13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Silvyr

Though he would never admit it aloud, lest the words somehow find their way to Father's all-knowing ears, Silvyr found himself settling into a comfortable, if still sometimes restless, routine here in Ghizol. He supposed it helped that there were no expectations of him here. He could simply stretch across the floor on his stomach and soak in the last rays of the setting sun, enjoying yet another book he'd plucked from Brokil's shelves.

He'd spent most of the day so far admiring his most recent acquisition, another lovely leather tome filled with the same fanciful calligraphy as the others, detailing various plants and flowers he'd never seen before, not even in Athowen's massive libraries. With every turn of the stiff pages, a gentle earthen musk wafted to his nose, and it took everything in him not to shove his face in the binding and inhale long and deep.

The exquisitely composed renditions of the flora, every color vibrant and precise, made the book feel more a piece of art than a field journal. Silvyr couldn't help wondering how Brokil acquired these pieces. He never seemed to read them himself, yet he held a library that, while small, was filled with treasure. Still, the only reading Brokil seemed to do was the parchments he brought back after the meetings with the Elders.

If nothing else, Silvyr could admire his commitment to the awful task of paperwork.

While Silvyr enjoyed the waning sunlight, Brokil stepped out of his room, tying a belt around his waist and cinching it tight. He didn't speak to Silvyr as he moved to his vanity, grumbling only to himself, and though Silvyr strained to hear him, he couldn't make out any of the words. Perhaps Brokil was speaking the orcish tongue, Silvyr thought, then wondered if he should try to learn it while he was here. It wouldn't hurt, though he wasn't sure Brokil would offer to teach him if he asked.

Silvyr flipped another page as Brokil turned from the mirror, eyeing the nest of blankets and pillows Silvyr took from the bedroom. He opened his mouth as if to say something, only to pause and close it again when Silvyr nestled further into the blankets. Whatever it was must not have been important, Silvyr was simply pleased he wasn't being chastised for making the living space more comfortable. He certainly spent more time there than Brokil did, so it only made sense.

"I'm going to leave for a bit," Brokil finally told him, crossing his arms over his wide chest. "Can I trust you to behave yourself?"

"Mmhm," Silvyr hummed, tracing a finger over the leaf lines of a particularly fine-lined image of a fern. "Where are you going?"

"The pyre will be lit tonight," came the answer, and when Silvyr looked up, Brokil was already at the door, pulling on his boots.

"Why? I don't recall any holidays this time of year."

"Shagar reached her ninetieth year today. She's joining our Elders."

"I'll be right here when you get back," Silvyr promised, stretching his arms out and nuzzling deeper in his blanket nest as if to prove his point.

Brokil eyed him, clearly suspicious. Had Silvyr not been watching him back, he might have missed the way Brokil's eyes scraped down the length of his frame, lingering on his backside before quickly returning to the door.

"Good. I'll be back." Brokil opened the door, but paused before stepping out into the evening air. He took a long breath. "I don't need to remind you what will happen if you leave."

"You don't. I won't leave," Silvyr insisted.

Brokil said nothing else, seeming to find what he was looking for as he finally left and shut the door behind him. Silvyr waited for the loud thunk of the bar being placed over the door, but to his surprise, it didn't come.

For a very brief, confusing moment, Silvyr stared at the door and contemplated running. He knew he should try to find a way out of Ghizol and back home. Father would have wanted him to, certainly. He'd be horribly, horrendously appalled that Silvyr had only tried escaping once. If he knew there was a container of nothing but knives beneath the counters and Silvyr chose to leave them be, he might even faint at his son's foolishness. Nevermind that Silvyr was more likely to get himself killed than actually escape. Father wouldn't care. Silvyr shouldn't care either.

Yet now he sat alone in Brokil's home and only found himself wanting to nestle tighter in the blankets to stave off the coming cold. He ran his fingers over the pages of the most beautiful book he'd ever read, and felt almost comfortable for the first time in his life. He was a fool, as his father always said he was, so he turned his head away from the door and remained where he was, telling himself it was only because he wouldn't succeed if he ran, and nothing to do with the unusual feeling building in his chest.

Pushing thoughts of Father and his impossible expectations out of his head, Silvyr returned to the book laid on the floor before him. He had wanted to finish it tonight, but he'd wasted more time in his head than he thought, and the daylight was fading fast. He could read it quickly, if he truly wanted, but it felt like an odd betrayal. Books of this craftsmanship were meant to be enjoyed. Savored even. Blasting through the pages would be a disservice to the person who clearly put so much work and care into them.

Silvyr took his silk ribbon and set it in the center to mark his place before returning it to the bookshelf. Tomorrow would be another day to finish it, and he'd have plenty of sunlight to take his time with the material. Until then, he would need to find a new way to keep himself entertained while Brokil was away.

Normally he could pester the orc to keep himself busy. Asking about his day, what he was cooking, what Ghizol was like through most of the year… All of his questions served to keep his mind occupied, but also served to fill his need to learn about something other than warfare and taxes.

Silvyr had always been a curious boy, ever since he was little. Consuming as many books in the libraries as he could before he was caught and chastised for frivolities and useless information. Father hadn't liked his argument that no information was useless, but even so, Silvyr craved to know more and more, even if it never came in handy. And who better to learn about the orcs from than the Chief of Ghizol himself?

Without Brokil to pester, however, Silvyr felt at a loss for how to pass the time. Had he really become so reliant on his damn captor to feel comfortable? Entertained? Gods, he truly was a fool, and even though he knew this to be fact, he couldn't bring himself to stop. He could berate himself as much as possible, every minute of every day, but the moment Brokil walked through that front door, Silvyr would be ready for conversation and company.

Maybe it was just the first time he hadn't felt lonely.

He left the bedroom and set his hands on his hips, searching for something, anything, to do. He had already explored the entire house up and down while Brokil attended his meetings. Snooped through everything he could. Unfortunately for his insatiable boredom, the damned orc held very little in his home, even after a thorough search. No hidden or embarrassing secrets, no hint of what the orc did himself to pass the time. The only thing that could be considered interesting was the various scented bathing oils near the bath. Oils he must never use, since Brokil rarely smelled of anything but his own musk.

Silvyr made a note to talk to the man about finding better things to do than sitting in front of the fireplace and sorting through paperwork. It was a sad life to be so focused on his work, and he ought to have something—

Silvyr paused, a heavy heat filling the tips of his ears. Why did he even care? Brokil didn't need the entertainment, Silvyr needed it. He shouldn't care at all about how hard Brokil worked himself. Damn that orc. His needs be damned too. The very idea that Silvyr cared at all was preposterous, wasn't it? Just because they fucked once didn't mean Silvyr needed to give a single damn about him. He was just bored, that was all. He needed something to occupy himself with.

Puffing out a breath, Silvyr stomped over to the front door, staring hard at the wood. Faint musical notes filtered through the cracks, tickling at his ears and poking the ugly longing that lodged in his throat and refused to go away.

The pyre celebration had started. Brokil and his people were making their connections, and judging by the raucous noise that could be heard even from here, they were enjoying themselves far more than Silvyr was alone in Brokil's home.

Staring at the cracks in the wood, he couldn't help but wonder what the pyre was like, what they did, and how they celebrated. Would it smell of woodsmoke and dirt, or could one smell the sweat and musk and feast beneath the scent of the fire? How many orcs could fill the space Brokil showed him yesterday? How loud would the crowd grow when gathered together in such close, friendly quarters?

Perhaps that's why Brokil didn't need much in his home. His needs were fulfilled outside these walls, among his people and his land. He was free to go and celebrate as he pleased. He wasn't trapped. He'd never been trapped.

Well, neither would Silvyr. Not tonight anyways. He promised he wouldn't leave, yes, but he'd never limited that to the home itself. He'd stay on the property, in case Brokil returned, but he wouldn't be trapped inside any longer.

Testing the knob, Silvyr was delighted to find it unlocked and unbarred like he thought. His fingers twitched, as if to ask if he was sure, before he stepped over the threshold, into the cool evening, and took a long breath.

When they first arrived in the orcish city, Silvyr decided the air had an almost sweet taste to it, carrying hints of lumber and farmland and fresh herbs, followed by the sharp tang of mined ore on the back of his tongue. It filled his chest with a lightness he hadn't experienced before, and he allowed himself a moment to draw it in, pleased to find it now heavy with the warm aroma of burnt wood and cooked meats.

Smoke flowed into the sky over the rooftops, dragging the sounds of celebration with it all the way up the mountain—music and conversation overtaking the crackling of a massive fire. He couldn't see the pit from his vantage point at the door, but it looked as if all of Ghizol's homesteads were empty. Silvyr imagined every single orc would be congregated at the pyre, none left alone in their homes. None but Silvyr.

He couldn't leave the property, but still he wanted to see more. He would see more.

It didn't take long for Silvyr to find an outcropping in the mountainside that he was able to hook his hands and feet into. It took a while to pull himself up the side of the building, and Silvyr cursed himself for every time he'd refused Ascal when she tried forcing him to do pull ups during his lessons. He had gotten so used to the size of Brokil's home, that he didn't consider how difficult climbing it might be. After all, he had to climb up stools and countertops to sit, surely this couldn't be much harder.

He was wrong, very wrong, according to his sore muscles and the small scrapes on his palms and knees, but he made it.

The rooftop was made of the same stone as the rest of the house, though carved with simple straight lines. It wasn't comfortable, but now that Silvyr was there, he didn't want to repeat the process of climbing, certainly not with blankets or pillows in tow. He would sit and bear it, like he did with most things.

Besides, it was easy to forget how uncomfortable the stone was when he looked over the rooftops of Ghizol to see the pyre.

The pit had been empty when he saw it a few days prior, and he couldn't have begun to imagine what it'd look like when piled with wood and set ablaze. Now, the fire flared and swirled, casting bright light across the courtyard and illuminating the orcs that danced and gathered around it. They were nothing more than a cluster of jewel toned bodies from here, but Silvyr could still make out the occasional shine of jewelry or the white of tusks, when the fire lit just right.

Even from afar, Silvyr decided it was magnificent, though even that word seemed diminutive compared to the actual sight of it. So full of life and community, as if the city itself was a living, breathing creature, rather than simply a place one decided to live.

It was nothing like Athowen.

He couldn't remember the last time he saw fire back home, besides the candles and lanterns that lit the halls. The castle had an unnecessary amount of fireplaces, and yet Silvyr was sure he'd never seen one lit, much less a bonfire blazing outside. Dancing was only for proper court events, and those were restrained and tight, all practiced movements and minimal contact. Singing at all was seen as outlandish.

These orcs, however, held no such restrictions. The jaunty melodies on the wind propelled them to spin and jump and dance. They did so freely, with no rhyme or reason, the only purpose seeming to be the laughter that filled the air and coated Ghizol in a blanket of merriment. From his vantage, there was nothing but joy. Simple joy.

Father always said the orcs thought of war and nothing else. Yet here they were, celebrating a member of Ghizol that reached their ninetieth year. A tradition those in Athowen would scoff at, but Ghizol held dear. It made that ever-present curiosity bubble in the back of his mind again. Was that person a warrior themselves? If they were, how did they make it to their ninetieth year? What sort of life could be led over the course of so much time? Surely it couldn't all be war, could it? Could Father be wrong?

Father had also warned of orc raiders, and how they would kill him the moment they got the chance. But now, sitting on the roof of the chief's house, tucking his knees to his chest, Silvyr watched their celebration and wondered where the malice was.

Where was the warmongering, fear-fueled society that Father spoke about when he announced his plans for conquest? Where were the mindless monsters, armed to the teeth with terrifying weapons Silvyr had never even heard of? So far Silvyr had seen no sign of the people his father had taught him to hate, to fear.

It would be foolish for him to assume that the orcs of Ghizol knew nothing of war, of course. Brokil alone was evidence that, while they did not speak of battle or war as often as Silvyr expected, they had fought. The scars painted upon his canvas of flesh was evidence of that much, and only further proved that they would fight if needed.

But Silvyr had seen nothing of malice. Anger, yes. Frustration, of course. But malice born of pure evil? It didn't seem to exist here, and if it did, it was either well hidden from view, or Silvyr was blind.

What would Father think when he returned home to inform him that the orcs of Ghizol were diplomatic and willing to negotiate? Would he even be able to after his kidnapping? After Ghizol's ransom and demands? Would Father consider listening? Would his Council for once offer helpful advice, instead of feeding into his ego?

Guilt settled in his stomach at the thought and he tightened his grip around his knees. How could he think so horribly of Father? Silvyr knew Father did everything for a reason, didn't he? It was meant to strengthen Athowen, strengthen Silvyr, wasn't it? Meant to keep him safe and prepare him for the cruelties of the world?

He wanted to understand Father so badly, yet now, as he watched the fire lick the sky, Silvyr spiraled deeper into bewilderment and confusion.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Silvyr jumped at the loud voice, nearly toppling over as he snapped his head toward the edge of the roof. Beneath the eaves, Brokil stood with one hand on his hip and a basket in the other, a perfectly bemused grin on his face. Something in his eyes shot heat straight to Silvyr's cheeks and burned the tips of his ears, but the elf couldn't put a name to it if he tried.

"I wanted to watch," Silvyr told him, nodding toward the pyre and hoping it was too dark to see how he blushed.

The moon settled high in the sky and Brokil stepped away from the door, following Silvyr's path to the roof. He made it up far easier than Silvyr did, even with one hand carrying the basket, and plopped beside him. Once sat, he crossed his legs beneath himself and dropped the basket in front of Silvyr.

"Food," he said as he removed his belt, setting it to the side to let his tunic flow free and open. Silvyr fought like a demon of the hells to keep from staring at Brokil's exposed, strong, chest, forcing his gaze to the basket instead. "Roasted beef and vegetables. It's not much, but I figured you'd be hungry."

Hungry indeed. Silvyr pulled back the cloth covering and snorted to himself. While Brokil insisted it wasn't a lot of food, the orc knew very little of how much Silvyr actually could eat. Still, the moment the aroma of buttery herbs and fresh meat hit him, he was convinced he could eat the entire portion, even if it immobilized him.

"Thank you," Silvyr said, taking a piece of beef and dropping it in his mouth.

He could have ascended as the meat practically melted in his mouth, bursting with warm juices and an explosion of new flavors. It was absolutely delicious, and Silvyr didn't wait before grabbing another piece. Athowen could never compare. Their chefs were obsessed with the natural flavors of the food. Spices were rarely used, save for special occasions and some desserts.

But during his time here, Silvyr learned Ghizol was quite generous with their spices, and this meal was no different. There was nothing in Athowen that could compare to whatever cut of meat Brokil brought him, and he relished the way it fell apart in his fingers and filled his mouth with savory juice, some of it dribbling down his chin.

Quickly, he wiped it away with his sleeve, offering an apologetic smile that Brokil only chuckled at, seeming content to lean back on his elbows and watch Silvyr eat.

Though he wanted to gorge himself on the meal, after the first few bites of beef and potato and carrot, his stomach couldn't hold much more. Regretfully, he pushed the basket closer to the orc, sticking his lip out in a pout.

"I can't eat all of this. Share with me?" he asked, picking up a piece of roasted squash as if to show that he wanted to eat more.

The smile Brokil gifted him—tusks dimpling the upper lip, cheeks wrinkling the corners of his amber eyes—poured butterflies into Silvyr's stomach. The sight was… Pleasantly different.

Taking a piece of beef, Brokil ate, humming low in his throat as he licked his fingertips, lapping away at the juices that stained them.

He did it again with a piece of potato, then another piece of meat, each time taking a moment to lick away the dripping juices. Silvyr couldn't help staring at the glistening fingers, watching Brokil's large tongue wrap around them, between them, down the side of his hand where a stray droplet had traveled.

It's cold, Silvyr told himself when he fought back a shiver, refusing to acknowledge how warm his face and ears felt.

"And you say I'm the one who stares," Brokil said, pulling Silvyr out of his head, a teasing smile on his face.

"I—I wasn't!" Silvyr insisted, turning away from the orc and crossing his arms. The laughter beside him burned his ears even hotter, and he hunched down to hide them from Brokil's taunting.

Mercifully, Brokil said nothing more as he continued to eat, though the chuckle still rumbled in his chest. Silvyr could practically feel the vibrations beside him, echoing over the distant music from the celebration below.

He didn't know how long they remained in silence. He tried not to focus on the orc beside him and instead stared out to the pyre, watching the flames dance and the smoke swirl into the clear night sky.

"What did you do at the pyre?" Silvyr asked when his curiosity grew too loud. He chanced a look at Brokil, who at some point had laid out on his back, staring up at the clear skies.

He looked comfortable there, but the moment Silvyr broke the quiet, he turned those glowing golden eyes on him, freezing him in place.

"We made the food. We drank, and we danced," Brokil told him, sitting back up with a low groan. "Well, most people do. I'm not very good at dancing."

"But you're good at drinking and eating food?" Silvyr's lips pulled into a playful grin, utterly satisfied with himself when Brokil snorted.

"Yes. Particularly good at drinking and eating food. Not like you. You eat like a canary."

"A canary?" Silvyr gasped, aiming for offended, though knowing the smile on his face betrayed him. "I don't think I would survive on birdseed and worms. You really haven't been paying attention, have you?"

"You're right. You're more like a kitten."

"Oh really? How so?"

"First of all, you're obnoxious." Brokil grinned when Silvyr smacked his knee and huffed. "Second, you lay in the sun like a cat does. You even follow it when the sun sets."

"I do?" Silvyr blinked. He hadn't noticed himself doing that before. "Well, the sun is nice. I don't think only cats are able to enjoy it."

"Yes, of course," Brokil pushed the now empty basket aside, turning slightly to face Silvyr and propping his elbows on his crossed knees, "but you seem to chase it as it tries to leave. Like a kitten failing to catch a mouse."

Rolling his eyes, Silvyr shifted on the roof to mimic Brokil's pose. He decided to keep his complaints to himself for once, turning instead to the matter that had been on his mind all night. "So, Shagar, she's an official Elder now?"

"She is. She's quite pleased about it too. Made sure everyone knew how hard she worked to get to her ninetieth year," Brokil said, his face drifting into something gentle. Fond.

"Do you do anything special? Like, something for her that you don't do for the seasonal celebrations?" Silvyr asked.

"Shagar was given the first cut of the primary roast," Brokil told him. "Her choice of course. When you make it ninety years, well, the least we can do is give you the best cut of the meat."

Silvyr laughed, bright and loud. He didn't know what he expected, but that hadn't been it. He knew it wouldn't be like when Athowen assigned a new member of Father's Council. They received a small ceremony and a scroll to show their station. Nothing more, other than an increase in funds sent directly to their pockets. Silvyr wondered how Father would react if he were asked what cut of meat he would like as a reward for his conquests.

The image had him fighting back a giggle, his cheeks aching as he hid his twitching lips behind his hand.

"I like that," Silvyr said when he was able to speak without laughing. The smile on Brokil's face held something warm that he couldn't quite place, and didn't care to, lest he ruin the good mood in the air.

"Do you celebrate in Athowen?"

"Ah, rarely," Silvyr admitted freely, the lack of hesitation at answering Brokil's question surprising him. He should be more careful, he knew that, but it was a relief in a way, being able to talk so easily with another person. "Mostly the official holidays. Sometimes a particularly large feast if an important noble is visiting and Father wants to show off a little. It's nothing like the pyre."

"What is it like, then?" Brokil asked, shifting closer to Silvyr.

His cheeks flushed when Brokil's knee knocked lightly against his own, but he didn't move away. "The feasts are very proper. It's um—a lot of simple foods like chicken, or fish, and raw fruits and vegetables. Sometimes a red wine, depending on the meal."

"That's all?" Brokil asked when Silvyr didn't continue. "Not even a dessert?"

"Desserts aren't something we really have," Silvyr said, covering his mouth once more to contain his laughter when Brokil's jaw dropped ever so slightly. The confusion was rather adorable on the orc's gruff face, and Silvyr enjoyed being the one to put it there. "We have some hard candies, but I don't know if that counts."

"Sounds miserable." Brokil shook his head.

"Does it? What do you have for desserts?"

"Many things. Cobblers and pies. Sometimes sweet breads and cake. Tonight, there were glazed sticky rolls and cobblers," Brokil told him, looking almost longingly back at the pyre still burning in the square.

"And you didn't bring me any? A cruel host indeed," Silvyr mused, nudging Brokil's knee with his own.

"Ah, there it is. You spoiled little shit," Brokil snorted, though the twitching at the corners of his lip only made Silvyr's smile wider.

Gods, he truly was a fool. He could only imagine what Father would think if he saw him now, sitting on the roof with the Chief of Ghizol, enjoying his company instead of trying to kill him. He was smiling and laughing and talking, as if Brokil were just a passing emissary that he could befriend rather than a so-called enemy of his people.

Did Brokil feel the same hesitance? Would he be thought less of for treating Silvyr as if they could be friends? Was ‘friends' even the right word for whatever they were? Whatever this was?

More likely, Brokil knew that if he wanted to deal with Silvyr as long as he had been, he needed to pretend. Needed to keep Silvyr comfortable and happy, if only for his own sanity. Silvyr doubted the orc would ever even want to call him friend, much less anything more than that.

Perhaps Silvyr was pretending too.

He knew the instant they returned inside, and he was sent to the corner with his blankets and pillows, he would remember what his position truly was. He wasn't a guest in Ghizol, he wasn't a friend of her chief. He was Ghizol's hostage. His life would either be ended in this city, or he would be returned home to face Father's disappointment.

And his anger.

"You haven't stared this much since I last got undressed," Brokil said.

Silvyr blinked, his focus returning along with the heat in his ears. "I wasn't," he insisted, though the crack in his voice betrayed his argument. "I was just thinking."

Brokil didn't look convinced. He eyed Silvyr, amber gems locking with his own, and Silvyr wondered what it would be like to fall into those pools.

"Thinking about what?" Brokil finally asked.

Trying to think of something, anything other than Father, Silvyr blurted, "It's cold."

He couldn't tell if the other man believed him or not, but Brokil thankfully didn't press. "Come here then," he said, and again, Silvyr blinked.

"Huh?"

"Come here, boy." Brokil tilted his head to motion Silvyr closer.

Like the fool he was, Silvyr did as he was told and shifted closer to the orc. When he was close enough, Brokil removed the coat he wore and wrapped the fabric around Silvyr's shoulders with a little flourish.

The heavy jacket nearly made him collapse, but the warmth was immediate. Silvyr pulled it tighter around himself, and buried a quiet "thank you" in the fabric as he tucked his nose into the collar.

The scent of earthen musk was divine.