10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Silvyr

With Ghizol nearly in sight, tucked into the side of the Amesisle mountain range, Silvyr struggled to feel regret for what he had done.

Everything should have repulsed him. He should feel some kind of shame for giving himself over without any kind of resistance. He hadn't even put up a fight, he gave in so easily. All it took was a few commanding words and he melted. Any resolve he might have had disappeared into the night air, replaced with a burning desire that he had been trying to suppress ever since he saw the chief.

He should regret it, but he didn't.

Every minute of it, every harsh word and rough touch, every cruel tease and bruising grip, set him alight like he'd never felt before.

Of course, he had lovers in the past, fleeting flings that meant nothing to him, and nothing to them, just a way to pass the time. The men and women he slept with knew that. They never got attached, and neither did Silvyr. He enjoyed his time, and moved on without a worry, rarely sleeping with the same person twice.

Yet now, he craved another night of that sweet torment. Even though his body sang with aches, he also felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. Months. Possibly years. What would be thought of him? Giving himself so willingly to his captor. Begging for him. He knew he wouldn't take a single word back. He didn't want to. For once he craved something and received so much more, and the idea of letting that go seemed a waste. Foolish as he was, he wanted that again.

Sitting on Brokil's horse with the chief's arms around him to hold the reins, Silvyr let himself press back against him for the first time. He had been given one of Brokil's shirts after his had been so unceremoniously ruined. It looked more of a shapeless gown on him, the size too large and the wide collar slumping down one shoulder, but he made due, using the ribbon he normally used for his hair to cinch the fabric at the waist.

In an attempt to cover himself more, Silvyr pulled his hair over his bare shoulder, passing the time by twisting the strands into a braid, combing his fingers through it, then starting over again. He tried not to think of the orc pressed against him or the memories his presence brought up. Tried not to think of Brokil's gaze trailing down the back of his neck or the knobs of his spine. It was silly, Brokil had seen far more than the back of Silvyr's neck, but the thought still brought heat to his cheeks as he twisted another braid into his hair.

When finally they crossed through the mountain pass, Silvyr leaned forward to get a better view of their promised destination, shock echoing in his bones as he realized just how much he'd been misled.

This was not a township.

A city would be a better word for the size of the settlement. Buildings littered the landscape, some made of wood and circled around fire pits like the orc camps, others made of stone and carved straight into the mountain itself. The largest fire pit was built into a courtyard in the center of Ghizol, the rest of the city looking to bloom outwards from the circular structure until buildings were replaced with farmland, then farmland with meadows.

It looked peaceful.

Father never mentioned any of this to Silvyr. All he ever spoke of was conquest and how the Amesisle orcs plotted to wage war. He never spoke of the rolling hills and wide valleys surrounding the settlement. He never spoke of how great fields of greenery surrounded Ghizol, and how the stone against the mountains shimmered in the warm sunlight through clear blue skies.

"Would you believe me if I told you that this place is beautiful?" Silvyr asked as they passed through rows of blooming trees, fighting the urge to reach out to grab a few blossoms.

Behind him, Brokil chuckled, his chest rumbling pleasantly. "What did you think it would be like?"

"I will not answer, for I was only informed by my father. You can imagine what he said," Silvyr replied, looking at Brokil over his shoulder. He caught the endings of a half-smile before he turned back as they descended into the valley.

The sound of hoofbeats approached from behind, and Salthu came up beside them to match their pace. "Shall I ride ahead to inform the Elders of our arrival?" she asked, a familiar scowl on her face.

Silvyr quickly turned his head away and kept his gaze firmly ahead of him, gripping the horn of the saddle.

"Yes. Tell them that I'll meet with them shortly. I need to put the boy in his lodgings," Brokil answered simply.

"And you're still insisting on keeping him in your home?" Salthu didn't sound all too pleased, and Silvyr had to look to the other side to keep her from seeing any hint of a smile on his face.

Gods, he was a fool. The first day he had been taken, the idea of remaining with the chief as his ward was unthinkable. Torturous even. Even when he felt that staying in his grasp would give him his best shot at surviving and finding a way to escape like Father would want, he hated the idea of it.

Yet now, the thought of staying with him, and the potential of another night like before, made his stomach flip. Perhaps, foolish as it was, it wouldn't be so miserable remaining with the chief.

"I am. I would ensure he doesn't escape, and that he returns home unmolested as we promised." Brokil's voice held a sharp edge, as though challenging Salthu to question him.

"Of course. Underneath the Council Chamber would be much safer. None would see him there and there would be no exit. Your home has many." Salthu didn't sound convinced, but Silvyr's heart fluttered at the promise of several ways to leave. If he continued to lull Brokil into a false sense of security, he could find a way out like Father would demand of him.

"Underneath the Council Chamber would be much safer," Salthu said, not sounding convinced of Brokil's argument. "None would see him there, and there would be no exit, whereas your home has many."

Silvyr's heart fluttered at the information, at the possibilities of escape.

"I'm aware of our options," Brokil didn't hesitate to say. "I have made my decision."

He left no room for questioning. The conversation was over. Salthu said nothing else and kicked her horse forward, trotting ahead to Ghizol.

Silvyr turned his gaze to Brokil's hands on the reins, watching his fingers slowly relax their grip. Stupidly, he wanted to reach out and place his hand over the chief's. It would be too far. They were not lovers, nor close. Crossing that line would not help him. Still, the thought was there.

Silvyr let his mind wander to what Salthu said about the Council Chamber. It sounded miserable, though he would have expected as much. No one around him, no way to leave, no hope. Could he still end up beneath the Chamber like Salthu wanted so badly for him?

"Brokil," Silvyr began, his voice weaker than he meant it and he forced himself to straighten up, clearing his throat. "What's underneath the Council Chamber?"

Again, Brokil's hands tightened on the reins. "You're not going there, so it's none of your concern," he answered, leaving Silvyr completely dissatisfied.

"Can you say for a fact that I will never go down there? No matter the circumstance?" he asked, chancing a look at Brokil over his shoulder.

Brokil inhaled deeply, letting his eyes fall to Silvyr's. He hesitated for only a moment before looking back to the road. "No, I cannot."

There was no lie in the orc's voice, and it churched Silvyr's stomach despite himself.

"Then I would like to know what it is," Silvyr decided. "If there's even the smallest chance that I'll be put there… I just need to know."

Silence filled the air. Nothing but the clopping of hooves surrounded them as they passed through the outer farmland of the city. It appeared Brokil wouldn't answer him, and Silvyr wanted to laugh at himself for being such a fool.

Why did he think that just because Brokil fucked him that suddenly he would take Silvyr's feelings into consideration? All it succeeded in doing was put Silvyr further beneath the chief, which had to have been Brokil's intention. Nothing else made sense. He might have asked again, demanded an answer to soothe his nerves, but when they moved further into Ghizol, the whooping and cheering began, drowning out any words Silvyr might have spoken. People gathered in the streets, shouting and hollering as the troops passed them by, though Silvyr couldn't tell if they cheered for Brokil, or for the prize he brought home with him.

Brokil broke off from the rest of his troop once they reached the edge of the city proper, and through force of habit Silvyr tried to memorize the path they took, though he kept finding himself distracted by the birdsong and the faint smell of metal. It was an odd combination that Silvyr hadn't experienced before, but it was somehow pleasant.

As they moved through the city, weaving through buildings and closer to the side of the mountain, Silvyr took note of the people around them. Every single one of them stared, and he found himself suddenly self-conscious. Wearing one of Brokil's shirt probably didn't send the right message either, and he wished he still had his own silks, ruined as they were. At least if he wore them, there would be no room for conspiracy, even if the conspiracy was correct.

Finally, they reached what Silvyr assumed to be Brokil's home. Carved into the mountain, it looked quite small compared to the others, and certainly compared to his station, but it seemed to fit him. Brokil was a man of few needs, a small home seemed right.

Even the exterior was plain, though it was beautifully carved, rivaling the artistry Silvyr had seen throughout his many travels. The carvings were intricate, though distinctly orcish in nature, consisting of hard, straight lines and perfectly detailed designs. The delicate complexity was something even the best elvish craftsmen struggled with, so to see it decorating an orcish home, spare from any other decor, was rather shocking to say the least. Brokil slid off the horse and took Silvyr's hand to help him down. Silvyr's legs trembled when they hit the ground, and he nearly stumbled. A day of riding after how rough Brokil handled him the night before made him ache like he'd never experienced before.

"This is yours?" Silvyr asked, though it sounded more like a statement.

Brokil left his side, tying off his horse to the post at the front of the home. "It is. Come on," he said, grabbing Silvyr's arm to lead him to the door.

Once inside, Silvyr was met with darkness until Brokil drew the curtains, letting sunlight illuminate the home. He almost laughed at how plain it was. He didn't know why he thought Brokil might actually be a collector in his own home, but a quick glance around showed very little aside from necessities. Small and simple as it was, it was a welcome change from the tent, or even the carriage. More importantly, it was uniquely and undeniably Brokil.

"You stay here, I need to meet with the Elders," Brokil told him, walking to a mirror along one wall. From his side pouch, he removed the jewelry that he hadn't worn since they first met, and took his time donning each piece. Silvyr decided he much preferred him without the pomp and extravagance. "I'm going to bar the door from the outside, so you cannot leave." Brokil eyed Silvyr through the mirror as he capped his tusks. "Let me make this clear, if you try to run, I will not be able to keep you from the Council Chamber dungeon. It will be out of my hands. Do you understand?"

In truth, Silvyr hadn't planned to run this time. Not yet. Not without getting his bearings and making sure the orcs were comfortable around him, at least enough to let their guard down just a little.

"I understand," Silvyr replied when Brokil turned to face him.

"Good. I'll be back," Brokil said, stepping outside and closing the door behind himself.

Scraping against the wooden door told Silvyr that the bar wasn't a bluff. He truly was locked inside with only himself for company. The fact comforted him as much as it terrified him.

Alone in the house, Silvyr removed his shoes and set them next to an extra pair of Brokil's by the front door. They were laughably small in comparison, and as he took in more of the home, he realized just how tiny he was. It was easy to forget when they were on a horse or in a tent. But now, surrounded by Brokil's belongings in a house built for people as large as the orc, it felt almost whimsical. Like a new world where everything was just slightly too big for Silvyr.

Taking it upon himself to explore, and having been given no instructions otherwise, Silvyr stepped further into the home.

Just as he suspected, every room he found was minimally decorated, containing only what was needed.

The cooking area held a few pots and pans, shelves filled with spices, and a pantry of dried and jarred foods. The counter rested just under Silvyr's chest, though he imagined it would be fairly comfortable for the orc. He prodded around the rest of the kitchen, finding only a handful of dishware and cleaning supplies, as well as a bucket of cooking knives in one of the cabinets.

His stomach twisted at the sight of them, fingers twitching with indecision. Father would have wanted him to use them to his advantage, to snatch one up and use it against the chief the first chance he got. The thought was unthinkable. Silvyr would likely end up hurting himself more than the chief in the end. He decided to leave them where they were, determined to ignore them as he continued exploring.

There was a washing basin in a corner that had nothing inside it, but the shelving around it held a few towels and jars of soaps and oils. One by one, he picked up the bottles to sniff. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he was met with the scent of leathers and pine, a few of the soaps scented like burnt wood. Fitting for the orc, he thought as he placed the bottles back and ran a finger around the stone basin. Silvyr had to admit that the idea of a hot bath excited him more than just about anything, and he made a note that he would have to ask Brokil when he'd be able to bathe.

The living space connected to the cooking area, and again it was incredibly simple. Silvyr stepped onto a plush fur rug, soft beneath his feet and the only thing that didn't seem to fit in the space. In front of the rug was a fireplace that had been carved directly into the mountain, empty of soot and wood, but the well-worn fire utensils and stack of logs beside it told him that Brokil must have cleaned it thoroughly before leaving on his campaign to collect Silvyr. Imagining the cold nights on the rug with the fireplace roaring sent chills through him, and a part of him wondered if this place felt more comfortable than the home he was stolen from.

The only room that had been separated from the open floor plan was Brokil's bed chambers, and when Silvyr stepped inside, he let out a low laugh. Gods, the man was predictable. The room contained only his bed, carved of wood with several blankets, a desk that held no items other than a quill and ink pot, a wooden cabinet for clothing, and another small fur rug on the floor. Everything was so bare and simple.

Everything except for the one thing that pulled all of Silvyr's attention. A bookshelf.

It was tucked against the far wall of the bedroom, containing a simple, yet well-loved, collection of cloth bound tomes. Miniscule compared to the libraries back home, yet it was as valuable as treasure in Silvyr's eyes.

He plucked book after book off the shelf, most of which he'd never read before, and thumbed through the pages before excitedly settling on a red one filled with floral illustrations and notes of text to accompany them.

Taking the book with him and settling onto the rug in front of the fireplace, Silvyr crossed his legs beneath himself and flipped eagerly to the first page. The pages crinkled, speaking to their age and the amount of time it'd been since they were last used. Silvyr smiled to himself, glad to be the one to break the book free of its solitude.

Silvyr frowned when he found no title or author's name within the tome. It was odd, but he supposed he shouldn't complain. Had there been something to indicate where the book came from, he might have requested it for their library when he returned home.

Each page carried a masterfully painted image of various flowers, accompanied by an elegant script on the opposite page describing each one. When Silvyr ran his fingertips over the images, he realized that each image was hand painted directly into the book. Despite the apparent age of the book, the colors were still so vibrant, such beautiful hues of every shade he could think of, complimenting the flowers and script perfectly. The concept of a printing press was fairly new, but Athowen certainly had access to them, so seeing a book crafted completely by hand filled Silvyr with a strange sensation of awe.

It felt almost as if this book wasn't meant for him. Like a secret hidden away from prying eyes, even though it'd been amongst all the rest of the tomes on the shelf. Before he knew it, he had made it through half of the book, fascinated as he read through what looked like personal field notes about each flower. Carefully painted depictions, their dangers and colors, the best way to collect them, even their scents and stains. He devoured the information, losing all track of time as he shifted to lay on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows.

While reading through a section on creating a powder out of clustered bellflowers, the scraping of wood on wood signaled Brokil's return. Silvyr turned just in time to watch Brokil step through the door, looking more exhausted than he had the entire journey to Ghizol. It surprised him, as Silvyr had grown used to the hardened chief he'd seen every day, and he couldn't help but wonder if Brokil's hard disposition was an act.

Silvyr knew better than most how exhausting it was if that were the case.

"You didn't run." Brokil sounded surprised, closing the door and removing his shoes to set them by the door.

"I told you I wouldn't," Silvyr said, shifting back to his knees.

Brokil looked him over, glancing at the book on the rug, and for a terrifying moment, Silvyr feared he would take it away and forbid him from reading at all. Mercifully, Brokil said nothing about it and returned to the mirror to remove his jewelry.

Silvyr watched him, seeing the exhaustion weigh heavy in his reflection. It was brief and fleeting, but he saw it, and some stupid, horrible part of him felt his own stomach drop at the sight. In pity? Sympathy? Fear? He wasn't sure. He could only watch as the chief set each piece of jewelry into a small wooden box, simple in design with only a single latch to keep it shut. Setting it aside, Brokil removed the leather around his head and turned to Silvyr.

"We've made a decision," Brokil said, walking to the rug and sitting down across from him with a grunt.

"What was the decision?" Silvyr asked, hoping Brokil couldn't hear how his heart pounded in his chest. "I thought you already made it?"

He didn't need Brokil to clarify what decision was being made, he knew. He knew there were still questions about where Silvyr would be staying, what would happen to him regardless of where he was, and how he may never return to Athowen.

"You will remain in my home," Brokil told him, and Silvyr's shoulders dropped. He hadn't realized how tense he had been. "In a few days, depending on your behavior, you may be allowed outside under supervision. My supervision."

"That seems… Generous," Silvyr said slowly. He almost didn't believe it. "I have no doubt it was not unanimous."

Brokil chuckled under his breath. "It was not. Not at all. But in the end, it is my decision as chief, and your good behavior helped."

Silvyr raised his eyebrows. "Even though I tried to run the first day?"

"Even so. If you continue to behave yourself, I see no reason why you can't see the sunlight."

"Behave myself." Silvyr crossed his legs underneath himself. "Well, you'll have to find a way to keep me entertained then. As exciting as it had been on horseback every day, now that we're in one place, I am liable to fits of bored madness."

It was a fair warning. Silvyr knew himself well, and there were only so many things he could do to keep himself busy and not let himself fall into a boredom that would overwhelm him.

Brokil snorted and set his chin in his hand, resting his elbow on his knee, a predatory grin spreading across his lips. "Is that so? I'll have to see for myself. You'll have to excuse me for not believing you aren't a flight risk just because you moaned so prettily on my fingers last night."

Brokil's smirk darkened into something predatory, and Silvyr's cheeks flared with heat. "Do you have to be so lewd?" he asked, hurriedly looking out the window to the setting sun. Brokil only laughed.

If that man continued to poke and prod, fits of boredom induced madness would be the least of his issues.