Chapter Nine

Wilder had never actually received flowers before. Courtship, a subject deeply tied to human emotions, had always been a foreign concept to him. Raised among the stoic monks who had little patience for the whims of the flesh, he had heard the topic spoken of with distaste by the older, more disciplined brothers and with longing by the younger ones, who often whispered of what they had never allowed themselves to have. Wilder had learned that some men could suppress their worldly desires, while others, despite their vows, still yearned for the touch of a lover. He had heard of those who, when the chance arose, would sneak into the town to seek out companionship from someone who had no tonsure.

Though courtship and love had been subjects of scholarly discussion in the abbey, they were always secondary to the more sacred matters of the faith. Letters, sweet words, and gifts like jewels, silks, and flowers were tokens that Wilder had only ever read about or heard spoken of, never experienced firsthand. Love itself, with its pleasures and agonies, was as distant and abstract as the wild creatures he'd read about in bestiaries. He understood it intellectually, but emotionally, it was something alien, a concept he could never quite grasp.

And now, here he was, standing in the middle of the street, cradling a bouquet of blue and purple flowers in his arms, each bloom more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. The petals were so delicate, each one perfectly arranged, a picture of nature's grace. The scent was fresh and sweet, carrying with it hints of pollen and earth, a reminder of the fertile soil from which they had sprung. Wilder's fingers brushed over the blossoms, and he couldn’t stop the smile that stretched across his face. This was it. This was what it meant to be someone’s beloved.

"Thank you, Anders," he said softly, breathing in the fragrance. The flowers felt like something sacred in his hands, a tangible manifestation of Anders's feelings for him. "I like them very much."

Anders’s expression softened as he took in Wilder’s words. It wasn’t the hesitant, uncertain smile that Wilder had come to know, but a broad, open grin that lit up his face. For a moment, the ruggedness of Anders’s features faded, and Wilder saw a man who looked younger, gentler—who looked at peace. It was as if all the harsh years of struggle, of being a warrior, of facing life with a sword in hand, had been shed with this simple act. In that moment, Wilder saw Anders as he truly was: a man not defined by his past, but by his desire to be loved, to be seen, and to offer all of himself in return.

Wilder’s heart swelled, a mixture of awe and tenderness rushing through him. He had been so blind to this side of Anders—the side that wanted nothing more than to be close, to share moments of joy and affection. Anders had cast aside his weapon, his title as a warrior, to live as a man in love. He had not pushed Wilder, had not demanded anything from him. Instead, he had waited patiently, offering care and kindness, hoping for a sign that Wilder was happy with him, that Wilder wanted him in return.

Could Wilder give that to him now?

Blushing, Wilder bit his lower lip, feeling a sudden heat in his chest. He could. He could finally offer that much. He wanted Anders to be happy, not just content, but truly joyful. He wanted Anders to see him, to know that he was loved, just as Anders had always loved him.

Before he could voice his thoughts, the quiet moment was shattered by a sudden, unexpected sneeze. Wilder jumped in shock, his heart racing as he spun around to see Harald, standing not far behind him, wiping his nose with an exaggerated flourish. Wilder had entirely forgotten that the group of men had still been lingering near the blacksmith’s shop, watching them.

Anders’s expression immediately hardened. His soft smile vanished as he turned toward Harald, and his dark eyes narrowed with a dangerous intensity. Wilder watched in awe as a low growl rumbled from Anders’s chest, deep and menacing. It was the kind of sound that a beast might make before charging, the kind of warning that only someone who had fought battles could produce. Harald’s eyes widened, his bravado faltering for the first time since Wilder had met him.

The shift was immediate. The playful, almost bashful man that Wilder had seen moments before was gone. Anders stood taller, his body tense with the promise of violence, and Harald, recognizing the change, took a step back, stumbling into his companions in a hurried attempt to put distance between himself and the anger brewing in Anders. The other men, who had been watching with amusement, seemed to sense the change as well, retreating from the confrontation without a word.

Wilder shivered—not out of fear, but from a sudden, overwhelming realization. Anders’s fierceness, his strength, his physicality—all of it was for him. It had always been for him, if only Wilder had understood it sooner. The muscles that had been honed for battle, the strength in his arms, his thighs, and his back—all of it was meant to protect him, to shield him, and perhaps to love him with the same intensity. It was a revelation, one that made Wilder’s heart race in a completely different way.

Wilder cradled the bouquet in one arm, his other hand instinctively reaching for Anders's sleeve, pulling him gently. "Anders?" he asked, his voice soft, almost hesitant. His mouth felt dry as he spoke, the weight of the moment pressing on him. "Let us go to Frode's house."

Anders’s gaze shifted away from Harald, who was now all but forgotten, and his face softened immediately. His shoulders relaxed, and his dark eyes filled with something akin to relief, as if the tension he had carried since their argument had finally begun to dissipate. He nodded eagerly, as if he had been waiting for this moment, for this invitation. He took Wilder's hand, his fingers curling around Wilder's with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the fierceness he had just shown.

Together, they began to walk toward the edge of the market, away from the watching eyes of the townspeople. As they left, Wilder could feel the weight of the gaze on them—some curious, some approving, and others perhaps envious. The townspeople were already whispering, no doubt interpreting the scene as a typical story of a married couple who had weathered their first disagreement and were now reconciling. They would see Anders’s joy as the joy of a man who had returned to his husband's good graces. And, in a sense, they wouldn’t be wrong.

But Wilder knew the truth. The joy that radiated from Anders was not just the relief of a reconciled argument. It was the joy of a man who had been given the opportunity to court the one he loved, to offer his heart and soul, and to be accepted in return. For the first time, Wilder had chosen him—had agreed to walk this path with him. And Anders was exuding every bit of that happiness, as if his entire world had shifted into place.

The house was empty when they arrived, an almost oppressive silence hanging in the air. Wilder stepped inside, taking in the stillness, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight that filtered through the small windows. He found a note etched into a strip of bark, placed neatly on the wooden table. Frode had gone out to visit patients, which Wilder realized was, in fact, a blessing. It meant they had this rare time alone together, a chance to finally discuss—no, to explore—what had quietly been growing between them. Their relationship.

Wilder set the flowers down on the table, carefully unwrapping the bundle, and found a pitcher of water. As he arranged the blooms, his hands lingering over their soft petals, he paused and looked up at Anders. The word caught in his throat for a moment as he tried to find the right thing to say. He didn’t have the vocabulary, but he fumbled through what he knew, reaching for the word he felt best captured his feelings.

"These are—" He stopped, sorting through his thoughts, pulling out the simplest description that fit. "Wonderful."

The word felt almost insufficient, but Anders smiled, his face lighting up in the warmest way. He stepped closer, his hand reaching toward the flowers, and with a tender motion, brushed one finger against a petal. Then he pointed at the flowers, and then at Wilder, his dark eyes shimmering with something Wilder couldn't quite place. He spoke in a soft rasp that seemed to strain his throat but still carried an unmistakable reverence.

"Beautiful."

Wilder recognized the word immediately, though it wasn't just the word itself. It was how Anders said it—his tone, the care with which his lips formed the syllables. The tenderness in his voice was nothing like the hungry, predatory look Wilder had once received from Harald's companion, who had used the same word. That word had felt wrong, uncomfortable, even foreign. But Anders’s gaze, filled with admiration and awe, made the word feel like a precious gift. Wilder had done nothing to earn it, but he couldn’t deny the warmth it sparked in him. It was enthralling, intoxicating to be the object of such devotion.

He stepped closer, drawn in like a moth to the flame of Anders’s gaze. Anders’s hand cupped his cheek, his thumb tracing the line of Wilder’s jaw in a way that made his heart beat faster.

"Beautiful," Anders repeated, his voice thick with affection.

Wilder felt heat rush to his face. The word felt foreign and clumsy on his tongue, but he tried, slowly, to mirror it back to him. Anders chuckled softly at Wilder’s hesitance, his smile full of encouragement.

"Beautiful," he said again, repeating the word as if to make sure Wilder understood its weight. He then patiently corrected Wilder’s awkward attempts, breaking it down, helping him say it more clearly until Wilder could finally manage the word with some certainty.

"You are beautiful," Wilder murmured, his cheeks burning with the effort. He pressed a hand to Anders’s chest, his fingers brushing over the solid muscle beneath the fabric of his tunic. "Anders is beautiful."

Wilder hoped he was conveying everything he wanted to say—the strength, the tenderness, the kindness that Anders exuded, the way he’d treated Wilder, the animals, the world around him. It felt like the simplest words weren’t enough. He wanted to say more, to speak of Anders’s dark eyes, his broad shoulders, the way he made Wilder feel cherished in a way he hadn’t known was possible. The desire to communicate everything was almost overwhelming.

He groaned in frustration, his longing for more words, for understanding, filling him up. He wanted to know Anders better, to talk and be understood. He didn’t want this silence between them anymore.

"I want to speak with you," Wilder said, his voice tight with emotion. He felt a swell of longing—longing to be heard, to share his thoughts freely. "I want us to know one another."

Wilder’s mind drifted to the practical concerns that weighed heavily on his heart. If he was to continue learning, to continue improving his language skills with Frode, it would mean living in the town. Frode would have to take him in, devote his time and resources to teaching him, and it would be a burden for Anders to travel to see him, spending entire days walking to and from town. Wilder couldn’t ask that of either man, especially when he knew it would cause Anders physical pain to speak for long periods. The effort it took for Anders to form words, his rough, strained voice, would only make the task more difficult.

And yet, Wilder couldn’t help but want more. He couldn’t help but wish for a way to make the communication easier between them. He thought back to the time they had spent together at Anders’s home, when they had resorted to drawings and crude gestures. It hadn’t worked as well as they had hoped, mostly because their understanding of each other’s feelings and intentions had been murky. But what if there was a better way? A way that allowed them to communicate faster, more naturally.

Wilder looked up at Anders, his brow furrowing in thought. Then, almost instinctively, he raised his hand to Anders’s lips, brushing his fingers across them. They weren’t soft like the flowers, but there was something gentle about them, something tender that made Wilder’s pulse quicken.

Anders’s lips were warm, a contrast to the coolness of Wilder’s fingertips, and he felt Anders’s smile as his skin touched them. A realization hit Wilder—there was a way for them to communicate without using their voices. A language of gestures, of signs, one of their own making, could fill the silence between them. Wilder was no longer content to wait for spoken words.

He tapped his fingers lightly against Anders’s lips, then held his hand up and mimed a gesture. "Like this—let us talk like this. We can learn together."

Anders tilted his head, his expression puzzled, as if trying to figure out what Wilder meant. Wilder, as always, was struck by the way Anders looked so endearing when confused, like a large puppy unsure of how to respond. It was a tenderness that made Wilder’s heart ache.

Wilder quickly pulled away from Anders, who let out a soft noise of displeasure at the distance. He grabbed a round loaf of bread from the table, holding it up and tapping his chest with it. "Bread," he said aloud, feeling slightly embarrassed by his efforts.

He then repeated the gesture with Anders, tapping Anders’s chest with the bread and saying the word again, this time in Anders’s language.

Anders blinked at him, confusion still in his eyes, but Wilder noticed the slight narrowing of Anders’s gaze, a flicker of recognition. Slowly, Anders nodded, though his brow was still furrowed. They had established the word for bread, but Wilder could sense there was something more—something they hadn’t quite bridged yet. Wilder placed the loaf back down on the table and made a circle with his hands, his thumbs and index fingers forming a ring. "Bread," he said again, looking to Anders for understanding.

A spark of realization flashed in Anders’s eyes. He reached for a plate, holding it up as if to show he understood. Wilder smiled. They had done it. They had bridged the gap between them, if only for a moment. Each new word, each new gesture brought them closer to understanding. And with each new word, their excitement grew, that shared joy of discovery.

They continued like this, finding words for everything—fish, water, honey, tunic, knife—each word, each gesture, another thread woven into the fabric of their relationship. With the combination of their two spoken languages and the language they would create with their hands, they could build something of their own. Wilder felt the promise of something new between them, something real.

Then, as they reached the body parts—hands, ears, nose, eyes—Wilder found himself focusing on the mouth and lips. He traced his finger gently over Anders’s lips, feeling the heat rise between them. It wasn’t just a casual touch anymore. As Anders’s hands moved to Wilder’s hips, pulling him closer, Wilder realized how intimately they were touching. His breath caught in his throat, and his body responded to the warmth of Anders’s hands, the strength in his touch.

But they were in Frode’s house. This wasn’t the place for such intimate gestures. Wilder pulled back slightly, panting as he murmured, "Anders—not here. We should return home."

Anders stilled, staring at him, as if processing the request. Wilder repeated himself, his voice thick with the pull of desire and the knowledge that what they were doing, what they were feeling, was still new, still fragile.

"We will go home," Wilder said, his voice soft but firm.

Before he could say more, Anders acted. He laughed—a deep, rumbling sound full of warmth and mischief—and in one swift motion, he scooped Wilder up, spinning him around with ease. Wilder let out a surprised yelp, the world spinning with Anders’s laughter, his joy, as they tumbled into something more than words, into something he was finally ready to explore.