18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Brokil

After Silvyr's injury, Brokil took it upon himself to make sure the boy did absolutely nothing that would make it worse or open the stitches. Despite his best efforts, over the next couple days, Silvyr made it increasingly difficult to do.

If Brokil thought the elf's threat of madness had been bad before, it was even worse now that he wasn't allowed to move around and do things. Silvyr had already torn through Brokil's bookshelves, reading and rereading several of the tomes he could reach, and bullying Brokil until he gathered the ones he couldn't. He asked more questions than ever—about the pyre and the reasons they would light it, about his meetings and what paperwork he was working on, about Urzul and her tinctures and salves.

To his credit, Silvyr tried to take care of his wound and remain calm, but Brokil could see the fire inside him, pushing and prying, trying to break free and be released, even if just from the house. Silvyr was a fiercely independent thing. He'd known that from the beginning, but this injury only further proved it. The damn elf refused to sit still, to allow Brokil to help without arguing or talking back. More than once he'd found Silvyr reaching for something higher than he could safely lift his arms, or trying to climb on something only to be forced back to the ground with Brokil's stern glare. It was maddening.

After that first trip to Urzul's, he had taken to dropping the elf off more often, appearing at her door every other day to leave Silvyr while Brokil met with the elders. It worked just as well for all of them. Brokil didn't need to worry about Silvyr hurting himself when he wasn't around, Urzul got help with her salves and medicine, and Silvyr didn't fall into bouts of madness. Even with those trips, however, the boredom was quickly getting the better of the elf. So much so that even Urzul had warned him of Silvyr's fire growing too antsy.

Perhaps he could take Silvyr to the meadows again, if his injury looked healed enough tomorrow. The elf needed the sunlight, the fresh air. There would be no boars to attack him in the meadow, and if something were to happen, Brokil would be at his side to keep him safe. To keep him from being hurt again.

Another injury, one that would not heal by the time Silvyr was returned to Athowen, wasn't good, to say the least. At best it would make negotiations with the Tyrant King harder. At worst, the wound would be blamed on Brokil and his people. Brokil had demanded that none of his people touch Silvyr, but even so, the Tyrant King would not believe that. Brokil knew the risks. If he left the boy to his own boredom, he'd no doubt injure himself even worse, and it'd further ruin any chances for peace.

Eyeing Silvyr from where he prepared their dinner, Brokil couldn't help but be grateful for the rare moment of calm. The elf sat on the rug in the living space, a spot Brokil had started calling his after growing used to Silvyr's nest taking up the space, his legs tucked under himself and a book in his lap. A familiar sight, nowadays. Despite having likely read that same red bound book twelve times over now, Silvyr still latched onto it, tracing his fingertip over the page, following the curves of the petals he was examining.

Brokil couldn't see why the elf was so enamored with that one book. It was just a picture book full of plants, nothing fancy or all that descriptive. Perhaps the merchants would have more botanical books he could provide the boy to keep him busy.

A knock at the door drew Brokil's attention from the boy, and he took the stew from the stove and set it aside. Silvyr glanced up from his book as Brokil put the flame out and moved to answer, curiosity brimming in his emerald eyes.

"Yotul, good evening," Brokil said as he opened the door, looking over the woman. A young boy hid behind her leg, peeking out just for a moment before realizing Brokil was looking at him before quickly hiding his face again. In her hands, Yotul held a dish covered in a dark dishrag.

"Good evening, Chief. May I speak with the elf?" Yotul asked him, her blue eyes shining.

Turning his head, Brokil noted Silvyr had moved to his knees with his head tilted to the side curiously. "Yes, come inside," he said, stepping aside to let them in and closing the door behind them.

Yotul wasted no time approaching Silvyr, a wide smile crossing her face as she looked down at the elf. "How are you healing?" she asked him.

Silvyr moved to stand, slowly and stiffly. Surprise flitted across his face for a moment, his brows upturned and mouth slightly ajar, but he recovered quickly, setting his face into a practiced, fake, sort of calm.

"I am healing," Silvyr replied, craning his head up to look at her, as she stood a good head taller than him. "Urzul did excellent work, but the healing process is slow, no matter how expert the hands." Silvyr let out a soft chuckle and for a moment there was a flash of pain in his eyes before it settled into that fake calm again. Brokil forced himself to stay in his spot. He would inspect the wound later that night, like always.

"She's very good," Yotul said, her voice airy and bright. She held out the dish to Silvyr. "We wanted to show our thanks to you."

Silvyr took a tentative step forward, taking the dish carefully, as though it were a trick. He looked at the dish, then back to Yotul. "This is for me?"

The woman chuckled, setting her hand on her child's head. "Yes. You saved my boy and I am very grateful to you for that," she told him. "His father is thankful too. He would have come, but he is still working our fields so he asked me to extend his thanks to you as well."

Silvyr turned his gaze down to the boy and a smile brighter than the fucking sun itself broke through. Brokil hadn't realized someone could smile that brightly, much less this snarky little prince, but it looked good on him.

"You're welcome," Silvyr said, "but you don't need to thank me. I think anyone would have done the same."

"Maybe, but you're the one who did. For that, we're thankful, right Rugbu?" Yotul turned to look at her son as he peeked his head out from behind her.

"Right! Thank you, mister elf," he said, his voice small and shy, drawing another smile from Silvyr.

"You're welcome, Rugbu. Can you promise me that you'll be more careful around those boars? They're not very nice." Another flicker of pain flashed through the elf's eyes, and Brokil clenched his teeth to keep from interrupting. If they didn't wrap up their conversation soon, he would have to politely ask them to leave so he could make sure the wound wasn't flaring.

Yotul and Rugbu didn't seem to notice. "I promise! Mama already made me promise," the boy said sheepishly, looking at his mother.

Silvyr's grin widened. "Well, that makes two promises for you to keep."

Only then did Silvyr turn his attention to the dish in his hands, pulling the rag aside to see the contents. His smile fell into a small ‘o', his eyes wide when the pastry underneath was revealed.

"It's made with fresh apples. Rugbu insisted on helping, so it's less of a pie and more of a cobbler," Yotul told him with a laugh. "It still tastes just as well, though."

If the look on Silvyr's face was anything to go by, the pastry could have been awful, and Brokil suspected the elf would still insist on eating it.

"Thank you very much," Silvyr said in a quiet voice, looking as though he were at a loss for words. As though this act of kindness was alien to him. Brokil couldn't contain his own smile, small as it was. The people in Ghizol could see that Silvyr was good, and while he was here to remove them from subjugation, their attitude toward him would make the ordeal easier. Perhaps, with their good disposition toward Silvyr, it would make negotiations with the Tyrant King easier once Silvyr returned home and told his father that he was treated well.

"We won't take any more of your time. Thank you for allowing us to speak with him," Yotul told Brokil as she nudged Rugbu toward the door.

"Of course. You're always welcome," he said, pulling the door open for them. Rugbu turned to look at Silvyr once again, waving before his mother pulled him away, walking down the path back to their home.

After closing the door, Brokil looked to Silvyr who hadn't moved an inch, still staring at the apple pie. His smile was gone again, replaced down with a crease in his upturned brow, his lips pressed into a hard line. At first, Brokil thought it had to be pain and he stepped forward to take the pastry away so he could examine the elf, but then Silvyr looked up at him, confusion etched in his features.

"What's the matter?" Brokil asked, unsure of what to do with the expression.

"I don't understand," Silvyr mumbled.

"What is there to not understand?"

"Why did she bring me this? I didn't do anything that anyone else wouldn't do," Silvyr told him.

"That is our way of things," Brokil said, a softer smile reaching his lips. "Is that unfamiliar to you?"

Silence descended on the elf, but Brokil could guess the answer. He couldn't imagine the Tyrant King leading in such a way. Silvyr had probably been given whatever he wanted without having to earn anything. Receiving a gift that came from his own actions must have been completely unknown, if not outlandish.

"It is," Silvyr admitted, dropping his gaze to the pie again. "I um…" Again, words failed to come to him, and his eyes darted from the pie to Brokil and back again. "Sorry."

"Sorry? Why?" It was Brokil's turn to be confused. In no way did it make sense for Silvyr to be apologizing at this moment.

"I don't know what I'm doing." Silvyr's voice cracked into a laugh, bitter and forced, before it was interrupted by a gasp of pain.

Jumping forward, Brokil caught the pastry before it fell with one hand, the other holding Silvyr's shoulder to keep him steady.

"Sit down," Brokil told him, taking the pastry. Without argument, Silvyr settled on the rug, pressing a hand to his side. "Stay there."

Brokil brought the pie to the kitchen, before hurrying back to Silvyr, dropping to his knees in front of him.

"Sorry, I don't think any stitches broke, I think I just pulled something," Silvyr said, his lips twitching into a tiny smile.

"Let me see," Brokil commanded, and Silvyr lifted his tunic just enough to show the wound. Thankfully, all the stitches still held fast. The edges of the wound were healthy pink against Silvyr's pale skin. "You're fine. Does it hurt badly?"

Silvyr shook his head. "It doesn't."

Brokil met Silvyr's gaze, searching for the lie. He found none, and Silvyr didn't shy away from the look, so Brokil nodded and sat back. "I'll put more ointment on it after we eat," he said, pushing Silvyr's linens back down and standing, making way for the kitchen.

Setting to work, Brokil made up a bowl of stew for each of them, eyeing Silvyr's for a moment longer before removing a small amount. He still wasn't used to how little elves ate, and more than once he had finished what Silvyr could not. With his luck, he would get the portions correct the day before they were set to return the elf to Athowen.

While the stew cooled enough to eat, Brokil grabbed the jar of tea leaves Silvyr brought back from Urzul's and scooped a portion into a mug with hot water.

The both of them told Brokil he wasn't allowed to drink it, and judging from the very distinct smell, he had an idea of what it was. His mother made it once before for a passing merchant years ago. Nothing else his mother made smelled quite like it. Not only that, but the protective way the elf held the jar against his chest confirmed his suspicions. It didn't take much to convince Brokil to leave his tea alone.

Other than preparing it of course. The first day, Silvyr had tried to do it himself, but they both learned very quickly that the iron kettle was far too heavy for his little stature, injured as he was. Maybe when he healed, he could try again. Until then, Brokil was content with preparing daily tea.

Returning to the rug, Brokil handed Silvyr his bowl, set the mug of tea beside him, and began to eat. Like every day, Silvyr ate and chewed slowly, setting his bowl and spoon down with each mouthful and sipping his tea between each bite. It must have been part of his upbringing, because Brokil had never known anyone else who ate like that. At first, he wondered if it was because the food wasn't to his liking, but each day he ate without complaint, and the worry, if it could be considered that, was discarded.

"What meat is this?" Silvyr asked before taking another bite, and Brokil found himself smiling. Ever since they visited the farms, Silvyr had taken to asking what Brokil had been cooking with.

"Beef," Brokil answered. "It's better for stews."

Silvyr finished chewing and swallowed his food, picking up his bowl again. "Can you use anything else for stews?" he asked, then took another bite, chewing thoughtfully while his eyes remained firmly upon Brokil.

"Yes, lamb," he said with a light chuckle.

"Just lamb?"

"For the recipes I use, yes."

Silvyr hummed and took another bite.

The rest of the meal passed in silence, Brokil finishing long before Silvyr did. He waited patiently, letting the elf take his time. When Silvyr finally finished, leaning forward to take Brokil's bowl, the orc swatted the hand away.

"You're hurting," he said simply, taking both bowls and carrying them to the kitchen. Silvyr opened his mouth as though to argue, a bratty quip no doubt on his tongue, but closed it just as quickly. Perhaps later Brokil would get more arguments out of him, when he was healed and not reeling from the surprise of Yotul's gift. Truth be told, he looked forward to it.

When Brokil returned from setting the bowls in the kitchen, Silvyr already had the book in his lap again, flipping through the pages intently. Brokil watched his slender fingers run over the pages before flipping each one with tender care. He looked peaceful as he read, maybe even happy. Entrancing. Brokil never found books to be his idea of entertainment, his collection being full of heirlooms that he just didn't want to part with, but this, watching the elf take in the pages and admire the craftsmanship, that could be a hobby all of its own.

"I need to put ointment on your wound," Brokil said at last, loath to interrupt, but knowing it must be done. Silvyr looked up at him when he stood to grab the ointment, but didn't argue, just tucked his ribbon into the book and set it aside.

"It feels better. I think earlier was just… I don't know, a fluke?" Silvyr said, lifting his shirt while Brokil joined him again on the rug.

Brokil leaned in to get a better look as he uncapped the jar and scooped some ointment up with his fingers. "It looks better," he said, gently pressing his fingers against the wound to spread the salve. "It will still take time, but it is healing nicely."

Despite how much care he put into his touch, the elf still sucked in a sharp breath, trying to remain still under the pain. Unbidden, the image of the boar ramming into Silvyr and digging its tusks into his soft flesh shoved its way to the front of Brokil's mind. His stomach dropped and his teeth clenched as he forced himself to focus. The elf was fine. He was here, alive, and far stronger than anyone had given him credit for.

"Though, I do think the child could have taken the hit better than you did," Brokil teased, and the chuckle Silvyr let out brought a small smile to his face.

"Really?"

"Yes. We're a hardy people. You're much softer," Brokil said, setting the ointment aside, letting both of his hands run up Silvyr's side, lightly squeezing the soft skin.

Silvyr shuddered beneath his touch, his hands coming to rest on Brokil's thighs as he tilted his head and locked eyes with him. "Do you like how soft I am?"

"Hmm, it is different," Brokil teased, grinning when Silvyr huffed at his non-answer. He may not get an argument out of him, but he could as least get him riled up. That much had not changed.

"I could just assume you like it," Silvyr said, his hands gliding up Brokil's thighs. "You touch me enough to make me think you do."

"I have said before that you are a pretty little thing, haven't I?" Brokil tilted his head toward Silvyr, chuckling when Silvyr's eyes dropped to his lips, making no attempt to hide his intentions. "Tell me, do you often make a habit of kissing men who have threatened your life?"

Silvyr's lips curled into a small smile. "I can't say that I have," he said, digging his nails into Brokil's thighs. "I don't see why either of us should deny ourselves while we're here. And if I'm being honest, my time is limited, and I don't want to deny myself."

There was a ring of truth in the boy's words. Part of Silvyr had to believe that he would not return home. The truth in that hit Brokil's chest harder than he expected, but he refused to dwell on it, instead leaning in to capture Silvyr's lips with his own and smirking when Silvyr eagerly pressed into him.

The small elf parted his lips to let Brokil taste him, his slender arms wrapping around his shoulders as he tried to pull himself into Brokil's lap. Even that small movement, however, brought a hiss through Silvyr's teeth, and Brokil carefully pulled away.

"You're going to hurt yourself," he said, clucking his tongue at the boy. Silvyr's face was already flush with desire, and Brokil knew well enough that the elf would happily continue through the pain if someone didn't stop him. "On your back."

The look of defiance lasted for only a moment, but Silvyr obeyed, sliding off Brokil's lap and onto the plush rug, laying back while keeping himself propped up on his elbows. Crawling forward, Brokil descended on him, pushing up the linen covering Silvyr's torso and pressing his mouth to his chest.

Kissing and licking the skin, Brokil took his time and savored the soft sighs and the gentle fingers running through his hair. When Brokil moved over to one of Silvyr's nipples, flicking his tongue over the hard nub, the sweetest gasp escaped the elf's pretty pink lips and Brokil had to press his hand on Silvyr's stomach to hold him down as he tried to arch his back.

If he moved too much, he'd hurt himself and Brokil wouldn't allow that. The beating from the slave traders the first day enraged him, the boar infuriated him, but if Silvyr managed to hurt himself right now, Brokil would have no one to blame but himself.

With the elf firmly held down, Brokil continued to taste him, dragging his tongue over every exposed inch of flesh as the elf continued to sigh and gasp, his fingers curling in Brokil's hair. He traced the outline of each curve and soft divot, taking more time on the scars beneath Silvyr's breasts, running the tip of his tongue over the velvety pink tissue. The elf tasted so sweet under his tongue, and his head spun.

As Brokil kissed down the elf's stomach, his beard scratching over the bare skin, he drew a soft, ticklish giggle out of his elf and smirked against Silvyr's ribs. His cock ached in his trousers, but despite the primal desire to shove his cock deep inside Silvyr, he could not deny the sweet ecstasy of simply tasting him.

"You're teasing me," Silvyr whined, trying to arch against Brokil's hold, tugging at his hair. The small spark of pain sent fire through Brokil's veins and he forced back a groan.

The elf did not lie. "I am. And you taste delicious," Brokil said, turning his eyes up to meet Silvyr's. The faint pink that flushed his cheeks drew out a predatory grin from Brokil as he released Silvyr from his hold to unfasten the elf's trousers, pushing them past his hips. The bruises from their last fucking were still evident on him. Faded purple that speckled into green and yellow, absolutely beautiful, and Brokil didn't hesitate to kiss the trail of flowers his fingers left.

"Brokil, please." Silvyr whimpered through a shuddering breath. And how could he deny such a sweet request?

Without breaking eye contact, Brokil covered Silvyr's already sopping cunt with his mouth, returning his hand to Silvyr's stomach when the elf nearly flew off the floor, a sweet moan leaving his mouth. He wouldn't give him any reprieve. Latching his lips around his sweet bud, Brokil watched Silvyr's head fall back onto the furs, his fingers tugging harshly at Brokil's hair. There was no sweeter delight than this sight, and Brokil would enjoy every moment of it.

Coming up to take a breath, he used his free hand to push Silvyr's thighs apart, biting back another groan when, much to his delight, Silvyr moved willingly, bending his knees to fully expose himself to Brokil. "Good boy," Brokil all but purred, running his tongue along the length of Silvyr's slit, his own cock throbbing with each pretty moan the elf released. "Is that good, Little Flower?"

Silvyr answered with a moan that said more than his words could. Somewhere inside him, Brokil knew that this is where it should end, this is where he should gather his senses and go back to the professional relationship they had when Silvyr had first been caught. But he was unable to break away from Silvyr's magnetic gaze, falling deeper and deeper into those plains of grass, and the taste of him was so sweet on his tongue, he swore if he were not careful, he might grow addicted to it. Perhaps it would be worth it. Burying his face in Silvyr's pussy, Brokil swore he could die happily between the elf's legs, his tongue full and his jaw dripping with the flavor of Silvyr.

"Fuck, you're so wet," Brokil growled against Silvyr's cunt, flicking his tongue over his clit. Silvyr clenched around him, and Brokil used his free hand on the elf's thigh to keep his legs apart as he trembled. "So, gods damn wet."

With every ministration of Brokil's mouth, Silvyr gasped and moaned, his hips begging to rock, to meet Brokil's tongue. But underneath Brokil's powerful hold, the boy could only tremble and whine, could only manage to get one leg over Brokil's shoulder, trying to pull him deeper. Brokil couldn't help but grin at the elf's efforts and the way he pulled his hair each time Brokil slurped against his little bundle of nerves. So soon, and the little thing was already desperate for him.

"Brokil." Silvyr's sobbing moans sent waves of electricity straight to Brokil's cock. "Brokil, I'm going to… I'm so… fuck." Every word barely came out, slurred and desperate, urging Brokil to continue his strokes.

"Cum on my tongue, Little Flower. Let me taste you," Brokil purred, wrapping his lips around Silvyr's clit.

He pulled his hand from Silvyr's thigh to slip two fingers into him, curling them to press against the spot inside Silvyr that would make him buck and plead. With his other hand still firmly holding the elf down, Silvyr could only gasp and sob, his other leg wrapping around Brokil's head as he tried to pull him closer and closer. Roughly fucking his fingers in and out of the elf, Brokil could feel him tightening and jerking under his touch.

When Silvyr came, his hot squirt gushing down Brokil's beard, the orc dipped his head down to press his tongue between Silvyr's folds, desperate to taste that sweet nectar. Yes, he decided, he could die between Silvyr's legs with the taste of ambrosia on his tongue. Silvyr's delightful moans made his head spin and Brokil pulled back, sitting on his knees, shamelessly eyeing his little prize as the elf struggled to refocus his eyes and catch his breath.

Fuck, he was beautiful with his golden hair flaring around him on the floor like a halo of sun rays. Half-lidded eyes, like rolling meadows, stared into his own, whispering his own desires before he spoke them aloud.

"I—I want…" Silvyr murmured, eyes dropping to the very obvious tension in Brokil's trousers.

With a knowing smirk, Brokil crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you want? Ask nicely, boy."

Licking his lips so lewdly that Brokil nearly shattered, Silvyr swallowed hard. "I want to taste you. Can I? Please?"

Brokil could have exploded from the question alone, and he certainly wouldn't deny Silvyr his request.

"Come, then," he said, untying the string around his trousers, smirking as Silvyr pushed himself off the floor as quickly as his tired body would allow him. On all fours before him, Silvyr placed his hands on Brokil's thighs, watching him pull his cock from its restraints and reaching for it as soon as it sprung free.

His hands were tentative as he wrapped them around the base of Brokil's cock, fingers barely able to wrap around just half of his girth. So small and delicate. Brokil couldn't stop the dark grin from spreading across his lips.

Eyes firmly on Brokil's cock, Silvyr leaned forward, running the tip of his tongue along the slit and making Brokil suck in a sharp breath. If he hadn't been injured, Brokil would have half a mind to shove his head down to take all of him in one go. "You call me a tease."

Silvyr turned those emerald eyes up to meet his, a spark of something devious flashing across them as he wrapped his pink lips around him, swirling his tongue around the head. Unable to help himself, Brokil ran his fingers through Silvyr's hair, keeping him in place as the elf descended on his cock, barely able to take the full girth, and certainly unable to take his full length. What he could not reach with his mouth, however, Silvyr stroked with his hands, up and down while his head bobbed.

By all the gods, he felt like sin wrapped in lace and silk.

Sliding his hand from Silvyr's hair, Brokil stroked the elf's cheek, shuddering at the sensitivity of his cock in that pretty little mouth. "You like that, don't you? My cock in your mouth," Brokil murmured, groaning when Silvyr moaned around him, sending those sweet vibrations through him that nearly made him come apart. "Look at you… Like you were made for this."

Made for me.

Silvyr never looked away from him, despite the flush of pink across his cheeks and the embarrassment burning the tips of his ears. Brokil's heavy breaths mingled with Silvyr's lewd slurping and moaning, the sounds muffled around his cock. Each sound echoed within Brokil's chest, filling him with heat unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. No lover, no passing fling, no one had set him aflame or sent shocks of electricity through his veins before. Not like this. Never like this.

With every lick and bob of his head, the elf pushed Brokil closer to the ledge, one he willingly wanted to dive off of, into the depths of pleasure. Silvyr's eyes flashed with something akin to pride, and Brokil found himself wanting nothing more than to claim those swollen lips with his own. To swallow each moan and mewl. To drown in his taste.

What is happening to me?

Coming up for air, Silvyr took a single breath before running his tongue along the underside of Brokil's length. Again and again, savoring him. Worshiping him. The sight alone made Brokil's cock twitch, and he knew he couldn't hold out much longer as the elf continued to use his bewitching wiles. When Silvyr took the head of Brokil's cock in his mouth again and sucked, Brokil knew he was gone.

Grabbing Silvyr's head with both hands, he let out a long, feral groan as he released his seed into Silvyr's mouth. Silvyr braced his hands on Brokil's thighs and swallowed each stream of Brokil's release, desperately slurping through his whimpers and moans.

Finally spent, Brokil let him go and Silvyr pulled himself up, gasping between coughs.

The sun having set now, the dwindling embers in the fireplace illuminated the sheen of sweat on Silvyr's skin. Had Brokil been standing, his knees would have given out at the sheer sight of it. Silvyr gasping for air, swollen lips still wet from seed and spit. It was the most beautiful sight Brokil had ever seen.

He wasted no time grabbing the elf by his shirt, pulling him up to claim those lips, smirking at the surprised gasp Silvyr let out. Even so, Silvyr leaned against Brokil eagerly, placing his hands on Brokil's wide chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he let himself be devoured.

"Good boy," Brokil whispered against his lips.

Silvyr shuddered against him, shamelessly climbing into his lap again. Brokil wrapped his arms around the elf, pressing him close enough to feel the way his heart hammered just as fast as his own.

Brokil took his lips once more, pressed his tongue into the elf's mouth and consumed everything that he was. Swallowing each soft sigh and light moan, he brought up a hand to cradle Silvyr's head, closing his eyes as though to memorize the sensation. Maybe he was. Maybe part of him never wanted this to end and would do whatever it took to keep the feeling of this elf pressed tight against him.

When they parted again to breathe, Brokil brought his hands to Silvyr's ass and stood, lifting the elf with him. "You need rest."

Silvyr did not argue with him, only dropped his head against Brokil's shoulder as he was carried to the bed chambers. Ignoring the pile of blankets on the other side of the room, Brokil set Silvyr onto his own bed, taking his time to undress the elf and put his night clothes on.

Still the elf said nothing, but he watched Brokil's every move. Emotions played over Silvyr's face so clearly that Brokil wondered if he ever needed to speak. Confusion, desire, joy and fear were written on his face as clear as cloudless skies. As Brokil tied off Silvyr's sleeping trousers, the elf moved to get off the bed, stopping only when Brokil set a strong hand against his shoulder. He hadn't realized he moved at all, not until Silvyr turned his eyes up to him.

"You sleep here tonight," Brokil said. Not a demand, but an offer. Silvyr eyed him as though it were a trick being played on him, but Brokil would do no such thing tonight. Selfishly, he didn't want to break contact with his flower. Selfishly, he wanted to keep him in his arms through the night, even against his better judgment and fear. "Lay down."

Silvyr pushed back the blankets, carefully laying himself back so as to not agitate his wound. Once settled, Brokil slipped into the bed beside him. The bed had not been designed with another person in mind, but the elf was small, and Brokil didn't care as he pressed against him and tucked the blankets around them. To his surprise, Silvyr turned to lay on his side, facing Brokil.

"Should I tell myself that tomorrow I shall return to the floor?" Silvyr asked, his voice soft and smooth. "That I should not expect this in the future?"

Brokil might have been offended if it had been anyone else, but he knew Silvyr's position, and it would be understandable if Brokil demanded Silvyr return to the floor the next night. With moonlight streaming through the open window and the cool breeze pulling him closer to Brokil's warmth, he did not know if he had the strength to say he would. "The floor is cold, and as the fall season continues and winter approaches, you will find the warmth here more preferable."

Silvyr's lips twitched into a light smile, and Brokil couldn't stop himself from running his fingers along the side of the elf's face. He traced the pad of his thumb over Silvyr's lower lip, still swollen, still shuddering under his touch.

"I need to sleep," Silvyr said, though his eyes showed that he was debating how badly he needed it.

"Sleep." Brokil pulled his hand away, watching Silvyr close his eyes and press into his pillow.

It did not take long for the elf to be pulled into unconsciousness. His exhaustion was apparent. Between recovering from his injury and their fucking, it was not surprising. Perhaps Brokil should have been just as exhausted, yet he was content to lay and watch Silvyr sleep.

Under the curtain of moonlight shining against his pale skin, Silvyr looked nearly angelic, all worry and apprehension disappearing from his face. So peaceful, so delicate. The pit in Brokil's stomach deepened at the thought, and he frowned. It had to be a form of witchcraft the elf had been using against him.

How else could Brokil explain the way his heart hammered when Silvyr looked at him, when Silvyr touched him? How else could he explain the fear that pitched his stomach when he saw the boy covered in blood? Fear for his people of course, but also fear for the elf. Witchcraft, no matter how outlandish, had to be the only explanation. That would explain his desire to learn more about herbs and flowers, plotting to use them against Brokil.

Foolish.

When Silvyr pressed up against him in his sleep, Brokil allowed himself to drape his arm over his small body, enveloping Silvyr in his own warmth and drawing forth the smallest hum past those sweet lips. Just once more, Brokil tilted his head down, letting his lips hover over Silvyr's until he barely grazed them, allowing the sensation to send shivers through his body despite the warmth of their blankets.

What is this?