Chapter Six

The rain poured relentlessly, drumming on the earth and Wilder’s head with a ferocity that left him shivering, his tunic plastered to his skin. He huddled against the tree, the bark rough and unyielding against his back, and tried to ignore the icy rivulets that ran down his face and neck. His ankle throbbed, sharp and insistent, each pulse a cruel reminder of his predicament. He was alone, soaked, and utterly lost in the forest with no plan and no hope of rescue.

The cold burrowed into his bones, but Wilder told himself it was better than the alternative. Better this than Anders's touch, unwanted and unwarranted. The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him. He had trusted Anders—or as much as one could trust someone who had taken them against their will. Wilder had believed, foolishly, that their shared labor in the garden and with the animals had made them, if not equals, then at least partners in survival.

But Anders's kiss had shattered that illusion. It had turned everything sour, revealing a truth Wilder now felt foolish for not seeing sooner: Anders had never been his partner. He was a captor, a lord, and Wilder was nothing more than a possession.

I was stupid to think otherwise .

Wilder pressed his hands together, the pads of his fingers numb against his palms. He closed his eyes and prayed, his voice trembling even in the silence of his own mind.

Dear God, in all Your wisdom and compassion, please guide me through this trial. I have tried my best to endure, to make something good of this path, but I am at my limit. Show me the way through this forest. Guide me to safety. Guide me to home—

A crack of branches interrupted his thoughts. Wilder's eyes snapped open, and his breath hitched in his throat.

Anders emerged from the brush, his broad frame silhouetted against the dim, rain-soaked backdrop of the forest. The sight sent Wilder’s heart racing, though not from fear alone. He braced himself, his jaw tightening as he turned his face slightly to the side. He waited, trembling, for Anders to strike him—to return the slap Wilder had delivered in a fit of desperation.

The blow never came.

Instead, Anders knelt before him, his expression unreadable in the gloom. With deliberate care, he unclasped the cloak from his own shoulders and draped it over Wilder’s trembling form. The material, waxed and thick, repelled the rain and trapped what little warmth Wilder still had.

Wilder blinked in confusion, his fingers curling into the cloak’s folds. He peered up at Anders, his vision blurred by both the rain and his own disbelief. He expected anger, retribution, or even smugness at finding him in such a helpless state. But Anders's face—shadowed and glistening with rain—looked nothing like that.

Anders looked sad.

Not the distant sorrow of a lord inconvenienced by a disobedient servant, but something deeper, rawer. It was the sadness of someone who had caused harm and didn’t know how to make amends.

He held out a hand, his fingers trembling slightly as if uncertain. Wilder stared at it, then up at Anders, whose wet hair clung to his face.

“I can’t walk,” Wilder finally muttered, his voice hoarse. He gestured to his swollen ankle.

Anders’s brows furrowed in concern. Without hesitation, he crouched and gently took Wilder’s ankle in his hands, inspecting it with care. His touch was warm against Wilder’s cold skin, and though the pressure made him wince, it also eased the sharpest edges of the pain.

Anders’s lips pressed into a firm line. He released the ankle with a sigh and turned his back to Wilder, kneeling in the mud.

Wilder frowned, confused, until Anders glanced over his shoulder and gestured with his arms.

“...You want me to...?”

Anders nodded.

Realization dawned, and Wilder hesitated for only a moment before clambering awkwardly onto Anders’s back. He was certain he’d be too heavy, that Anders would struggle under the weight, but when the man rose to his feet, it was as if he carried nothing at all.

The strength in Anders's body was undeniable, and as he walked—steady and unyielding through the rain—Wilder couldn’t help but notice how carefully Anders moved, avoiding roots and puddles so as not to jar him.

The waxed cloak covered both of them now, the rain pattering against it in a steady rhythm. The warmth of Anders’s body seeped through the fabric, a quiet comfort Wilder didn’t want to acknowledge but couldn’t ignore.

Step by step, Anders carried him back toward the longhouse. Wilder felt his exhaustion creeping in, heavy and insistent. His head sagged against Anders's shoulder, and his thoughts grew hazy.

As sleep began to claim him, a strange thought flitted through his mind, unbidden and inexplicable: How had Anders happened to bring a cloak that fit Wilder so perfectly?

Wilder stirred again when he felt himself being laid down, his body sluggish and uncooperative, his mind foggy and feverish. The furs beneath him were soft, cradling his aching frame, but the heat of the fire nearby felt distant and unreal, as if it belonged to another room entirely. He struggled to lift his eyelids, to orient himself in the hazy realm between sleep and wakefulness. The scent of herbs and damp wool filled his nostrils, mingling with the faint smoke from the hearth.

His dry tunic clung to his fevered skin, and his ankle throbbed with a dull but persistent ache. There was a faint memory—Anders wrapping it with a poultice, his large hands working with an unexpected delicacy. Wilder’s lips moved, forming words without sound, but his throat was too dry, his voice too weak.

He tried to move again, to push himself upright, but his arms refused to obey. His limbs felt as though they had turned to stone, heavy and immovable. He groaned softly, his chest rising and falling with effort, and he let himself sink back into the furs.

“My lord?” he rasped at last, his voice cracking. It came out softer than a whisper, barely audible even to his own ears. He swallowed, his throat raw and aching. “Anders?”

The fire popped in the hearth, the sound sharp against the silence. Wilder’s body convulsed with a sudden, harsh cough, and he pulled the furs tighter around himself, trembling. Cold, so cold—how could he be so close to the fire and still feel as though ice coursed through his veins?

A shadow passed over him, and then a familiar touch. A hand cupped his cheek, rough with calluses but gentle, steadying. Wilder flinched instinctively but lacked the strength to pull away. The hand lingered for a moment before moving to his forehead.

It was cool, startlingly so, and Wilder let out a soft sigh of relief.

“Cold,” he mumbled, barely aware of what he was saying.

The hand withdrew, replaced moments later by a damp cloth pressed gently against his brow. The wetness seeped into his curls, the coolness drawing some of the feverish heat from his skin.

“You were already dry,” he murmured, nonsensical, his lips curving into a faint smile.

Anders didn’t respond, but the silence spoke volumes. Wilder imagined him there, crouched at his side, the faint light from the hearth casting flickering shadows on his face. Was Anders angry? Guilty? He couldn’t tell.

His eyelids grew heavier, and the world blurred again, receding into the haze of fevered dreams. Wilder drifted in and out of consciousness, slipping between reality and memory, between past and present.

He dreamed of the monastery, but its details were elusive, slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers. He remembered the cool stone floors, the echoing halls, the chants of the brothers—but when he tried to focus, the images wavered, and suddenly he was in the garden with Anders instead.

Anders stood beside him, his sleeves rolled up, his hands caked in soil. He smiled, that rare, broad smile that lit up his otherwise somber face. Then the scene shifted. Anders was in his armor, his sword drawn and pointed at Wilder’s chest, his expression cold and unreadable.

The dreams twisted further. Anders was naked now, his skin warm against Wilder’s own, his lips pressing gently against his mouth. Wilder felt no fear, only a strange, aching confusion. His own hands moved without thought, trailing over Anders’s chest, and—

He woke with a start, gasping.

The fire was still burning, though it had dimmed. Someone was speaking, their voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. The sound tugged at the edges of his awareness, pulling him back from the depths of sleep.

“Wilder.”

His name. Spoken with a quiet intensity, a desperate, guttural rasp that made his chest tighten.

It wasn’t a shout or a command—it was a plea, raw and unpolished, laced with emotion Wilder couldn’t quite name.

He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were too heavy. He tried to speak, to respond, but his lips parted only to release a faint exhale. The voice called his name again, and this time he thought he could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, as though Anders had placed the entirety of his being into that single word.

“Wilder.”

The sound lingered, reverberating in the space between them, filling the room like a tangible presence. It wrapped around him, steady and unyielding, like the strong arms that had carried him through the rain.

In the darkness behind his closed eyes, Wilder felt tears slip down his cheeks, though he couldn’t say why.

◆◆◆

When Wilder’s eyes fluttered open again, an unfamiliar dampness clung to his skin. His tunic, heavy with sweat, was glued to his back, and a dull ache in his body reminded him that he’d been unconscious for a while. For a moment, he thought it might have rained, but then a flash of memory broke through—he remembered Anders carrying him through the storm, wrapping him in warmth by the fire, tending to his every need. That thought brought a measure of comfort, even as his head spun with confusion.

He shifted his body, trying to sit up, but the sudden pull in his back and the aching stiffness in his limbs forced him to stop. He couldn’t even remember how long he’d been lying down. His tunic clung to him, soaked through with the residue of fever and perspiration. Groaning softly, he shifted again, trying to ease the discomfort, but it was the surroundings that truly captured his attention.

This wasn’t the longhouse he remembered. This wasn’t even a bed of furs. His fingers brushed over the coarse fabric beneath him—a mattress, firm and rough, with the unmistakable texture of straw poking through the seams. Wilder’s heart gave a slight jolt.

The room was unfamiliar. The walls were solid, made of wood and stone—not the half-barrier partitions of the longhouse, nor the crude arrangement of fabric curtains. His eyes flicked around the room: a bed, a framed structure, sturdy and well-made. There was a table, not a bench, and chairs arranged neatly around it. A rug lay beneath them, its rich colors softened by the muted light streaming in from a window.

A window.

He turned his head slowly, squinting toward the opening. The outside world seemed entirely different from the wilderness he’d been rescued from. He heard the distant calls of fishermen, the bustling noise of a market, the exchange of goods, all in a language Wilder could barely comprehend. His heart beat faster as realization hit. Was this the town? How had he ended up here? His mind was clouded with questions, and the more he thought, the more everything seemed to spin.

Before he could make sense of his surroundings, the door creaked open. Wilder’s attention snapped to the entrance, and a figure stepped inside—a tall man with a broad frame, his hair and beard a mixture of dark and gray. He moved with ease, his presence calming, his gaze sharp and compassionate. His dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners when he saw Wilder’s confusion, and his lips curved into a smile.

“Ah, awake at last!” the man said, his voice deep and resonant, but with a strange accent Wilder couldn’t place. He continued in Wilder’s native tongue, surprising him further. “We’ve all been waiting for your fever to break. I thought your husband was going to make himself ill with worry. He’s been beside himself! If I hadn’t forced him to rest, I’d have had two patients to look after.”

Wilder blinked, disoriented. The word “husband” echoed in his mind, but he couldn’t make sense of it. His voice came out hoarse and unsure. “My—what?”

The man smiled again, though his eyes softened with concern. “Ah, forgive me, I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Frode. I’m the physician here.” He made a small bow.

Wilder’s throat tightened, his mind sluggish but racing to catch up. “No, no, I understand,” he murmured. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frode. But—did you just say husband?”

Frode’s expression didn’t change. He tilted his head slightly, as though the confusion was mutual. “Of course,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “What about him?”

Wilder shook his head, confusion deepening. “What husband ?”

Frode’s smile faltered, then faded entirely. He stared at Wilder for a long moment, his brow knitting together in an expression of growing concern. “Anders,” he said slowly, as if testing a delicate truth. “You haven’t forgotten him, have you?”

“I haven’t forgotten him!” Wilder’s voice rose sharply, his pride flaring. He frowned deeply, trying to focus. “But Anders isn’t my husband —I’m his servant.”

At those words, Frode’s face shifted from concern to bewilderment, his mouth opening and closing as though searching for the right words. The silence stretched between them, thick with confusion.

“Servant?” Frode echoed, his voice low and laced with disbelief.

Wilder’s frustration spilled over as he leaned forward slightly, hands tightening on the bedcovers. “Yes!” he said, his voice sharper. “Anders took me from my monastery. Traded me for a sword! I’ve been working for him—on his land, in his house—as his servant!”

Frode stepped back, his hand instinctively moving to his mouth, as though to stifle a gasp. His eyes darted around, seemingly processing what Wilder had said. Then, with a sigh, he ran his fingers through his graying hair and let out a long, exasperated breath.

“A monastery?” Frode muttered, his voice barely audible. He stared at the floor, lost in thought. “No, lad… no, that’s not…” His voice trailed off, and his expression grew somber. He sank heavily into the chair by the bedside, his body crumpling as though the weight of the situation was suddenly too much to bear. “There’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”

Wilder’s laugh came out bitter and dry. “I’ll say!” He shook his head, but the truth started to sink in. “Where did you even get the idea that Anders is my husband ?”

“From Anders,” Frode replied simply, his voice flat, his tone resigned.

Wilder froze. His mind stuttered, grinding to a halt. His thoughts scrambled over every interaction he’d had with Anders—his shyness, his awkwardness, the gifts, the kindness, the kiss. It all suddenly clicked, the pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t understood falling into place in a dizzying rush.

The kiss.

Wilder’s heart lurched, and before he could stop himself, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His body wavered, unsteady, but the realization was so sharp that it felt like his whole body moved in response. He tried to stand, to get up, to flee from this room, but his legs betrayed him.

He stumbled, but Frode was there, his strong hands catching Wilder by the arms, steadying him.

Wilder clutched at Frode’s sleeve, his voice unsteady and desperate. “What does it mean?” he gasped. “The word I’ve been calling him… it’s my lord , isn’t it? That’s what it means, right?”

Frode sighed, a deep, knowing sound. He brushed a lock of hair from Wilder’s forehead, his fingers gentle, almost maternal. “Oh, lad,” he murmured softly, his voice full of pity. “It means ‘my husband.’ You’ve been calling him husband all this time.”