Chapter Seven

Frode's gentle hands pressed a cup to Wilder's lips, the warm liquid swirling with the soft scent of chamomile. The physician’s voice was calm, soothing as he urged Wilder to drink. It did little to ease the ache in his chest, though, and even less to calm the gnawing dread that twisted inside him. The draught stilled his trembling hands, but the hollow weight in his stomach only deepened. His eyes grew heavy, the fatigue dragging him down, but there was no escaping the thoughts that swirled like a storm inside his mind.

My husband .

It echoed over and over, the words searing through his thoughts, each repetition more disorienting than the last. He closed his eyes, trying to push it away, but it clung to him like the damp clothes he’d been pulled from earlier. All this time—how had he not realized? From the very first moment he’d met Anders, the soldier on the ship had said my husband . The strange, thick accent, the way she’d said it with such ease. Wilder had simply mimicked it, never questioning the weight of it.

How had no one thought it strange?

The realization sank deeper, as if a stone had been dropped in his chest, sending ripples through everything he thought he knew. The soldier’s words, Anders’s quiet ways, the customs that now seemed so glaringly obvious.

But none of this made sense. Anders had never courted him. There had been no proposals, no exchanges of vows. There had been no wedding, no ring, no promise. Anders had not sought him as a partner. Anders had made a trade. He had given up a sword— his sword, the one Wilder had seen him carry so proudly. But he hadn’t given it for love, had he? No, he’d traded it for a novice. For a servant.

Wilder’s throat tightened, and he murmured, barely audible, “The sword…”

Frode, who had been watching him closely, took the cup from his hands and placed it gently on the table. His brow furrowed as he leaned closer. “What sword, lad?”

Wilder’s eyes were still glazed with confusion, but he pressed on, needing to make sense of it all. “Anders… he traded his sword for me. Didn’t he? It was an exchange. A payment…”

Frode’s expression shifted, and for a moment, Wilder could see the understanding flicker in the older man’s eyes. He sat down at Wilder’s side, his hands resting gently on his lap. “It’s the custom here,” Frode explained, his voice low, almost gentle, as if telling a child a simple truth. “A warrior’s life is often a solitary one. They fight beside their comrades, they live in isolation, but when it comes time to settle down, to raise a family, you give up your sword. You give up that solitary life. You trade it for a partner, for a life together. It’s not just a weapon. It’s a symbol of their commitment.”

Wilder’s head swam with the words, but a deep ache settled in his heart as Frode’s explanation slowly sank in. “So, that’s what it was,” Wilder whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “It was for me.”

Frode placed a hand on Wilder’s shoulder, his grip firm yet comforting. “There, there.” The old physician’s voice softened as he saw the tears welling in Wilder’s eyes. The tears spilled over, streaking down his face, but Frode didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned closer, his hand gently patting Wilder’s arm. “It’s all right, lad. None of this is your fault.”

But it didn’t feel all right. None of it did.

Wilder’s mind drifted back to the longhouse, back to the days when everything had been so strange, so new. The first time he’d seen it—large and empty, full of echoes and the musty smell of neglect. The garden, overtaken by weeds, and the dust that seemed to coat every surface. Anders had been there, tall and awkward, the silence between them more deafening than any words could be.

Anders had looked at him with such confusion, with hope, and Wilder realized, with something else—something like happiness. They had worked side by side, shared moments of quiet understanding, shared meals, shared time. And yet, Anders had never crossed that line, never tried to claim what Wilder had never offered. The first time they’d shared a moment of true closeness—Wilder, naked and dripping from the river, Anders blushing so fiercely that it made Wilder ache with tenderness—he had thought Anders simply didn’t want him, that he was too shy.

But then there were the other moments, the unexpected kindnesses—Anders bringing him food, preparing meals with a care Wilder had never expected, and the tenderness in the kiss that followed their laughter. And yet, that kiss had been followed by a slap. Wilder’s own slap. His own confusion, his own fear, had driven him to act out of instinct. It hadn’t been rejection. It had been fear . Fear of what the feelings meant. Fear of being wanted, but not understanding why. Fear of being caught in something that he had no idea how to navigate.

“He’s always been very kind,” Wilder murmured, his voice breaking as the tears came faster. He blinked slowly, feeling the dampness of his lashes. “But I didn’t know it. I was afraid.”

Frode gave him a small, understanding smile, though there was a sadness behind it, too. His hand tightened around Wilder’s, and he squeezed it, steadying him. “It’s all right, lad. You didn’t know.” His words were gentle, soft, but there was a weight in them that Wilder couldn’t escape. “None of this is your fault. You’ve been through a lot. Just rest. Let yourself rest.”

But Wilder couldn’t. Rest, at least not in peace. His mind churned with all the things he hadn’t understood—the way Anders had tried, over and over, in his quiet way, to show him kindness. The trade. The sword. And now, the truth he could no longer deny. Wilder wasn’t a servant. He wasn’t just a tool. He had been chosen, traded, but chosen. And Anders had given up everything to make a life with him.

But what now? What could Wilder do with that knowledge?

◆◆◆

Wilder wished he could stay in that moment forever—tucked safely in Frode’s bed, the room warm and comfortable, the pillow soft against his cheek. There, he didn’t have to think about any of the things that haunted him. He didn’t have to think about how embarrassed he felt, how deeply ashamed of himself he was, or how sorry he was for all the misunderstandings that had brought them to this point. Frode had said it wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t caused any of this, but Wilder couldn’t stop the flood of self-recrimination. He couldn’t shake the feeling that if only he had done something differently, none of this would have happened.

He thought back to the very first moments when things had gone wrong. If only he hadn’t decided to spy on those strange warriors on the beach. If only he’d argued with Ellion more, made it clear that he didn’t want to go with Anders, that he didn’t agree to anything. Maybe, just maybe, Anders would have understood, and all of this confusion would have been avoided. Maybe if he’d learned the language on the ship—just a little more, enough to understand the mistake, enough to see it in time—he could have prevented it. But now, lying here in this bed, the weight of his decisions crushed him.

But he couldn’t stay in this state of endless self-pity. Sleep would be a fleeting escape. He knew it. As much as he wanted to remain cocooned in this false peace, he knew he couldn’t sleep forever. Eventually, Frode would come and rouse him, as he did now with a soft shake of his shoulder. “Anders is here with a friend of his,” Frode said gently, his voice kind. “Are you feeling well enough to talk to them?”

Wilder’s chest tightened, nerves coursing through him. He didn’t feel well enough. Not at all. But there was no choice. He had to face it. He had to confront it, even if it broke him.

“No,” he whispered, his teeth chattering from the tremor of fear that ran through him. “But I have to.”

Frode guided him to another room, one filled with the rich scent of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars and bottles—some medicinal, some containing ink for writing, others still, with odd assortments of foreign ingredients. It was a place of calm purpose, yet it was filled with the weight of anticipation, the quiet before a storm.

At the center of the room, sitting at a sturdy wooden table, were Anders and a woman Wilder recognized. It was the same warrior from the beach—the one who had told him how to refer to Anders as my husband in the language Wilder had barely begun to understand. When her eyes landed on him, her expression was unreadable, but it wasn’t cold. It was simply neutral, as if she were watching a delicate moment unfold, waiting for it to reach its inevitable conclusion.

Anders’s face lit up the moment he saw Wilder. It was a look Wilder had seen before, but it felt different now—fainter, as if a mask were being worn beneath it. The shy, tentative smile that had once been so reassuring now felt like a fragile thing, one that Wilder wasn’t sure how to respond to. But he did, offering a smile in return, though it felt like it was made of cracked glass, fragile and untrue. The guilt in his stomach swelled as he did, the heaviness pressing harder with each passing second.

The woman greeted Frode, speaking with the ease of someone who had known him for some time. She gestured toward herself and Anders, speaking in a low, serious tone. Frode nodded as he listened, then turned to Wilder. “You’ve met Disa before,” he said kindly. “Anders has asked her to speak for him in this, just as I am for you, to ensure that there are no further misunderstandings.”

Wilder nodded, taking a seat at the table, his hands folding nervously in his lap. He could feel the tension in his body, the tightness of his chest as his mind raced. The four of them sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air, suffocating and still. Finally, it was Anders who broke the quiet. He nudged Disa gently, giving her a meaningful look.

With a deep breath, Disa straightened herself and began to speak, her words flowing fluidly to Frode, who dutifully translated for Wilder. “Anders is so glad to see that you’re well,” Frode began, his voice steady. “He was beside himself with worry. He wants you to know that your garden has been cared for, as have all your animals, and that Avery misses you. She’s very anxious for your return—but not as much as Anders. He sincerely apologizes for upsetting you by acting as he did, and he wants you to know that it will not happen again.”

Your garden. Your animals. The words felt like a slow twist of the knife in Wilder’s chest. A part of him wanted to lash out, to say something—anything—but the tears that had been gathering at the corners of his eyes finally broke free. He wiped at them quickly, ashamed of his own weakness. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

But Anders, in his quiet desperation, couldn’t bear to hear that. He made a noise of alarm, leaning forward, his hand reaching out to Disa. His voice, when it came, was rough and hoarse, as if speaking had become too much. He whispered, but it was clear enough to Wilder that he was pleading. “Please, don’t cry. You need not apologize for anything.”

Wilder’s chest tightened further, and he sniffled, his breath shaky. “It was a misunderstanding. It was all a misunderstanding.” He tugged at Frode’s sleeve, his voice cracking as he spoke. “I don’t know how to tell him. I don’t want to hurt him.”

Frode placed a comforting hand over Wilder’s. “Wilder, this is a difficult conversation. It won’t be easy. No matter how soft we try to make it, he will be hurt. But he must know.”

Wilder swallowed thickly. His heart ached as he finally met Anders’s gaze, the man’s deep brown eyes filled with something between hope and anguish. “Then—” Wilder forced the words out, his voice barely audible, “Ask him if he knows what a monastery is.”

It was a gamble, he knew that. But in that moment, he needed to see how much Anders understood of his world, his past. He needed to see where the true misunderstanding lay.

Frode asked, and both Disa and Anders furrowed their brows in confusion. Neither of them had any idea what a monastery was, Wilder saw, before Frode translated the explanation: “It’s a place where monks live. Men who dedicate themselves to God. They take vows to God. They live a life of prayer, asceticism, and celibacy at a monastery.”

Disa’s eyes widened in understanding. “Celibacy?” she asked, her voice laced with a mixture of surprise and comprehension. She turned to Wilder. “You were—that is, you were a monk?”

“I was a novice,” Wilder replied quietly, his voice heavy with the weight of all he had left behind. “But I would’ve taken my vows in a year or so, yes.”

Disa’s eyes softened, and she quickly relayed the information to Anders. The room was heavy with silence as Wilder waited for the man who had so gently tried to care for him, the man he had misunderstood and feared.

Anders’s reaction was palpable. He visibly paled as the words sank in. His voice, when it came, was hesitant, faltering, as though the weight of the truth was more than he could bear. “He says that he made an offer for your hand in marriage, to you and a member of your clan. He saw you on the beach and wanted you, so he gave your clan member his sword for you—that is how it’s done here. He’s no longer a warrior. He made you a home.”

Wilder’s heart hammered in his chest. A home. Marriage.

His throat tightened, his words catching in the air. “I thought—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I didn’t know. That’s not how we do things where I’m from. And like I said, I was at a monastery.”

Frode turned to him gently. “Wilder, what did you think had happened?” he asked softly.

Staring hard at the ground, Wilder whispered, “We thought they were raiders. We’d had raiders before. So when we saw the ships… The monk I was with and I both thought that Anders—that he wanted something. Ellion wanted to protect the relics, and I wanted to protect the others, so I agreed to go with him.”

“And when you went with Anders,” Frode asked, his voice gentle but probing, “what did you think your role in his household would be?”

“A servant,” Wilder whispered. His voice was barely audible. “A captive. Taken during a raid, to do with as he wished.”

Disa translated that, and Anders’s face collapsed. The room felt like it had been plunged into darkness. The sound of Anders’s voice, hoarse and broken, pierced the silence. “No.” He shook his head, his words desperate. “No, Wilder. No.”

He repeated it over and over, the pain in his voice thick with unshed tears. He made a motion as if to touch him, to comfort him, but Wilder, overwhelmed by the shock of it all—the realization that he had misunderstood, that Anders had been trying to protect him and care for him—pulled his arm back.

For a moment, everything stopped. Anders’s face crumpled, the tears he’d been fighting spilling free as he stood abruptly, his fist slamming into the table with enough force to rattle the shelves. The sound reverberated in the stillness of the room.

“ Anders ,” Disa called, her voice urgent as she reached for him. But he shrugged her off, his face set with a strange, broken determination. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving only silence behind him.

◆◆◆

Wilder’s gaze remained fixed on the closed doorway, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and guilt, his heart heavy with everything that had just unfolded. The harsh words and gestures of Anders, the misunderstanding of their bond—it all played out in his mind like a cruel and painful scene that had no end. It wasn’t just his life that had been altered, but Anders’s as well. Neither of them had asked for this, but here they were, caught in a trap of their own making, bound by circumstances neither had fully understood.

As he sat there, still trying to absorb the conversation he’d just witnessed, he heard the voices of Frode and Disa rise in the next room. Their words were rapid, too fast for Wilder to follow, and though their tones were not angry, the frantic energy in their voices made it clear that they were grappling with something. It could have been an argument, or perhaps just an exchange of nerves, but it sounded as though they were discussing something important—something Wilder was not a part of.

Unable to escape the noise, Wilder pressed his hands against his ears, trying to drown out the rising tide of voices. The panic in his chest grew, swelling with every moment he sat helplessly in place. His thoughts swirled in a painful spiral, and before he knew it, his head was on the table, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He couldn’t make sense of any of it.

"I’m so sorry," he whispered into the wood, his voice thick with regret. "I’m so sorry for it all." His breath hitched, and tears soaked his face, wetting his skin and blurring his vision. How could he have let this happen? How could he have been so blind to what Anders had truly wanted? The apology felt hollow, meaningless. It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

But then he heard Frode’s voice, soft and steady, trying to comfort him from the other room. "Everything will be alright, Wilder," he said, but his words felt like a distant echo. How could it be? How could everything possibly be all right when everything had gone so wrong?

The thoughts came crashing through Wilder’s mind like waves in a storm. He was here, in a strange land, far from his monastery, far from the life he had known. He had been brought here against his will—by mistake, no less—by a man who had only wanted companionship, not realizing that Wilder had not freely offered it. The weight of it all pressed on him, two lives ruined, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

But Frode’s words pierced the fog of Wilder’s thoughts. “Nothing’s ruined. Please, don’t cry. You’ll make yourself sick again.”

The tone in Disa’s voice was softer now, more sympathetic, but it did little to ease the storm inside Wilder’s heart. He straightened up from the table, wiping the wetness from his face with a rough hand. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice still strained. "I don’t understand. None of this makes sense."

Frode translated, his voice gentle as he relayed Wilder’s confusion to Disa. The conversation that followed was low but tense. It was clear that Disa and Frode were trying to find a way to fix the mess they had all found themselves in.

“Look, I’m sorry too,” Disa said, her voice soft but filled with regret. “Had we known, we wouldn’t have acted as we did. But let me talk to Anders. We’ll figure something out. For now, though, just—please—keep this to yourselves. Let everyone think this is just a lovers’ quarrel. It’s better that way, for Anders’s honor and for your own well-being.”

Wilder blinked, trying to make sense of her words. Lovers’ quarrel ? The very idea of that made his stomach churn. He shook his head, his thoughts tumbling over each other. “My—my well-being?”

Frode’s voice was calm but firm as he explained. "If everyone finds out you’re not really married to Anders, you might end up with more unwanted suitors than you can handle. For now, the best thing would be to keep up the illusion—that Wilder is just upset about something, and he’s staying here for a while, nothing more."

The thought of maintaining the ruse felt like a knife in his chest. How could they possibly pretend, continue this charade? It might protect Anders’s honor, but what about the truth? What about the hurt that lingered between them? And more than that, how could he impose on Frode, who had already done so much for him?

“That’s… that’s not right,” Wilder said, his voice barely above a whisper, his hands trembling as he spoke. “Anders can’t possibly—he can’t pretend like everything is fine. And I— I can’t impose on you, Frode. I won’t do that.” The words were sharp and bitter in his mouth, but they came from a place of deep discomfort.

Frode’s expression softened, and he reached out to place a reassuring hand on Wilder’s shoulder. “It’s no imposition,” he said gently. “You need somewhere to stay for now. If it helps, I can put you to work. Help me gather ingredients and make medicine. That way, you’ll stay occupied and feel useful.”

Wilder looked down at his hands, the weight of his situation pressing on him. Where else would I go? The truth was, he didn’t have any other option. With a heavy sigh, he finally nodded. “Yes. Yes, thank you.” He paused, his voice trembling slightly. “Can you please tell Disa to tell Anders that—that I’m not angry with him? That I’m sorry… and that he was—he was kind to me?”

Frode relayed the message, and Disa’s face softened as she heard the words. She looked at Wilder for a long moment, as if weighing something in her mind. She seemed on the verge of saying something else, but she didn’t. Instead, she nodded solemnly, shook Frode’s hand, and then Wilder’s, before turning and leaving the room.

The silence that filled the space after she left was thick, heavy, and unsettling. Wilder couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to be said—so much more—but no one was willing to say it. The world felt different now. He was no longer just a stranger in a foreign land. He was a stranger in his own life, someone who had been pulled into a story not his own. And the question of what came next seemed impossible to answer.

◆◆◆

Three days passed, and with each passing moment, Wilder began to feel a little more like himself again. His strength slowly returned as he helped Frode around the house, grinding herbs and learning the intricacies of the healer’s craft. The work, though simple, gave his hands something to focus on, and his mind something to cling to. The more he helped, the more he felt a sense of purpose—a small, fleeting comfort in a world that seemed to have spun out of control.

The town itself had begun to reveal its character to him, bit by bit. It was quiet, nestled in the shadow of thick, evergreens, the narrow streets winding between clusters of small houses and sturdy buildings. The locals were kind enough, though they often greeted him with wary eyes, and Wilder couldn’t help but feel like an outsider still. It was a strange feeling to be in a place that was both familiar and foreign to him, but slowly, he was starting to adapt. The language was still a challenge, but he’d made progress, and every day spent with Frode helped him pick up new words, new phrases, until they didn’t seem so distant.

One morning, as they crushed dried rose hips together in the back of the healer’s shop, Wilder asked a question that had been nagging at him since he’d arrived.

“How did you come to live here?” His fingers worked the pestle in a steady rhythm, the scent of the rosehips filling the air as he pressed them into powder.

Frode glanced up from the jar he was preparing and gave a small chuckle, as though the question had caught him by surprise. “Well, I’ve lived in a lot of places in my life,” he said, his voice warm with the ease of old memories. “I wanted to travel, and I did. Traveled with scholars, with merchants, with pilgrims. Sometimes I’d stay in a place for a few days, sometimes a few weeks, sometimes a few months. More rarely, a few years.” His gaze drifted to the window, and for a moment, Wilder thought Frode was lost in thought. “But I suppose I just reached that age where I wanted to settle down.”

He smiled, as though the memory brought him peace. “I was traveling with some members of a trade caravan, and they stopped here. It was the middle of winter, snowing like you wouldn’t believe. Cold like you wouldn’t believe. The river had frozen over, and the deer crossed it with such grace.” He paused, a distant look in his eyes. “The pine trees were dark and green against the white, and the sky was so clear. The sun was bright despite the chill. I thought it was beautiful, and if I could find this place beautiful even in the middle of winter, then I knew I could happily live here. And I have.”

Wilder was quiet for a moment, imagining the scene Frode had painted with his words—the snow, the bright sun, the calmness of it all. It sounded like the kind of place where you could breathe deeply and find peace, the kind of place that could heal wounds. He felt a pang of longing for a place like that, a place where he could put down roots.

“You could have gone somewhere with no winter at all,” Wilder said, curiosity taking over. “There are places with warm seasons, aren’t there?”

“Oh, indeed,” Frode said, his voice a little lighter. “But I do dislike the heat. And in those lands, it often rains for weeks, sometimes months. The humidity, the sweat. No, no, thank you. I prefer a thick blanket and some hot mead. I’ve found I do quite nicely in places like this.” He grinned, clearly amused by his own preference for the cold.

Wilder smiled a little, his hands pausing in their work. “Do you… find the people here friendly?” he asked, unsure why he was suddenly asking about something so personal. It felt like a change in topic that was perhaps a little too sudden, but the question had been hovering at the back of his mind for a while.

Frode didn’t seem surprised by the shift. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully before answering. “Are all the townspeople my friends?” he mused. “I wouldn’t say that. But I am on good terms with most of them, if only because every community appreciates having a healer close by. People tend to trust someone who knows how to patch them up.” He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “But in all the places I’ve been, people are much the same. Some are friendly, some not so much. Some tell me far too much about their ailments when I speak to them outside of my shop, and others act as though I’ve known them my entire life.”

Wilder nodded slowly, digesting the information. He couldn’t help but wonder if the people here had taken a liking to Frode because of the kindness he exuded, or if they simply appreciated his skills. Either way, Wilder was beginning to feel a bit more at ease, even if the people here still treated him like a stranger.

He hesitated, then asked another question that had been bothering him ever since he’d arrived. “Did you know Anders before… I mean, before the, um...” Wilder gestured awkwardly to his own throat, still feeling the weight of the conversation he’d had with Anders days ago.

Frode’s face softened slightly, but he didn’t flinch. He seemed to consider the question before answering. “No, I didn’t. He kept to himself even then,” Frode replied with a small shake of his head. “But I did treat his injury.”

Wilder’s curiosity piqued. “What? You really treated him? What happened to him?”

Frode sighed, his gaze turning distant as he recalled the memory. “From what I understand, it was some kind of dispute on the edge of town—a feud between clans, I think. Anders was a warrior, and he fought, and his throat was slit. His companions brought him to me. He was holding himself together with his hand, his fingers covered in blood.” Frode paused for a moment, his expression grim as he relived the moment. “I stitched the wound closed, and he never made a sound. That was—oh, five years ago now, I’d say.”

Wilder felt a strange kind of awe at the thought of Anders surviving such a terrible injury. How fearsome he must have been , Wilder thought. The warrior he had seen, tall and imposing, suddenly seemed less like a stranger and more like a figure of strength. Wilder tried to picture him in combat, sword in hand, but the image that came to mind was that of a man struggling against the playful headbutts of goats. A laugh escaped him at the thought, but the next moment, he remembered Anders’s fierce expression when he’d stood in the doorway, glaring at the men who had come into his house.

“What happened afterward?” Wilder asked, his voice quiet with intrigue. “What did he do?”

Frode’s lips quirked into a small, melancholic smile. “He recovered. And then he went home.”

Wilder’s brow furrowed. “Do you think… he’ll recover this time?” His voice was small, as though asking about Anders felt like asking about something much larger than just the man’s physical health.

Frode’s smile deepened, though there was sadness in it. “He’s taken quite the blow to the heart, I think,” he said gently. “But Anders is a strong person. I’m more worried about you, Wilder.” His eyes met Wilder’s, and there was an unmistakable concern there. “How are you feeling?”

Wilder opened his mouth to answer, but the words tangled in his throat. Confused. Sad. Uncertain. But somehow, he managed a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I think I’m getting pretty good at grinding herbs, at least.” It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Frode chuckled, though it was a soft sound, more understanding than anything else. “It’s something,” he said. And at that moment, Wilder almost believed it. That it might just be enough.