Chapter Eight

The rosehips, though rich in medicinal properties, were not meant for a tincture or a salve this time. Today, they were destined for something far more celebratory—a batch of mead.

"Though some would call that medicinal," Frode said with a grin, as he crushed the dried rosehips into a fine powder with a pestle.

Wilder laughed softly, his hands busy with the same task. "Well, I suppose anything in moderation could be considered medicine." He was still getting used to Frode's easy manner, the way he found humor in even the simplest tasks.

Their work was methodical, but it was time-consuming. The two of them spent nearly half the day preparing the ingredients. The dried, crushed rosehips were boiled into an extract, which Frode carefully strained before pouring it into a mixture of honey dissolved in water. Once the liquid had cooled, they poured it into a large wooden vat. Frode worked with a practiced ease, his hands deftly moving as he added the yeast and then covered the vat, sealing it for the fermentation process.

Wilder wiped his brow, looking at the large vat and the bubbling liquid inside. "And that's it?" he asked, his voice filled with a bit of disbelief.

"That's it," Frode replied, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "In about two months, we’ll have rosehip mead."

"Two months?" Wilder’s jaw dropped slightly. He hadn't expected the process to take that long. "Are you sure we can't speed it up somehow?"

Frode chuckled, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. "Good things take time, Wilder. Didn’t you brew beer at your monastery? It’s the same principle. The process can’t be rushed." His gaze softened as he glanced at the vat. "I still have some bottles left from my last batch, though, if you'd like one. We used some of the yeast from the previous batch for this one, so you could enjoy a bottle now if you wanted."

Wilder's face warmed at the mention of the mead. The thought of giving Anders a bottle as a gift had been growing in his mind, but he hadn't yet worked up the courage to act on it. The mead, with its gentle sweetness and the calming nature of the rosehips, seemed like a good choice—both an apology and a way to tell Anders that he didn’t hold any ill will.

"I see," Wilder said quietly. “I was thinking of giving a bottle to Anders.”

"Well, as I said, I still have some bottles leftover. Just take one of those," Frode offered, his voice casual but somehow more knowing.

"Are you sure?" Wilder asked, though he couldn’t help the hope that rose in him at the thought of giving Anders a gift.

"Of course," Frode said, his tone warm. "Food and drink are meant to be shared. Take it. A bottle of mead might do you both some good."

It was a kind offer, and Wilder hesitated for only a moment before nodding. He moved to the apothecary shelves, scanning the bottles until he found one that seemed to glow with an inviting amber hue. The label was carefully written in Frode's graceful script, both in their native tongue and the common language. It felt substantial in his hand, the weight of it comforting.

Still, something gnawed at him. The mead would be a nice gesture, but it didn’t seem quite enough. He needed something more, something that might convey his feelings more fully. He thought of Anders’s stoic expression, his troubled silence since their difficult conversation, and Wilder felt a pang of guilt. He didn’t want to leave things unresolved, especially now that he was here, in this strange place, feeling more and more like an intruder.

Wilder moved to the corner of the room and began to gather the ingredients for a loaf of bread. Anders had taught him how to make the flatbread with the leftover pea porridge and barley flour. It was simple, hearty, and filling, a perfect complement to the mead. He mixed the ingredients together, his hands moving with a familiarity he hadn’t expected. The bread turned out perfectly, golden brown and warm.

But as he looked at the mead and the bread, something still didn’t feel right. A bottle of mead and a loaf of bread were not enough to convey everything he wanted to say, not when he still felt the weight of his past actions. What if Anders didn’t want to see him? What if he couldn’t forgive him? The questions swirled in his mind, his hands now nervously wrapping the bread and mead together in a cloth.

As he moved around the kitchen, trying to put his thoughts in order, he spotted a couple of bright red apples on a nearby shelf. He picked them up and polished them on his tunic, hoping the gesture would help to balance the simplicity of the meal. They were small, but vibrant, and Wilder figured that it was the least he could do. He wrapped everything together into a neat parcel, cradling it in his arms as he sighed deeply.

But was it enough? Would Anders even accept the gift? Would he understand that it was meant as an apology and a gesture of goodwill? Wilder didn’t know, but he couldn’t let fear stop him. He just needed to find a way to make things right.

The thought of going to Anders’s home, of seeing him again after the chaos of their last encounter, left him with a nervous knot in his stomach. He hadn’t seen the man since that disastrous day, and he didn’t know the way to his house.

"Maybe someone in town could deliver it," Wilder muttered to himself, half-hoping for some sign that things could be smoothed over without having to face Anders directly.

Suddenly, Frode’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and Wilder jumped in surprise.

"Oh! Going into town?" Frode’s tone was casual, as if he’d read Wilder’s mind. "Do you think you could make a few deliveries for me?" He handed Wilder a small basket, which contained several jars of ointments and small wooden boxes filled with herbal pills. "Here’s a list of who gets what."

Wilder looked at the basket, feeling a sudden surge of panic. Deliveries? He hadn’t even begun to get used to the town, let alone interact with the locals. And to act in Frode’s stead—he wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility.

"I—I don’t know," Wilder stammered, his hands tightening around the parcel of mead, bread, and apples. "Are you sure? I don’t want to make a mistake and make things more difficult for you."

Frode tutted, a fond smile on his face. He held up the list in front of Wilder’s face, tapping it gently. "Can you tell me what the first line says?"

Wilder blinked, his heart still racing. He leaned in to look at the list. "A salve for the blacksmith," he muttered, still unsure.

"Which of these jars contains the salve?" Frode asked, pointing to the jars laid out before him.

Wilder’s gaze flicked from the list to the jars. He quickly spotted the one labeled "salve" and pointed it out. "This one."

Frode smiled, a look of quiet pride in his eyes. "Well, there you have it. It’s that simple. You’re more than capable of running a few errands, Wilder. Go on now."

Wilder’s stomach twisted with anxiety, but something about Frode’s reassurance calmed him, even if only slightly. He nodded, taking the basket from Frode’s outstretched hands, feeling the weight of both the task and the mead in his arms. He didn’t know if he was ready to face Anders yet, but this was a step in the right direction. One small delivery at a time.

◆◆◆

Wilder made his way through the village with a sense of quiet resolve, each stop taking him closer to Anders, though the path was fraught with the strange mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. His first stop was at the blacksmith’s shop. When he arrived, the large wooden doors were open, the rhythmic sound of hammer meeting metal echoing from within. He stepped inside and was immediately struck by the heat of the forge, the scent of smoke and iron filling the air.

The blacksmith was a large woman with broad shoulders, thick arms, and a booming voice that seemed to match her imposing presence. She wore a worn leather apron and had a bandage wrapped around one of her forearms. She glanced up from her work, her face a mask of concentration, but she waved him over with a nod.

Wilder walked toward her, lifting the basket and holding it out to her. "Frode sent this," he said quietly, "a salve for your arm."

The blacksmith didn’t waste any time. She grabbed the jar from his hands without a word, quickly unwrapped the bandage around her forearm. Wilder could see the angry, but healing, burn that marred her skin, the wound still raw in places. With a practiced hand, she slathered the salve generously over the burn. It was a rough, quick motion, and when she was done, she looked up at him.

"Danger of the job," she said with a matter-of-fact tone, almost as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. "Thank Frode for me."

Wilder nodded, taking in the sight of the burn as she wrapped her arm back up. "I will," he said.

There was a brief silence before the blacksmith asked, "Are you Anders’s husband?"

The question caught him off guard, and he flinched involuntarily. Disa had advised him to pretend, both for Anders’s honor and safety. He had planned to keep up the ruse, but the reality of it hit him harder than he expected. The weight of the lie made his stomach twist. He swallowed hard and nodded, murmuring, "Yes, I am."

She studied him carefully, her gaze sharp, as if she were trying to read his very thoughts. After a long moment, she spoke again. "You're very newly married, aren't you? It takes some time to adjust. You’re new to this place, too, and living with Anders must be difficult."

Wilder’s heart ached, but his voice was firm, more so than he’d intended. "Anders is kind." The words came out almost too sternly, but he couldn’t let her think that Anders was anything but good and noble. He couldn’t let anyone think it was Anders who was at fault for what had happened. It was Wilder who had been the problem.

The blacksmith raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Oh, I don’t doubt that. But he’s very quiet, isn’t he?"

Wilder’s mind wandered briefly to the memories of Anders—the way he had drawn in the dirt with a stick, the quiet conversations they'd had as they worked side by side, the moments of gentleness between them. A slow smile touched his lips. "No," he said, his voice suddenly more certain than before. "He always talks. I just didn’t know how to listen."

The blacksmith seemed to consider this for a moment before offering him a slight nod. "I see. Well, thank you for the salve. I’ll let Frode know it worked." With that, she turned back to her work, leaving Wilder to gather his thoughts.

Wilder’s heart was still heavy with the weight of his words. He had wanted to say more, wanted to explain that the hardest part of living with Anders hadn’t been Anders himself, but Wilder’s own fear and misunderstanding of the kind of husband he needed to be. But now, it was all he could do to walk away, leaving the blacksmith to her work and his thoughts to stew.

As he left the blacksmith's forge, he was so caught up in his thoughts that he wasn’t paying attention to where he was going. He walked straight into someone—strong, solid—and looked up, startled.

"Pardon me, I—oh, Disa," he said, recognizing her immediately.

Disa grinned down at him, her arms crossed, standing with an air of authority. "Well, hello, Wilder! What are you doing out and about?"

He held up the basket, explaining, "Helping Frode with his work. I have three more people to visit."

Disa raised an eyebrow, studying him for a moment. Then, with a small smirk, she said, "You’re a right conversationalist, now."

Wilder felt his cheeks warm slightly at her teasing. "Frode taught me," he muttered.

Disa raised both eyebrows. "It’s only been a week!"

Wilder shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "I didn’t have much else to do. Either I sulked in bed or learned the language and some medicine." His words were matter-of-fact, though there was an undercurrent of something else in his voice—an acknowledgment of how difficult this transition had been.

"A good thing, too," Disa said, smiling broadly. "Because I want to talk with you."

Wilder frowned slightly, not sure what to expect. "My work—"

"I’ll come with you!" Disa interrupted, her eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. "I can show you where everyone lives, and we can talk as we walk. I’m really curious about you."

Though Wilder hesitated, something in her energy made it impossible to refuse. So, together they walked through the village, Disa introducing Wilder to each person they met with a great smile and a hearty "This is Anders’s husband!" She wasn’t shy about the title, and as they moved from house to house, she peppered Wilder with questions about himself.

"What did you do at your monastery?" she asked, glancing over at him curiously.

Wilder took a deep breath, considering how to explain. "I was a novice. A novice does everything that others do not want to do. I took care of the laundry, the cleaning, the cooking, and the animals. But sometimes I got to read," he added, thinking fondly of the scriptorium back at the monastery. He struggled for a moment, trying to find the right word. "A place with books and scrolls. I stayed there to read."

Disa’s eyes widened slightly, clearly intrigued. "You enjoy reading?"

"Yes, I like learning things," he replied simply, glad that he could at least explain that much.

"More things than language and medicine?" she asked, a teasing note in her voice.

Wilder laughed, shaking his head. "Yes. Anything, everything. I love to learn."

Disa grinned. "You’ll learn a lot, Wilder. You’re still quite young, aren’t you?"

Wilder was momentarily taken aback by the question, but he quickly added, "I am twenty-two."

"Ah, I remember when I was that age," she said, looking a little nostalgic. "I’d been in three battles—well, one more of a skirmish—and I’d had a tumble with a shepherd. Nice, strong legs." She stared off into the distance for a moment, clearly lost in that memory.

Wilder blinked, unsure of what to make of the last part. But he didn’t linger on it for long. "But you’re still a warrior," he said, trying to understand her position.

She gave him a knowing look. "I don’t need to give up my sword for every handsome man I want to bed." She winked at him, and Wilder wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or amused.

They continued walking, and after a while, Disa’s tone shifted. "What do you do when someone wants to marry?" she asked curiously.

Wilder frowned, trying to find the right words. "I don’t understand," he admitted.

"You know," Disa said, tapping her fingers on her chin, "when someone wants to marry, what’s proper? What’s the tradition?"

Wilder’s face flushed slightly. He didn’t know the words for courtship, or any of the customs related to marriage. He stumbled through his explanation, "Spending time with your—" he hesitated, then continued, "Your friend. And exchanging gifts. Flowers, food, and, um, jewelry."

Disa seemed satisfied with this answer, though her eyes narrowed a bit. "He did that, though. Anders did." There was something in her voice that made Wilder uncomfortable, as if she were testing him.

"It is before marriage," Wilder clarified. "To know if you want to marry."

"I see," Disa said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "Do you also have a ceremony?"

"Yes? You do as well? You give the sword?"

"No!" Disa laughed, shaking her head. "That’s more like the intention. You’ve entered into the marriage, but it’s not really official until you have the ceremony. Everyone gets to see you become one."

Wilder smiled, relieved that they shared that much in common. "Oh, yes. We have that, too."

Disa let out a sigh of relief. "Some things aren’t so different, then. That’s good."

Before he could respond, she clapped him on the back with a grin. "Where are we going next?"

Wilder held the basket close to his chest, the weight of it now feeling more significant. Inside, the parcel containing the rosehip mead, the flatbread, and the apples, all wrapped in cloth and tied with a bow, was a symbol of his apology, of his thoughts for Anders. "Please give this to Anders," he asked, suddenly feeling shy and unsure of himself.

"From Frode?" Disa asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No," Wilder replied, his voice small now. "From me."

Disa studied him for a moment, then gave him a knowing nod. "I see. Then I’ll take this to him. Let him know you’re thinking of him."

Before Wilder could even muster a "thank you," Disa had winked at him and was off, her stride confident as she took the basket and made her way to Anders.

◆◆◆

The next day, Wilder found himself reluctantly obeying Frode's suggestion to explore the town on his own. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get to know the village better; it was just that it felt strange, walking alone without any immediate purpose. But Frode had insisted, and Wilder wasn’t one to ignore the healer’s advice. So, he wandered through the cobbled streets, unsure of where he was headed, but trying to absorb everything around him.

The early morning air was fresh, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, and the townspeople were already up and about, shaking off the last remnants of sleep. The ships were docked at the harbor, their masts swaying gently in the breeze, while fishermen rowed out into the water, their boats bobbing like little toys in the early morning light. Everywhere he looked, there was a sense of purpose: merchants setting up their stalls, shopkeepers sweeping the dirt from their doorways, women carrying baskets of vegetables to the market, and the rich smells of breakfast cooking on every corner—fried fish, sizzling oil, freshly baked bread, and the earthy scent of vegetables being tossed in the pan.

Wilder smiled at a few people who nodded in passing, returning their greetings with a hesitant wave. The conversations around him buzzed in a language he barely understood, and yet, it felt like a small victory each time he managed to catch a word here and there. It was one thing to talk to Frode's patients, where the interaction was transactional and necessary, but it was an entirely different challenge to greet someone on his own, when he could only just manage to cobble together a conversation. The language was still a barrier, but it was one he was determined to overcome.

As he walked further, he drifted toward the edge of the town, where the forest began to rise in towering shadows. The trees stood like sentinels, their dark, heavy trunks disappearing into the mist that hung low over the ground. Wilder stopped, his gaze drawn to the thick undergrowth, the tangled vines and wild foliage that seemed to reach out toward him. He stood there for a long moment, lost in the quiet of the forest, trying to recall the path to Anders's home. The memory of it—of the small house tucked away in the trees, the scent of the garden, and the soft, familiar sounds of the animals—felt like a distant dream now.

Had Disa delivered his gift to Anders? Was he eating well? Was the garden still tended to, and was Avery still running around, causing chaos as always? Wilder’s thoughts turned to the animals—his heart pinched as he wondered about the goats. Had Anders been able to handle them on his own? His mind flickered back to his belongings, wondering if they had been discarded in the wake of his departure. His bed of furs, his blue tunic, his knife, his lovely comb... He had no real right to any of it now. But the thought of those items, reminders of the life he had tried to build with Anders, made him ache.

What if Anders had gotten rid of everything, let the goats run wild in the garden, and moved on? The idea left a bitter taste in his mouth, though it quickly dissipated into something more unsettling. What if Anders found someone else? Wilder frowned at the thought. If that happened, he could only hope the man would understand the importance of the garden, of caring for Avery and the goats, and appreciate all that Anders had done. It was a selfish hope, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. His mood soured, and he turned away from the forest, walking back toward the bustle of the village with a quiet huff. He had no intention of lingering on those thoughts for too long.

The town was much more alive now, as people filled the streets, and the noise of their chatter grew louder. The scent of bread baking in the ovens and the calls of vendors hawking their goods surrounded him, and Wilder pushed through the crowd, eager to escape into the quiet of Frode’s apothecary. He needed to focus on something else, something that didn’t involve Anders or his unspoken regrets. Maybe he could find a book or some new herb to study.

As he neared the blacksmith’s shop, a voice broke through his thoughts.

"What's Anders’s pretty little husband doing here?"

Wilder froze, his chest tightening as he recognized the voices. He glanced up to see a group of men standing near the blacksmith’s shop, their faces leering and cruel. They were the same ones who had come to Anders’s house, trying to take advantage of his hospitality. The thought made his stomach turn.

"Didn’t you hear?" one of them continued, his voice dripping with mockery. "He’s at the healer’s place now. Been there for a week or so."

Wilder’s teeth ground together. "Now we know a husband has to be more than kind, don’t we?" another one chimed in, the group snickering behind him.

Recognition dawned on Wilder, and he scowled, clenching his fists. He turned toward them, ready to deliver a retort when Harald, the one with the cold blue eyes and a permanent sneer on his face, called out to him. "Want to come home with me? I’ll be sure to keep you warm at night!"

The audacity, the vulgarity of it, left Wilder momentarily speechless. How brazen they were—talking like this so publicly, with no regard for decency. He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks, his anger flaring.

"You are braver when Anders isn’t around," Wilder snapped, meeting Harald’s mocking gaze. He pointed at his jaw. "How’s your face? Still sore from where I hit you?"

Harald’s expression darkened at the reminder of their last encounter. He shoved past his companions, a fire igniting in his eyes as he approached Wilder. With a threatening glare, he stood toe-to-toe with him in the middle of the street.

"You were prettier when you didn’t have such a smart mouth," Harald growled, his voice low and threatening.

Wilder’s eyes narrowed, and his resolve hardened. He didn’t care what Harald thought of him, not really. But he wouldn’t stand by and let the man disrespect Anders. Not now, not after everything. "Anders is a good man," Wilder said, his voice steady despite the simmering fury in his chest. "Do not speak of him so."

Harald sneered, his lips curling. "Oh? If he’s so good, why aren’t you keeping him company?"

Wilder crossed his arms, shrugging with nonchalance, though he felt the blush creeping up his neck. "We argued," he said, his voice awkward but firm. "That—that’s all."

Harald’s eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to retort, but whatever words he had planned to say were lost when a shadow fell over them. The sneer on Harald’s face faltered as his eyes flickered to the figure approaching.

Wilder didn’t even need to look up. He felt the large hand settle gently over his own, a warm, familiar touch that made his heart leap in his chest.

He turned and saw Anders standing behind him, his eyes wide, a hopeful expression on his face. Wilder’s breath caught in his throat, and everything around him seemed to fade away—the bustling town, the laughter of the men, even the humiliation of the argument with Harald.

"Anders!" Wilder gasped, his heart filling with so much joy that it almost overwhelmed him. "You're here! Did you get my gift? Did you like it?" He had been so excited to see him that the words spilled out in his own language before he even realized it. When he noticed the puzzled look on Anders’s face, he corrected himself quickly. "Sorry. Did you like the bread and apples? The—the mead?"

Anders’s smile was hesitant, but it reached his eyes. He nodded, the faintest flush creeping onto his cheeks. In his other hand, he held a bouquet of wildflowers—blue and purple blossoms, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the surrounding earth tones of the village. His arm trembled slightly as he offered them to Wilder, his gaze soft and filled with something that Wilder couldn’t quite place.

The townspeople who had been watching the exchange saw it for what it was—a public gesture of reconciliation, of a husband’s apology for whatever disagreement they had had. But to Wilder, it meant so much more than that.

This was courtship, as Wilder understood it.

Anders was starting from scratch. But this time, Wilder was ready.