16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Silvyr

The morning breeze felt like the sweetest kiss on Silvyr's skin.

That morning, Brokil had invited Silvyr out to see more of Ghizol, and loathe to remain inside for too long and be subject to his own boredom, Silvyr readily accepted. Probably too readily as he nearly tripped over his blankets in his haste to get up and ready. Despite the soreness of his body, the venture outside was a great relief and he welcomed the sun's greeting.

He didn't know what Brokil had in mind, and he didn't think to ask. All he cared about was being able to stretch his arms and legs, soaking up the sun and skipping through Ghizol at Brokil's side.

They weaved through the streets, passing all kinds of homes and buildings he hadn't seen the first time Brokil showed him the city. At one point they even passed what appeared to be an open-air market. For a moment he assumed that's where Brokil meant to take him, but instead, they walked right by it. It wasn't until they reached the edges of Ghizol that Silvyr realized at last where they were going, and he couldn't stop his smile from growing wide enough to hurt his cheeks.

Surrounded by wheat fields and livestock, the air felt fresh and clean this far from the city's center. The homesteads were all well taken care of, the land even more so. From what he could tell, each home specialized in a single crop or livestock, though judging by the intricate coops on each plot of land, they all appeared to care for the chickens that wandered the farms. Orcs littered the various fields, some of them with baskets already filled to the brim, likely having started work as soon as the sun had risen.

Silvyr couldn't help but think it wonderful, and he wondered how different it was from home. Father never let Silvyr explore outside the castle walls by himself, and the farms were out of the question. All Silvyr knew was that they existed, and the Quilen family received food from them.

"Do you come to the farms often?" Silvyr asked as they walked by a pen of sheep. The fluffy beasts bleated as they walked by.

"Not as often as I should," Brokil told him, keeping his voice low. "I like to make sure that those who provide our livelihood are getting everything they need."

The farmers paid them little mind as they worked, and Silvyr struggled to keep pace with Brokil as his eyes wandered, determined to see everything he could while he had the chance.

The sheer number of different animal pens surprised him the most, he decided after passing the first few homesteads. From what he knew of back home, the farms focused solely on cattle and fowl. Yet even from where he stood, only a few plots into Ghizol's farmland, he could see scores of animals. Sheep, cattle, fowl, goats, boars, and of course the horses. There were probably more out of Silvyr's sight. The variety was impressive and it made Silvyr wonder what food Brokil had been bringing home each night. Not that he minded, he just never thought to ask, assuming it was cattle or fowl. Not that he minded, but he would ask later, just to satisfy his curiosity.

"There's so many animals." Silvyr hurried his steps to keep up with Brokil's long strides, lest he be left behind.

Letting out a low chuckle, Brokil nodded. "Indeed. We feed ourselves and require a lot. Especially for our warriors," he explained, leading Silvyr up a well-used path to one of the farmsteads. "The laws set in place by your father have been making it difficult for us to continue getting the materials we need to maintain the farms."

Silvyr looked away from Brokil, knowing full well the laws he spoke of. Father had created them to prevent the unauthorized crossing of borders, and instilled new permits to trade with other townships and merchants, required now by all traders. Getting the proper authorization was difficult, if not impossible, as Father wanted to encourage trade with Athowen and no one else, forcing those within Father's realm to rely solely on him for their well-being and continued success. On top of taxes, it wasn't hard to see why Ghizol fought against the new laws and requirements. Silvyr couldn't say he wouldn't push back either.

Saying nothing, his previous excitement now curdling low in his stomach, Silvyr continued to follow Brokil up the path. Now that he was closer to the pens and fields, he could see the disdain in everyone's eyes. Of course, he couldn't blame them. They knew who his father was, and they knew how Father's laws were meant to subdue them, ruin them. Silvyr expected that when they looked at him, they saw only a reflection of the man they despised. After all, he looked just like Father. It would be easy to assume that the similarities didn't end at Silvyr's looks. Surely, he was the same.

Maybe to an extent he was. He tried to impress Father whenever he could, didn't he? He wanted Father's approval, had struggled so hard for it all his life. Would he not have to be like Father to desire such things? Was such determined ambition not the reason Father was such a strong king?

Silvyr pushed the thoughts away, and tried not to focus on the glares and the scowls that followed him. There was nothing he could do about them anyway.

Brokil turned off the path, heading toward one of the pens filled with sheep. Inside, a woman tended to the beasts, wearing simple brown linens and thick boots, a pouch on her hip likely filled with food, and her skin sun-worn from work. It struck Silvyr as odd that the sheep were not roaming as they normally would during the day, but as he approached, their round bellies showed him why. Pregnant and close to term, they remained in the pen for the care they needed.

"Sharn," Brokil said to announce himself, drawing the woman's attention away from her charges.

"Chief," she said in return, nodding her head politely. She gave Silvyr only a passing glance as she approached them, but it was enough for him to see her distaste. If Brokil noticed, he made no show of it. "Good to see you."

Brokil remained outside the pen, moving his hands behind his back as he looked over the ewe in the pen. "How is the herd?" he asked her.

"They're well. We'll have a good turn of lambs this season," Sharn told him, smiling as she turned to follow his gaze. "Olumba is out with the rest of the herd while they graze. The ewe should be birthing within the month. A few this week I think," she added, turning back to Brokil.

"That's good to hear. I look forward to the new crop," Brokil told her. "Is there anything I can do to provide you with what you need?"

It struck Silvyr as interesting, seeing Brokil like this. He'd seen the Chief's mask before, when he was ordering his men around on the journey to Ghizol, and again when he was ordering Silvyr around, but this was somehow different. This wasn't a war chief keeping his soldiers in line, it was a leader checking in on his people. Not just the protector, but the carer as well.

Silvyr tried to imagine Father doing something like this, walking the farmlands and speaking to people covered in dirt and hay, asking how their crops were doing. The image alone nearly made him snort, and he just barely managed to press his lips together to hold back the sound.

"No, we have everything we need for now," Sharn said as she glanced at Silvyr, her scowl only serving to once again make that brief spark of happiness sour in his stomach. Silvyr tried to keep his expression neutral, but he couldn't deny the hurt he felt. He wasn't Father. He didn't want to be Father. He wasn't sure if he was able to hide the emotions on his face, but Sharn turned back to Brokil without sparing him a word. "I will have to let you go. The ewe need to be fed."

"Can I help?" Silvyr asked, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. Brokil and Sharn turned to him, surprise clear on their faces. They could easily assume, correctly, that Silvyr was unfamiliar with animal husbandry, yet he didn't want to take the offer back. "I can be of use."

Sharn didn't look like she was convinced, but she said nothing, turning to Brokil instead for his answer.

"I need to speak with a few others here," Brokil said, still looking at Silvyr, as if trying to gauge his intentions, trying to see the lie or the trick. He wouldn't find one. "If you think he would not be a hassle to you, I see no reason why he should not be put to work."

Unable to hold back a smile, Silvyr nodded. "I won't be a hassle," he said, looking to Sharn, determined to show her that he wasn't useless. That he wasn't Father.

"Fine. But if you cause any problems for me or my ewe, I'll send you back to the Chief." Sharn didn't wait for a response as she turned away and went back to her sheep.

Silvyr looked back to Brokil. "Thank you. I'll stay here," he said, lifting himself up and over the fence. He dropped into the pen and peeked at Brokil over the wooden slats, offering a wide smile.

"I'll return when I'm done. Don't do anything stupid," Brokil told him, confusion still clear on his face. Silvyr paid little mind to it and hurried to follow Sharn.

Leading him to a large shed attached to the farmstead, Sharn opened the doors, and the scent of fresh and dried hay combined to hit him like a wave. Immediately it reminded him of home, when he would sneak into the stables and feed his mare handfuls of dried hay whenever he could.

"What are you smiling at?" Sharn asked him, her voice sharp and quick.

Silvyr dropped his smile and shook his head. "Sorry, the hay just smelled nice," he said, almost bashfully, as Sharn rolled her eyes.

"Shocking that the Tyrant King would have a simpleton son," she mumbled, moving to pull down bales of hay. Silvyr bit his tongue. Starting an argument here would not be a wise decision. He wanted to prove himself, not create more tension. "Here, take this," Sharn said, handing him a bucket. "Fill it three times over with the grain and spread it over the pen. I'll spread the hay."

Silvyr turned to the barrel Sharn pointed to and set to work without complaint. Setting the bucket in the barrel, he filled it to the top with corn grains, lifted it out, and began to pace the pen. He tossed the grain carefully, trying to keep the distribution even while still working at a reasonably quick pace.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Sharn watching him, her gaze still piercing, though the longer he worked, she glanced at him less and less. By the time he returned for the next bucket, she had stopped paying attention to him altogether, focusing only on spreading out the bales of hay.

The ewe eyed Silvyr as he spread out the grain, following him and nibbling the food off the ground after he laid it out. So badly he wanted to reach out to pet a few of the ones that followed him, but he needed to focus. Maybe if he did well enough, Sharn would allow him to pet a few afterwards. They seemed to be friendly enough, or perhaps just too tired from pregnancy to be annoyed by a new man in their pen.

Halfway through the second bucket, a loud snorting and the peel of laughter caught his attention, and Silvyr lifted his head to look over at the sound.

Not far from the spot Silvyr stood was a pen of boars, the fence around them much thicker than the fence holding the ewe. They were fairly massive beasts, so it made sense, and their tusks looked larger than Silvyr remembered from any of his studies, though he'd admittedly never seen one in person before.

The laughter he'd heard came from a group of children that played on the outside of the pen, throwing fistfuls of grass at each other and racing up and down the length of the thick fence. Their laughter carried loudly through the open farmland, and Silvyr savored the sound as he continued to spread the remaining grain in his bucket.

He wondered briefly if this was what peace felt like. Was peace a sunny morning, surrounded by livestock, listening to children play? Was it a quiet day walking the streets, followed by the promise of an equally quiet night by the fireplace? He hadn't thought about it before.

Peace wasn't a concept discussed in Athowen. Father's conquests left no room for such "foolish fantasies," or so he called them. He claimed it made people weak and easily defeated, but as Silvyr listened to the orc children playing, he wondered how true that really was. They seemed perfectly happy, and from what he'd seen, the orcs certainly weren't weak. Hell, Brokil alone was a mountain of a man.

It simply didn't make sense.

A scream ripped through the air, yanking Silvyr from his musings, and he whipped his head back toward the boar pen. A young boy, who couldn't be older than five, sat up from where he'd fallen over the top of the fence. His clothes were scuffed with dirt and tendrils of fear began to carve into his face as he realized just where he was.

Silvyr dropped his bucket and threw himself over the ewe fence before the boy even managed to stand. He stumbled over his own two feet as he ran, his heart in his throat as he watched the boy reach for the top of the structure only for his fingers to fall short. Watched as one of the boars caught sight of the child, stomped its foot, and grunted.

Watched as it charged.

Silvyr pushed himself harder, ignoring Sharn's yells behind him as he launched himself over the other fence. His feet hit the ground and he lurched forward, grabbing the child underneath the arms and hoisting him over the fence. The whole incident lasted no more than a handful of seconds, but relief flooded Silvyr instantly with the boy now out of harm's reach. His crying didn't stop, but that didn't matter. He was safe.

Silvyr reached up to follow the boy over, when a sudden, sharp pain slammed into his side, forcing the air from his lungs so quickly, he couldn't even scream.

He gripped the fence hard, digging his nails into the wood as the pain of the boar's tusk pierced through him. The snarling grunts shook his body, and the beast pulled back, yanking Silvyr off the fence and slamming him into the ground.

The radiating pain in his side blurred the edges of his vision, dimming the sunlight overhead. Distantly, he could feel the ground shaking beneath him, could hear the echoes of a deep, heaving groan rattling in his ears. He tried to look for the sound, but he floated somewhere just out of reach.

He must be dying. The boar must be tearing into him, numbing the rest of his body as it tore him apart. Realizing that his eyes were closed, Silvyr forced himself to open them, if only to see the sunlight one more time. Instead, he was met with the visage of Brokil, staring straight ahead and illuminated by a halo of lovely sunrays. Had Brokil always looked angelic?

"Where is Urzul?" Brokil's booming voice tore through the buzzing in his head, fighting back the haze just enough for Silvyr to notice the thick arms supporting his body and the snorts and grunts of animals fading behind them. They must have been out of the pen now, as the world moved so quickly around them that Silvyr wondered if Brokil was running, or simply walking quicker than the pain allowed Silvyr to process. The motion pitched his stomach and Brokil looked down to lock eyes with him as he whined in protest, his frown pressing his tusks deep into his upper lip. "What were you thinking?" Brokil demanded, his voice so hushed, Silvyr strained to hear him.

It took a moment for him to register the question, and another to remember what had happened at all. "The kid," Silvyr mumbled, trying to turn his head to look for the boy. He could still hear the crying, but he hoped it was from fear. Anything but the boy being hurt.

"He's fine," Brokil huffed, arms tightening around Silvyr, one wrapped under his torso at just the right angle to press a hand against his side, forcing out a hiss of pain and low whine from Silvyr's lips. Still, he did not relieve the pressure. "You could have gotten yourself killed."

"Better than the kid. You'll probably kill me for your demands anyways," Silvyr quipped, his lips twitching into a pained smile. Brokil didn't return it, but he also didn't continue to argue, which Silvyr took as a victory, small as it was.

He tried to look back again, just to make sure the kid was okay, to verify it with his own eyes, but Brokil's wide chest blocked any view Silvyr could get. So instead, he dropped his eyes down to his side, where the pain continued to harass him, sucking in a breath when he saw the blood-soaked linen. The fabric was torn, jagged and likely unfixable, and whatever once-pale skin that was visible beneath Brokil's grip was stained dark with Silvyr's blood. The same blood that coated Brokil's hands and shone on his fingers. His blood.

Silvyr struggled to lift a hand, moving to pull the linen up, only for Brokil's voice to cut his actions short. "Don't touch it. I'm taking you to Urzul," Brokil commanded, his brows pinched and eyes flickering with something that Silvyr couldn't place.

Silvyr wouldn't argue with him, too tired for it, and let his arm hang. "Who's Urzul?" he asked instead, the name completely unfamiliar to him.

"She's a healer," Brokil said simply. Of course, that made sense. Silvyr felt a little foolish for thinking it could be anyone else.

"Not Solaro?" Silvyr tilted his head to let it rest on Brokil's chest, surprised to be met with a thundering heartbeat beneath the thick muscle. The frantic sound confounded him. Had Brokil been hurt as well? Was it because he was moving so fast? Was Silvyr just mishearing things?

"Urzul is better," Brokil said, his face relaxing somewhat, which made it much easier for Silvyr to relax as well. Seeing the chief tense and stressed had filled Silvyr's stomach with such a sickening bile that calm seemed impossible. Maybe it was the blood loss, but Silvyr found himself smiling.

He faded again after that, or he assumed he did, since Silvyr blinked and they were suddenly back in Ghizol proper, marching toward a stone-set home much like Brokil's. The outside was nearly identical, the only difference being a well-kept garden of various herbs and flowers. The sweet scent hit Silvyr's nose and he closed his eyes to take it in, wondering if Brokil might let him look at the flowers when he woke up.

"Urzul!" Brokil called, his voice holding the same urgency as before, and Silvyr hummed against his chest, a sudden wave of sleepiness hitting him.

"You're too loud," Silvyr mumbled. Brokil's fingers only tightened on his arm as he called out the name again.

A door opened and a tired voice with a hint of irritation floated to him. "I'm here, calm down." Silvyr didn't bother looking at the healer, too tired to pry his eyes open, but he heard her gasp. Heard the door creak open further. "Oh no, bring him in. Come now, quickly. I need to review the damage."

When Brokil stepped into the home, the noises of Ghizol faded away, silence descending when the door shut behind them. A new wave of smells caressed Silvyr's hazy senses, heavy incense and fresh herbs. It was delightful and he shivered. When Silvyr opened his eyes, each lid heavier than they'd ever been, he was laid out on the ground, surrounded by candles and hanging plants. He didn't recognize the home, of course, but Silvyr couldn't help but feel at ease regardless.

His eyes fell on the woman beside him who must have been Urzul. An elderly orc with a shock of short white hair and amber eyes. She wore a linen gown in a deep green hue, and what skin that did show was wrinkled from a long life in the sun.

"You're Urzul?" Silvyr asked, trying to sit up only to gasp at the pain. Brokil's hand grabbed his shoulder immediately to keep him down.

"That is my name," she said, setting a few pots on the floor beside a tin, similar to the one Brokil had in the tent. She moved quickly for someone of her age, and she didn't look at him when she spoke, focused on gathering her materials. "You're Silvyr Quilen."

"I am." Silvyr tried to smile, but found that the pain was too much for even that. It was hard enough to find the words to speak.

"Are you going to keep talking, or are you going to fix him?" Brokil huffed above him. Silvyr opened his mouth to tell him to use his manners, but he didn't need to.

"Take off his shirt, I'll fix this. And watch your mouth," Urzul said, pulling out a rag and dipping it into one of the pots on the floor. "Be careful to keep pressure on it."

Brokil scoffed, but obeyed the woman, pulling Silvyr's shirt off over his head as carefully as he could, hand lifting from the wound for only a moment before returning once the fabric was out of the way. Silvyr bit back a whimper as the movement sent a shock of pain through him, but the man refused to let up until the healer turned back to them.

"Okay, I'm ready, let me see." Urzul's voice was softer now, but still carried a firm finality that demanded strict obedience. "Oh, this is better than I thought. It isn't too deep, and looks to have missed anything important."

"It feels deep," Silvyr grumbled.

"Yes, of course. You're very soft, but I can fix this. Hold still." There was an air of playfulness in Urzul's words, and it might have made Silvyr smile if he weren't still bleeding and hazy with pain. Yet, her tone also helped calm him. If she wasn't worried, that meant he would be okay, didn't it?

Urzul's fingers pressed to his stomach with a gentle firmness, and while he'd had the urge to look down and see the wound earlier, he didn't think he could bear the sight of it now. Not even out of curiosity to watch the healer work. Instead, he turned his face to press against Brokil's thigh, and when a sudden, stinging pain brought tears to his eyes, Silvyr didn't think before snatching up Brokil's hand and squeezing tight.

"Sorry. To clean this, it's going to be painful," Urzul said, sounding like she was talking to herself more than Silvyr. "It's not deep, but it is large for someone of your size."

Nodding, Silvyr bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing himself to breathe through her ministrations, knowing from the pain and dizzying bouts that she was being incredibly thorough. He was grateful for her explanations as she worked, even if he already knew all this from his studies. He only wished it helped distract him a little from the pain. Gods, how did Brokil keep himself sitting up straight when Silvyr treated his wound?

"I will need to stitch this. What did you do to cause this wound?"

Silvyr tried to let go of Brokil's hand, but he realized the man was returning the grip, strong but gentle. He found some comfort in that. "There was a child in the boar pen," Silvyr said, his words coming out in gasps as he looked at Urzul. "One of the boars charged him, and I got him out. I was too slow to get myself out."

"Brave of you," Urzul told him, her wide smile extending the crows feet at the corners of her eyes beautifully. "And lucky. A boar could have easily gored you through the middle."

"Foolish," Brokil interjected, and Silvyr might have laughed if he didn't think the movement would hurt him. "He may as well have been gored."

"I didn't say it was smart," Silvyr said, offering him a small smile, all he could manage with the pain. Brokil just stared at him, brows furrowed but otherwise unreadable.

Urzul continued her work, taking a needle and thread to stitch the wound closed. With each stitch, Silvyr gripped Brokil's hand harder, sucking in breath after breath, trying to keep still. He was no stranger to pain, but this was incomparable to any other injuries he had faced in the past. Everything stung and burned with no end in sight, and he could only thank the gods for someone to hold onto. Brokil's hand grasping Silvyr's, the other on his shoulder to steady him, made the agony easier to bear.

"Indeed, not smart, but brave nonetheless," Urzul said, drawing Silvyr's attention once more. "I'm sure the boy's mother will be grateful, regardless of the foolishness."

Brokil's hand tightened on Silvyr's shoulder. "He could have died."

"He didn't die. He's right here, being much more polite to me than you're being, child," Urzul huffed, the action almost familiar, though he couldn't think of why. Silvyr watched Brokil's jaw tighten and knew he wanted to say more. It was the same movement when Silvyr would poke and prod him, but unlike with Silvyr, Brokil held his tongue.

Urzul tied off the stitches and pressed ointment to the wound. "You'll need to apply this morning and night until it scabs over completely. There's not much we can do for the scarring," she told him, handing Brokil the jar of ointment once she was finished.

"Thank you," Silvyr said, trying to sit up. The pain was still intense, but no longer unbearable, and Brokil's hand moved to his back to help him up. The stitches pulled, but held tight, and another wave of exhaustion hit him. Barely able to hold his head up, Silvyr decided it wouldn't be so bad to let himself lean against Brokil. He was strong and sturdy, he could hold Silvyr up.

"So, he'll be fine?" Brokil asked, keeping his hand on Silvyr's back.

"Yes, he will. He'll need to stay out of the boar pens for a while, but he will heal." Urzul's low laugh rang through the room, and Silvyr couldn't help but smile.

Dropping his head back on Brokil's sturdy chest, Silvyr met those amber eyes. His brows were no longer furrowed and he seemed at ease, though the hints of irritation still played across his face, and Silvyr could still hear his heart pounding beneath his ear. "Would you apologize to Sharn for me? I wasn't able to finish helping her feed the sheep," Silvyr asked, the words feeling like mud in his mouth.

Brokil stared down at him, jaw dropping slightly. "I can… I'm sure she isn't upset."

"I'd like to apologize anyway. Please."

"Take him home, he needs to rest," Urzul said, standing up and collecting her tools.

Without argument, Brokil slipped his arms around Silvyr and stood, holding Silvyr in his arms with ease. "Thank you, Urzul. I'll let you know if anything develops."

"See that you do." She waved him off, and Brokil didn't hesitate before stepping through the door, heading for home.

The sunlight was too bright and Silvyr closed his eyes, turning to press his face into Brokil's chest. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the familiar earthen musk coming from the orc and let himself fall into that comfort. Even though he was out of those pens, stitched and set up for healing, Brokil's arms felt like a much-needed security. Strong and secure.

Silvyr didn't hear them enter the house, but when he opened his eyes again, Brokil was laying him down in his bed. "Wha—"

"Hush. I'm getting you clean clothes," Brokil said, walking to the cabinet and grabbing a shirt without so much as a second glance. When he returned, he eased Silvyr into the shirt, one of Brokil's own that hung too loose on Silvyr's small body. He might have complained if he wasn't so tired, if it didn't smell so good, if he wasn't being distracted by Brokil removing his bloody pants and pulling the shirt down to cover him.

"Thank you," Silvyr mumbled, struggling to keep his eyes open. He needed to get to his spot on the floor before sleep took him, but when he moved to sit up, Brokil's hand was on his shoulder again to keep him still.

"No. Sleep here," Brokil said, his voice oddly soft as he pulled the blankets up over Silvyr's shoulders. "I have something I need to tend to. Sleep."

Maybe if he had more strength and wasn't so tired, he would have protested more, but the bed was so soft, and his limbs so heavy, Silvyr found himself lying back and sinking into the sheets instead.

"'Kay," Silvyr mumbled, his eyelids fluttering shut. And maybe it was the breeze from the window, or the beginnings of a dream, but Silvyr swore he felt something push his hair back from his face, the light touch dragging down his cheek and lulling him further into sleep.