11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Brokil

Preparing for a meeting with the Elders would be a lot easier if that damn elf wasn't staring at him the entire time.

While Brokil put his jewelry on, carefully placing each gold piece and adjusting the ceremonial garb, he could plainly see the elf watching him in the mirror. The boy thought he was sneaky, looking away each time Brokil's eyes landed on him, pretending to read whatever book he'd selected for the day. It was an annoyance, but a small one, so Brokil didn't bring attention to it. At least he was being quiet and keeping himself out of the way for the time being.

Admittedly, Brokil had worried that keeping the prince in his home would be disastrous. Barring the door was a precaution to keep the elf inside, but there was little he could do for the windows, and with him being out for the day, there was no telling what Silvyr would get up to. To his surprise, however, the elf made no attempts to escape these past couple days, and seemed to be good at keeping himself entertained.

Part of him considered leaving the door unbarred today, just to see what might happen, but he knew better than to give into the thought. He couldn't let himself slack off. Threat of the dungeons below the Council Chamber seemed to keep the elf well enough afraid, but Brokil refused to let Silvyr see him letting his guard down.

"Do you always have to get dressed up for your meetings?" Silvyr asked from the rug when Brokil finally finished with all the damn jewelry and moved to put on his sandals. The elf stared up at him from the floor, the book in his lap opened halfway, though Brokil couldn't tell which it was.

"Yes. Traditions to uphold," Brokil answered as he tied the straps of his sandals.

The elf hummed, leaning back on his hands and stifling a yawn. "Makes sense."

"I'll be gone for a while. I'm barring the door."

"I figured." Silvyr said, shrugging slightly before going back to his book.

With nothing else to say, Brokil stepped through the threshold and set the bar like he promised. It was an annoying procedure, but a necessary one, and within a few minutes he was on his way down the path that led to the further outskirts of Ghizol proper.

As he passed by the various homesteads on the outskirts of the city, Brokil took his time to return each greeting given to him by the early risers already tending to their lands. Normally, he would like to stop and converse with them, ask how they were faring and how their farms or stock were doing, but this time they would have to settle for a brief acknowledgement as he passed. None seemed too put out by it, knowing as well as he did that there wasn't time to linger with his neighbors. There were too many important things to do, too many plans to make and people to talk to.

He had left home earlier than he'd needed to this morning, earlier than he normally would. If he was only meeting with the Elders, he might have taken his time getting ready, perhaps had a conversation with the elf before he left. Instead, he took a turn and trekked down a well-worn path away from the city. The buildings slowly faded away, turning into lush meadows that eventually bled into the forests surrounding Ghizol. The sounds of the city waking up morphed into birdsong and rustling leaves.

Out here, he was fully alone, just like he wanted to be. The only other person who ever joined him in this place was his mother, but even she preferred to remain home for her grief. He didn't fault her for it of course. She had her way of doing things, and it suited her well. This, however, suited Brokil.

Following the path of flattened grass from his many trips here, he reached his destination.

Tucked up against the mountains and obscured slightly by long grass and scattered wildflowers, stood a large boulder with a rounded grave rock leaned against it. The stone itself wasn't much, barely the size of Brokil's head, with the name ‘Thrakil' carved in crude letters along the flat edge. Brokil never claimed to be an artisan, but the stone was more than his father would have asked for anyway, considering no body nor grave lay beneath it.

That man wouldn't have been able to bring himself to ask for a grave marker at all if he'd had the choice. He would have found it to be a waste of time and energy. Time and energy that could have been better spent elsewhere for Ghizol and her people. He would have preferred to be remembered by his actions and the stories he left behind. But Brokil was fine being selfish for this, and he was sure his father would forgive him for it.

Reaching the end of the path, Brokil knelt before the stone, wiping away the dirt and flora that gathered atop it during the time he was gone.

"We got him," Brokil said to the grave, resting his hands on his thighs as he allowed himself to get comfortable, to let the hardened mask of Chief slip from his face for even a brief moment. "Our plan is going exactly as it should. The elf is being held in my home right now, and the Elders will be informed today of the prince's capture."

His father didn't speak back, of course, but Brokil found he didn't need him to. Speaking to the stone, while not practical and or necessary, made him feel better about his decisions as chief.

It was awkward at first, and still was at times, speaking to the air, but it also felt as if he were speaking to his father once again. Felt as if his father was listening from beyond and offering him guidance through an open ear, rather than words. He'd always been good at that when he was alive, letting Brokil talk and talk and talk, until he figured out the solution to his own problem.

"See? You knew the answer all along."

"It took me an entire rant to figure it out, father."

"And yet, you found your answer. You had it the entire time, you only needed to follow the path there."

Thrakil had been like that Brokil's entire life—guiding him through thinking and learning, rather than giving answers directly. A trait that not only made him a strong father, but also one of Ghizol's strongest and most respected chiefs.

Brokil could only hope to be a fraction of the chief his father was. Perhaps that was why he visited so often when he had big decisions to make. He couldn't be sure if his father would have chosen the path Brokil had for peace with Athowen, but he hoped at least that the man was proud of him for going to such lengths for his people, and that he was watching and listening as he always had.

"This will resolve the conflict with Athowen, I am sure of it," Brokil said after a long silence, pushing back to his feet and placing a hand on the stone once more. "I must go meet with the Elders now. Rest well, father. I will visit again when I can."

It might have been a silly thing, but he imagined his father there beside him, a hand on his shoulder to give him strength and support, just like he did when Brokil was only eight years old when he left home for his warrior training, the agoge, then again before he graduated in his eighteenth year. He remembered the confidence that grip gave him, how he carried it in everything he did because his father made him believe he could.

After taking a moment to breathe and steady himself with that imaginary touch, Brokil straightened his shoulders and turned to descend the hill back to Ghizol.

By the time he reached the city proper, the mask of Chief sat where it belonged on Brokil's face once more, and he made his way to the one place he'd been warning Silvyr about during his short time as captive.

The Council Chambers sat in the center of Ghizol, a rounded stone and wood building that stretched longer than any of the others, and spoke of its importance with placement and upkeep alone.

The interior was already lit when Brokil pushed through the double doors and entered, torches casting a warm glow across the large central room of the building. Though a few doors in the back of the chamber led to private meeting rooms, the majority of the longhouse was taken up by a single table that ran nearly the entire length of the space, decorated with various furs and a few lanterns for additional light.

The meeting table had already slowly begun to fill when he arrived, a sparse few of the seats being taken by Ghizol's Elders—the dozen or so who had reached the age and wisdom to be awarded a higher standing and trust within their council and government.

"Chief."

Brokil turned to see Salthu and Murzush entering behind him, both looking sorely out of place in their own ceremonial clothing. The garb was not unlike Brokil's, only lacking the amount of jewelry he wore, but as Murzush tugged at her collar and grunted beneath her breath, he decided they were both better suited to their leathers and linens.

"Morning," Brokil greeted, stepping to the side to get out of the doorway. "Any word?"

"None," Murzush said, sounding quite disappointed. "It's been nearly a month since we took the boy. The entourage should have reached Athowen by now."

"I would assume the Tyrant King would send an emissary," Salthu mused, crossing her arms over her chest. "If that's the case, we have to wait at least a month for them to get here."

"And if they send a messenger bird?" Brokil asked.

"A week," Murzush said immediately. "It's possible they could fly faster, but I doubt the Tyrant King would send a bird over an emissary."

Brokil had to agree. Taking the prince as a hostage removed any ability for their correspondence to be done through bird messengers. Maybe if they stole an important scholar or even a lower ranking noble. But the king's precious son? No chance.

"Have there been any signs that we were followed?" Brokil turned his attention to Murzush who shook her head.

"None. I've been monitoring Ghizol's perimeters and sending scouts to the edges of the Amesisle, and there are no signs that we were followed."

The confirmation was a relief. The last thing Brokil wanted to deal with was someone like the prince's guard, that Ascal woman, trying to sneak him out from under their noses.

"How are you handling having the little brat in your home?" Salthu asked, sounding almost bemused.

"Fine. He stays out of trouble for the most part. Spends most of his time just reading," Brokil said.

And there wasn't much more for him to say. Silvyr truly did spend all his time reading, and the lack of action from him both confused and frustrated Brokil. It wasn't that he didn't try to get the prince to speak more. The Elders wanted to know everything there was to know about Athowen, and he could assume it would once again be the topic of today's meeting, just like it was every other meeting since Silvyr had been brought to Ghizol. Yet though he tried to draw information from the elf, Silvyr just shut down whenever Athowen came up.

It made sense, he supposed. Being the crown prince, he knew the importance of keeping the secrets to their kingdom safe. Patience was key, and despite his frustration, Brokil was nothing if not patient.

"No escapes?" Murzush asked. "None that I'm aware of. He may be a brat, but he's not stupid," Brokil said, swallowing a chuckle. "He's very aware that he would not make it out of Ghizol unnoticed."

"And you still don't fear him harming you?"

It was a reasonable question, considering Murzush was charged with keeping Brokil safe, whether he needed the protection or not. Still, the thought brought another chuckle from him and this time he let it out. "None, though I have no doubt I could handle him if he tried. He's quite small."

Salthu snorted under her breath. "Small he may be, but don't get complacent, okay?"

She smacked Brokil's shoulder and stepped around him to head to her seat near the end of the table, Murzush following after giving him a look of agreement. He was not foolish enough to disregard their concerns completely. Though the thought of Silvyr being able to harm him was laughable, the women were right to be concerned, and he was grateful for their opinions. None of them truly knew how deadly the young elf could be. Perhaps it would do him good to be more careful around Silvyr.

Finding his seat at the end of the table, Brokil waited for the rest of the seats to fill. Like usual, he was early, finding it necessary to be present when the Elders made their way in. They wouldn't look down on him for being on time or even late, but part of him just couldn't handle the idea of letting them sit around and wait for him.

It wasn't long until all of the Elders assembled in full, taking over the majority of the table, while still leaving a few seats empty for future members. Taking a breath, Brokil prepared himself for the onslaught that was sure to come.

"Chief," the first woman, Bashuk, greeted as the meeting opened, waiting until Brokil tipped his head forward, giving her permission to continue. "How does our ward fare?"

A simple enough question. "Well. He remains within my home, and causes no trouble."

"Does he speak of Athowen?" another woman, Ghorza, asked.

"Once, yes. Which you have already been advised of. It was when he confirmed that the Tyrant King will take our demands seriously," Brokil explained, talking over the murmuring that rose with his answer. "Nothing of Athowen has come up since then."

Another Elder, a man named Naguk, leaned forward. "And what of the Tyrant King himself?"

Brokil took a breath. "Again, the prince does not speak of Athowen, or the Tyrant King. He does not readily give out information," Brokil told them, and again the murmuring continued with an air of annoyance.

There wasn't much he could do if Silvyr wasn't willing to speak. They couldn't torture the information out of him, their demands specifically stated he would be unharmed. Maybe if they had left that out, that would be the step the Elders suggested, though Brokil hoped it would be a last resort. Torture had never been something he was capable of. He was fine if that made him a weaker leader. He could make up the difference in other aspects.

"What do you plan to do to make him talk?" Ghorza asked, folding her hands on the table.

"I will continue what I have been doing. I treat the ward well, and speak to him nightly. Soon, he will give up the information we need," Brokil told her. "Patience is needed. He is understandably on guard, and it will not be an easy task to get any secret information from him."

Again, the murmuring picked up, but this time it was with approval and understanding. Brokil let them whisper among themselves, leaning back in his chair to listen. Glancing to each side, he caught the small smirks on both Salthu and Murzush. They both knew how these meetings drained him, especially when The Elders were dead set on repeating themselves.

Most of them agreed with Brokil, that time was necessary, but few others wanted to make use of the cells below the earth to force the information out of the elf. While they wouldn't outright harm him, the threat of being placed in a cell with no company could be enough to draw out the information they needed. To his relief, those few were outnumbered by the Elders who were willing to be patient.

"Chief," a man, Hogug, started, "we know our ward is in good hands in your abode. Has he made any attempts to escape?"

"No. As I said, he causes no trouble," Brokil repeated himself, and not for the last time that day.

Again and again, the Elders asked their questions about the prince and what information he was willing to give up. Again and again, Brokil explained to them that the boy spoke little of Athowen, and what he did say, Brokil had already told them. The conversation dragged on entirely too long, complaints being voiced and worries being spoken. Brokil listened and answered as he was bid, understanding of the Elders' frustration, but the repetitiveness was tiring after so many long meetings with the same outcome.

It wasn't until Bashuk presented a request for funding, voicing concerns about the scaffolding in the mines and how they might fix them, that they were able to move on.

When the discussions finally ended, Brokil excused himself from the Council Chamber and stepped into the sun, drawing in a calming breath to soothe his frayed nerves. With the meeting lasting well past noon, the day was nearing evening now, and Brokil was far ready to return home. His jewelry weighed heavily from his ears and his jaw ached from grinding his teeth for hours on end. He wanted nothing more than to shed himself of the unnecessary adornments, slip into his more comfortable linens, and rest for the remainder of the evening. He only needed to make one more stop before he returned home.

The marketplace wasn't Brokil's favorite part of Ghizol. Always incredibly busy and loud, it was better not to linger and only retrieve what one needed. Or so Brokil felt. Around him, however, the orcs were content to take their time and enjoy the evening sun, conversing amongst each other as they pursued the assorted vendors.

The shade provided by the market stalls wasn't much, but it was enough to keep him comfortable as he walked through the crowds of people, returning nods and greetings sent his way. He didn't stop moving, but the orcs around him weren't shy about getting his attention to say hello or wish him well.

He wondered if it was the same in the elven kingdom. While Silvyr seemed polite enough to possibly do so, he had a hard time imagining the Tyrant King doing anything aside from sneering at anyone who dared look at him.

Before long, Brokil reached a booth at the end of the market stalls, tapestries and blankets hanging on display, the skill of their creators obvious in the quality of material and the intricacy of the patterns. Brokil stopped at the counter, taking a moment to observe the quiet concentration on the merchant's familiar, sun-wrinkled face.

The woman had her head down, a distaff wrapped in tufts of wool tucked into her belt and her gaze focused on the spindle whorl dangling between her legs. With practiced, expert movements, she pinched the loose wool between her fingers and allowed the motion of the spindle to twist it into a thin, tight length of thread.

The spindle slowed before it reached the ground, and she plucked it up into her hand, ready to wrap the newly spun yarn around the rod attached to the whorl. Brokil took it as his chance to announce himself before she began the process anew.

"Good evening, Bolar," he said, offering a smile when the young woman perked up and met his gaze.

"Good evening, chief," she said, bowing her head politely. When he returned the nod, she leaned forward, offering a smile of her own. "Are you looking to buy today?"

"I am," Brokil said, his eyes wondering over her wares. "I need three blankets, if you would be so kind."

Bolar straightened, setting her tools aside. "Any pattern preference?"

"No, any pattern is fine." All he needed was for the blankets to do their job. "Just large enough to fit a bed."

"Easily done," she replied, turning her back to him and going through the items she carried. While she didn't pull anything from her displays, she reached into a cart stationed behind her stall, removing three folded blankets from it and setting them on the stall counter. "These should do. They'll work well in the coming cold months."

"Thank you," Brokil told her, setting more coin on the counter than the blankets were worth. Bolar shot him a knowing look, but didn't argue as she scooped it up.

Those in the marketplace had known him long enough to know Brokil always overpaid when he had the means to do so, and they'd learned ages ago that arguing the matter wouldn't work on him. Bolar was no different, though she didn't hesitate to make sure he knew she disapproved of the excess.

With a few friendly goodbyes, and Brokil insisting Bolar tell her husband hello for him, the woman waved him off and Brokil finally set off for home, the bundle of blankets tucked under his arm for the little elf waiting for him there.

It hadn't been until that morning that Brokil realized he underestimated how cold it would get in his home at night. The stone around them did little to hold the heat in, and with the winter months drawing ever closer, the elf would need blankets to keep his small body warm. Already, Brokil had woken early this morning to see the elf shivering in his sleep. He'd been quaking so hard it was a wonder he managed to sleep through it at all, and an even greater wonder he managed not to utter a single complaint when he finally woke to join Brokil in the living room with his book of the day.

It would only be harder on the elf when winter finally settled in, but hopefully the blankets would prevent any sickness or incessant complaining. He would start collecting more firewood as well. They'd need plenty to stop the night chill from overwhelming not just the elf, but also himself.

"Chief!"

Brokil had just made it to the outskirts of the city, so close to home he could nearly see it, when the call came out. He bit down a groan at yet another interruption, and turned to see a woman with a bright smile approaching him, a basket weighing down her arms.

"Good evening, Magok," Brokil said, smiling through his annoyance. It wasn't her fault, simply the fact that he was exhausted from the day's events, so he tried not to let it show. "Are you well?"

"I am, thank you, Chief," she said before holding out the basket. "I brought these for you. We had an overflow of crops."

Taking the basket, Brokil looked over the plethora of leafy green vegetables. "You are very kind, Mogak. Thank you." He reached into his pocket, intent on providing her with some coin for her trouble, but she shook her head as soon as she saw the pouch.

"Chief, you don't owe me anything," Mogak said, taking a step back as though to prove her point. "Please enjoy them, and have a good night."

Brokil couldn't say anything else before Mogak turned and walked in the opposite direction, a slight skip in her step. He watched her for a few moments, then continued his journey home, thankful when he was able to make it all the way inside without any more interruptions.

The home looked just the way he left it, the prince still sat on the rug, though with a new book in his lap. While his hair had been free when Brokil left, now the elf wore it tied sloppily up and out of his face, held in place with his ribbon. When Brokil closed the door, Silvyr looked up at him, then to the window as if to inspect the setting sun.

"It's already evening," the elf said, sounding as though he were talking to himself.

Brokil nodded, setting the basket of vegetables in the kitchen before moving to the bed chamber where the elf had been sleeping. Their first night after returning from their journey, Silvyr had made a small nest along one of the walls, using the few blankets he'd managed to find that Brokil wasn't using. There weren't nearly enough to keep him warm in the night, but Brokil wasn't foolish enough to let the elf sleep in the living room with the fire. He wanted Silvyr where he could see him, where he could hear if the elf woke in the night and decided to attempt his escape. The extra blankets seemed a necessary and logical expense in comparison.

He dropped the new blankets in Silvyr's sleeping space, uncaring of keeping them folded or organized. When he turned back to the doorway, he found the elf already there, watching him with a valley pinched between his eyebrows.

"It's getting colder. You'll need them," Brokil said, unsure why he felt the need to explain himself.

"Thank you," Silvyr replied slowly, his voice betraying his disbelief.

"I don't need you catching a cold, or shivering so much you can't sleep," he said, pushing past the elf to get to his mirror and remove his jewelry.

Silvyr remained where he stood as Brokil began to take off each piece, though a few minutes later he returned to the rug, looking at Brokil through the mirror. The orc half expected Silvyr to return to his reading, though perhaps he should have known better by now.

"Did your meeting go well?" he asked, like he did every time Brokil returned home.

"Yes, it did," Brokil said simply, setting the jewelry into their box and pushing it aside when he finished.

Silvyr crossed his legs beneath himself, fidgeting with the edge of his linens. "Did you discuss my father?"

"We did. Though there isn't much to discuss without word from him." Brokil pulled his ceremonial cloth off his shoulders and folded it to the side before setting to work on the pteruges belted around his waist.

When he looked in the mirror again, Silvyr had turned his back to him, clearly trying not to get caught staring again. Even after a few days, the prince still struggled to hide his intentions, and Brokil couldn't help but smirk. It's not that he would take advantage of it, but he certainly would keep that knowledge in the back of his head.

Brokil took to his room once again to discard the clothing and pull on his more comfortable linens. Compared to his heavy ceremonial garb, the simple tunic and pants felt like heaven on his skin, soothing a bit of his irritation from the day and making it easier to ignore the elf as he headed toward the kitchen to begin their evening meal.

He'd expected Silvyr to continue reading, as he had every night before, but by the time Brokil had set everything out to cook, the elf had made his way into the kitchen like a curious kitten. Brokil tried to pay him no mind, but Silvyr was not what he would call "graceful" as he lifted an empty bucket and turned it over with a brash clang against the stone floor. Using the bucket as a makeshift step stool, the elf lifted himself to sit on the counter, kicking his feet once he'd gotten comfortable.

"What are you cooking?"

Brokil groaned as any hope of cooking in peace disappeared. "Stew."

"What's in it?" Silvyr asked, leaning over to peer into the pot on the stovetop.

"Meat and vegetables," Brokil answered, nudging the elf to scoot him away from his cooking space. Thankfully he moved without complaint, but he remained in the kitchen.

"What kind?"

"Beef and root vegetables."

"Which ones?"

Brokil took a breath. "Carrots, potatoes, and onions."

For a single moment, Brokil thought, hoped, the elf had run out of questions. Yet again, he should have known better.

"How do you make it?" Silvyr asked, tilting his head to the side like a confused pup.

"Do you ever stop talking?" Brokil grumbled instead of answering, setting out the onions and carrots on his chopping block.

It took Brokil a few seconds to realize the elf was silent. He might have thought he'd left entirely, but when he glanced to the side, Silvyr was still there, his eyes locked firmly on Brokil's hands as he worked his knife through the vegetables. That served the orc just as well, as long as he was quiet.

In blessed silence, Brokil allowed himself to get lost in the familiar motions of prepping dinner. An easy, mindless task that took just enough focus to keep his thoughts from wandering to more annoying things. Before he knew it, the ingredients were ready and mixed, and the fire beneath the stove was lit. He propped open the window to let out the smoke and set the lid on the pot, tossing another log in the stove to ensure it remained heated long enough to cook through.

Throughout it all, Silvyr remained silent, watching him with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs no longer kicking as they dangled over the counter edge.

"Dinner will be done in about an hour," Brokil said, leaving the elf in the kitchen to go to the living space.

Sitting down on the rug, Brokil let himself truly relax for the first time that day. With the meetings, the shopping, and preparing dinner, he was exhausted and not in the way he preferred to be exhausted. The fatigue that came from fighting or fucking was at least satisfying, and far more preferable than this.

Silvyr joined him shortly, settling across from him with the same book in his lap as earlier. Brokil stared at him, watching as the elf flipped through each page without seeming to read any of the words. Brokil himself hadn't read that particular book, so he couldn't say if it was boring or not, but if he trusted the elf's judgment, it had to be one of the most boring books Brokil owned.

As much as Brokil craved the silence, part of him missed the arguments he had with the elf when they were on the way to Ghizol. At least they were entertaining. Now it was as though the elf was resigned to his fate, and the thought made Brokil frown. The fire he'd seen behind the prince's eyes had been missing the last couple of days, and Brokil had to admit that he missed it. It was one of the things that didn't irritate him about the elf.

Silvyr had warned him of being left alone for too long. Could it simply be a matter of boredom? Could staying in one place for so long be the cause of the elf withering? Lack of sunlight, perhaps? Or something else?

"You're staring at me."

Brokil's attention came back to the present. Silvyr had looked up from his book, his eyes firmly set upon him. "And? If I was, what about it?"

The corner of Silvyr's lips twitched, but again, instead of that normal fire Brokil expected, he simply turned his eyes back to his book. "Nothing."

"Nothing. So do you like it when I stare?" Brokil prodded, if for no other reason than to get a rise out of the elf, and bring that spark back. Whatever passion and purpose flared in his eyes, Brokil wanted to see it.

Silvyr stared, unseeing, at the pages beneath his fingers. "Will my answer change how much you stare?" he asked before closing the book and setting it aside.

"No. It's my home, and I'll do what I like."

"Clearly."

Silvyr still wouldn't look at him. Brokil wanted to reach out and grab his face to force him to look. Wanted to poke and prod until he figured out what made the boy burn. He continued to stare while Silvyr picked at his nails.

"I don't like my questions going unanswered," Brokil told him, catching the beginnings of a smile on the elf's lips.

Finally, Silvyr turned his gaze upon Brokil, and he decided that he liked the way those green eyes shimmered in the setting sunlight that streamed through the window. "I suppose it depends on why you're staring," he said, lifting his hand to unravel the ribbon holding up his hair, letting it fall in loose waves down to his slender waist. "So, why do you stare?"

Was he teasing?

"I'm amazed by how tiny you are," Brokil said, wanting only to rile up the elf. From the way Silvyr bristled at the response, he knew he struck the right chord.

Scoffing, the elf crossed his arms and turned to face the fireplace. It did nothing to hide the pretty dusting of pink across his cheeks or how his ears flattened back. "Then no. I don't like you staring."

"What reason would you prefer I stare at you for then?" Brokil asked, letting the teasing tone of his voice linger.

"I'm not answering you," Silvyr said stubbornly, drawing a low laugh from Brokil.

It was enough of an answer for him. The way Silvyr's cheeks flushed even darker, he didn't need the boy to say it to confirm it. Not when all it took was Brokil's laugh to draw those eyes back to him.