him in the conversation!

“Some.” The man shrugged, seeming pleased to have surprised him. “I know important words.” With exaggerated effort, he began listing words: “Drink, ship—ah, gold.” He paused, tapping his chin as if trying to think of more. After a moment, he snapped his fingers and pointed at Wilder, adding with a smirk, “Beautiful!”

The others roared with laughter as Wilder’s cheeks flushed, his polite smile slipping as he glanced around the room, uncertain where to look. His gaze landed on the blue-eyed man, who drained his mug and watched him intently, that unsettling grin still curling at his lips. Mead dripped from the corner of his mouth, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving Wilder’s face.

It struck Wilder, with a cold jolt, that he knew absolutely nothing about these men. How did Anders know them? Were they his friends? Did they come here on business? Or had he foolishly let in a band of strangers—potentially dangerous ones? Beautiful, the man had called him. Wilder’s heart thudded faster.

He glanced nervously toward the door, considering his options. If need be, could he dash out of the house and escape? The men were not as large as Anders—he doubted many were—but they were still bigger than him, broader and rougher, each carrying an air of strength. He would need to be fast. “Anders will return soon,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. But did they notice the tremor?

At the mention of Anders’s name, the group exchanged glances, smirking as if they shared some private joke. The man who knew a little of Wilder’s language turned back to him and asked, “He is good? Anders?”

Wilder hesitated. What was the man asking, exactly? Was he asking if Anders was a good lord? If Wilder was a good servant? And how much of his answer would this man even understand? He chose his words carefully. “Anders is kind to me.”

“Only kind?” the man pressed, his smile sly, eyebrows raised in a suggestive arch.

Wilder shifted uncomfortably, casting his gaze down. What else could he ask for? Anders had taken him, yes, had stolen him from the quiet shores of his monastery, plucking him out of a life that, while strict, had at least been familiar. Yet he had been lucky in his capture. Anders was quiet, hard-working, and, above all, had treated Wilder with a gentleness that was unexpected. That in itself was more kindness than he could have dared to hope for.

But what about these men? Would the same hold true for them? As he glanced from one unfamiliar face to another, Wilder thought of the night Anders had taken him from the beach, the sword that had gleamed in the moonlight. What had the monks done with it? Had they dared remove it from where it had fallen, or had they left it there to rust, a silent monument to his absence?

“Kind,” Wilder repeated softly, lifting his gaze to meet the man's once more. This man’s eyes gleamed with amusement as though he could see past Wilder’s words and into his deeper thoughts. Wilder felt exposed and vulnerable, his mind racing with uncertainty. "Kindness is the greatest quality a person can have," he said.

The man's brow furrowed. He took a moment to translate it to his companions. For some reason Wilder's words struck them as extremely funny. One of them—the sneering, scarred, blue-eyed one—made a gesture with his fist near his crotch and said something that sent the group into another round of hysterics. Wilder had no desire to know what he'd said, but the translator dutifully relayed the source of their laughter. He jerked his head toward his friend. "Harald's greatest quality is his cock. Better than kindness. Bigger, too."

Wilder felt his face grow hot. The blue-eyed man—Harald's—expression was mocking. His lips curled into a leer. He stared at Wilder's mouth.

At the monastery, Wilder had been afraid of many things. Summer storms frightened him with their crashing thunder, harsh lightning, and fierce winds that seemed capable of sweeping the entire monastery into the sea. He imagined flames devouring the building before anyone could run, smoke filling the air as the storm tore through everything he knew. He feared being caught daydreaming, shirking his duties, as he hated to see the abbot's disappointed look—a silent rebuke more painful than any scolding. And the night Ellion had pushed him toward Anders and an unknown future had filled him with a terror he’d never known. But this was a different fear altogether.

As he stood there, back pressed against a wall, he asked himself why he’d let the men inside. Why had he served them mead and food as if they were welcomed guests? Why had he wandered so far from the doorway, which now seemed an impossible distance away? A shiver ran down his spine as he took a step backward, bumping into a stack of linens and cooking supplies that crashed to the floor in a jumbled heap. A small iron pot tumbled free, hitting the ground with a dull clatter. Wilder snatched it up, his hand trembling as he wondered if it was heavy enough to use as a weapon, should the need arise. Where was his dagger? He cursed himself for not wearing it, for leaving it off his belt. A flicker of regret crossed his mind; he should have prepared for whatever might come from the dark depths of the forest.

“All well, beautiful,” the translator said with an unsettling smile as he bent to pick up a fallen piece of fabric, brushing off the dust before offering it back to Wilder with a casual, too-familiar kindness.

But Wilder shook his head. He felt his heart pounding against his chest. “No,” he whispered, his voice wavering. “I want you to leave. All of you—please, leave.” He knew he had the right to say so. With Anders away, he was responsible for the house and its security. Whatever anger Anders might show afterward, he’d accept the punishment. For now, he held the iron pot’s handle like it was a weapon and stood his ground, resolute.

“Why would we want to leave?” the man asked, feigning innocence.

“I want you to leave,” Wilder repeated, firmer this time. “You’ve had food and drink. Now it’s time for you to go.”

They exchanged amused glances, more intrigued than offended, as if his demand were an unexpected twist in an otherwise ordinary day. It wasn’t that they didn’t understand him; they understood perfectly. Rather, they seemed entertained by the notion that he might have any authority to tell them what to do. They made no move to rise, remaining exactly where they were, unwelcome figures that Wilder had foolishly allowed to linger in his home.

Then the room darkened suddenly.

The men’s smirks faded as a shadow blotted out the sunlight spilling through the doorway. Anders loomed there, his broad form filling the space, dressed simply in a rough-spun tunic and breeches yet appearing more intimidating than if he’d worn full armor. His expression was one of barely-contained rage, his dark gaze fixed on the intruders with a murderous glint.

Wilder exhaled, a shaky breath escaping him. For the first time that day, he felt a glimmer of safety return. Forcing himself to speak steadily, he said, “My lord.” Relief flooded his voice, and his words came more easily now. “I’m glad you’ve returned. Would you like me to prepare dinner?”

Anders’s gaze swept the room, assessing the scene. He took in the group of men at the table, the remnants of food and drink from his larder scattered before them, and then his gaze softened as it landed on Wilder, pressed against the wall, an iron pot clutched defensively in his hand. After a moment, Anders held up a string of fish, freshly caught, still dripping with river water. Wilder moved to take them from him, but Anders turned without acknowledging the men, walking past them and handing the fish directly to Wilder. As he did, he gestured to a small curtained area—a private space. Wilder nodded and slipped behind it, feeling Anders’s silent command to wait out of sight.

He closed the curtain and sank down, setting the iron pot beside him and laying the fish across his lap. He ran a fingernail over the dark, glistening scales, trying to identify the type; he didn’t recognize them but knew their taste would be familiar once cooked. But it was hard to think about fish or dinner when his heart still hammered in his chest. Low voices drifted through the fabric barrier, rising in tone and urgency. All four men seemed to be speaking at once, overlapping in a frantic jumble of words that grew louder by the second.

A sudden, heavy thud made the entire longhouse tremble, cutting off the men’s voices. Wilder jolted, his gaze snapping to the curtain, but he resisted the urge to look. His heart raced as another loud, angry thump echoed through the house, followed by a strangled grunt. Swallowing his nerves, Wilder peeked through a gap in the fabric just in time to see the blue-eyed man, the one they called Harald, crumpling to the floor, his hand clutching his mouth where a trickle of blood dripped down his chin. Anders stood over him, fists clenched, a fury radiating off him that made the other men shrink back. Without a word, he pointed to the door, his meaning unmistakable.

The men scrambled to obey, two of them pulling Harald to his feet as he muttered something angry and defiant in their language, silenced only when one of his companions hissed at him to stop. The translator spotted Wilder behind the curtain, giving him an awkward, placating wave. “Thank you for the—hospitality,” he said, attempting a thin smile.

“Fine service,” Wilder replied flatly, his voice carrying an edge of sarcasm.

A low, warning growl rumbled from Anders, silencing any further pleasantries. The men hurried from the house, and within moments, the only sounds were the faint crackle of the fire and the soft creak of Anders’s footsteps as he stood near the hearth, his shoulders tense and his face still hardened in a scowl. Wilder watched him quietly from the curtain, feeling a mix of guilt and gratitude. He’d let those men inside, given them food and drink, exposed Anders’s home to strangers. He’d let down his guard, and Anders had paid for it.

Wilder stepped out of the curtain, setting down the fish. He spoke quietly, ashamed. “I’m sorry, my lord. I thought they were friends of yours—come to visit.” In his limited understanding of Anders’s world, everyone in the area seemed somehow connected. Surely, everyone knew each other. But it was clear now how wrong he’d been. These men were nothing like Anders. Anders was—

Kind , Wilder had called him. But he wondered now if that was the right word.

Kindness wasn’t exactly what Anders had shown when he’d taken him from the monastery and brought him to this isolated life. Yet Anders treated him with a respect Wilder hadn’t often experienced, working alongside him, sharing his meals, never stopping him from talking and even listening as he rambled. The monastery had been full of people, but he’d often felt invisible, performing tasks expected of him with barely a word of acknowledgment. Here, it was just the two of them, and Anders was different. A man of few words, yes, but far gentler than Ellion had ever been, even though they had both sworn similar vows of brotherhood. Ellion had shoved him toward a stranger; Anders had been that stranger, but he’d never once threatened Wilder.

Wilder’s mind drifted to the blue-eyed man’s leer, the way he’d looked at him, the mocking tone as he’d called him beautiful. What might have happened if that man had been the one to claim him? The thought sent a chill through him, and he cast a sidelong glance at Anders, who was busying himself with the fire. His hands moved deftly, his expression now unreadable as he stoked the flames, his movements sharp, as if he were imagining each jab of the stick was a strike against the men who’d disturbed their peace.

Wilder took the half-eaten plates of bread, cheese, and fruit and carried them outside to the chickens and goats, who clucked and nudged against him in their delight at the unexpected feast. He sat down on the steps, stroking Avery, who cooed and nestled against him. His mind was racing, his stomach uneasy, as though he were back on the stormy seas with no land in sight, his fate decided by the capricious waves.