19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Silvyr

"I ask you to do one simple thing, and you cannot even provide results."

Father's voice was filled with hateful malice, and Silvyr could only stand before him, hands behind his back, desperately trying to keep his composure while onlookers stared. The council Father surrounded himself with had seen the way Silvyr failed Father once again. Hope for their futures hung in the balance, and would one day be placed in Silvyr's unworthy, useless hands.

While many possibilities ran through his head, anything Silvyr could say to quell the rage within Father, nothing came out. Silvyr could only lower his head, accepting whatever fate Father deemed fit. Mother would not help him here, too concerned with maintaining her power as the King's bride. Surely, she saw the cruelty, and felt nothing for it. The second born, Arlen, better suited their desires for a strong heir, and even he stood with the council, silently watching Silvyr receive his punishment.

"Well, son, what say you?" Father's voice boomed throughout the chamber, echoing against the marble.

No answer would satisfy Father. Excuses. That's all anything Silvyr said would be deemed as. Yet silence was never an option. Silvyr lifted his gaze, meeting Father's eyes. There was no love within them. Silvyr didn't think there ever was.

"I made clear to the Lord and Lady of Xeatia the requirements that come with the protection of Athowen," Silvyr told him truthfully. He really had tried. Tried everything within his power to return to Father with results, with anything but empty, grasping hands. "They provided me with documents of their statements and finances, which I presented to you. I advised them to send a ward to Athowen until their taxes could be paid and they could show proof of maintaining their end of the contract. They declined."

"And so, you left with nothing. None of the funds we required you to bring us. No ward to speak of. No promises to pay the fines they have been neglecting." Father's voice rose, and Silvyr fought every fiber of himself to keep looking at him, not to cower and hide the way his body begged him to. He couldn't show any more weakness, lest Father's hatred grew too much to bear. "Tell me, was this venture of yours anything more than a simple vacation? Not even Ascal had been able to keep you in line. I pity her for the role she has played as your guard."

Of course, like always, Father was right. The murmurs throughout the chambers confirmed it. Mother stared on, her expression unreadable. Had she ever shown Silvyr anything more than disdain and disappointment? Perhaps when he was an infant, before he grew into his inadequacies. Now there was nothing. Just like there was nothing in Arlen. Father seemed the only one to hold any emotion toward Silvyr at all, and even then, it was only anger. Disappointment. Disgust.

"Father, I—"

"Enough. You failed once again. You know my laws, Silvyr of Quilen," Father said, silencing him. Turning to the side, Father nodded his head and Ascal stepped forward, her face creased with pain and pity. Silvyr knew this dance and said nothing. "The lash. Until he cannot stand."

The warmth around him, blocking Silvyr from the chill of night, yanked Silvyr out of restless sleep. Sometime in his sleep, even with Brokil's strong arm draped over him, Silvyr had turned his back to the orc. Hot breaths caressed the top of his head, easing him away from the memories and the lingering fear of his dream, and for the first time, he felt like he belonged somewhere.

The thought should have terrified him. Being in the arms of the man who had stolen him, held his life as a bargaining chip, everything about it should have set Silvyr's nerves on edge. Even so, he felt his muscles relaxing as the strain of the dreams slowly evaporated.

Silvyr glanced out the window to see the moon high in the sky, the night still relatively young. If he fell back asleep now, his day might not be ruined. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to close his eyes again. Couldn't risk falling back into that dream, seeing the truth in it.

The dream itself wasn't shocking. It was exactly what he expected of father, exactly what he'd expected had Brokil and his troop not stopped them that day on the road. Now, laying in the arms of a man he should hate, Silvyr found himself grateful for the way things had gone. Even with his injury, this was so much more preferable to the punishment that would have found him at home. The boar's tusk, painful as it had been, was nothing compared to the lash.

At least he earned this injury. At least his pain resulted in a child being protected from harm. Something he'd never had the luxury of experiencing.

No one saved him. When the lash met his flesh, no other tried to remove that pain. No other dared to take the lash in his place.

"You cannot sleep," Brokil's voice was surprisingly soft. Silvyr should have had the mind to jump and run to the blankets on the floor, but as Brokil's arm tightened around him, Silvyr let himself fall into the comfort, whether it was meant to be provided or not.

"I can't," Silvyr answered, keeping his voice just as soft. "Did I wake you?" He could have remained silent, yet Silvyr didn't want to lie to Brokil. Lying didn't come naturally when it came to the orc chief. Back at home, lying was the only way to survive, here, the very thought of it made Silvyr sick.

"Yes," Brokil told him simply, yet his voice held no hint of irritation. Lifting his hand, Brokil pulled Silvyr's hair away from his face and neck, replacing the thick strands with his lips. Soft, sweet, even with the tusks pressed against him, full of safety.

Silvyr snorted and turned to look at Brokil over his shoulder. "They say a lot about the orcs. They rarely speak of your brutal honesty."

The lazy smile that spread across Brokil's face brought an odd sense of comfort to Silvyr's heart. "Harder to spread fear when the rumors are that we do not lie," Brokil said, turning his attention back to Silvyr's neck.

"Honesty can strike fear as well," Silvyr whispered, lifting his own hand to thread through Brokil's hair, letting himself indulge in the softness of his curls.

"It can. Does it bring you fear, Little Flower?"

Silvyr opened his mouth to answer, but froze when Brokil turned his head to press those lips against his back. Shuddering, Silvyr considered the question as Brokil's lips trailed the faded scars along his back. Though the orc's touch was tender, barely a whisper, it sent sparks of painful flames down the lines of each scar he touched. Heat flared in his cheeks and shame welled in the pit of his stomach.

Unable to bear it any longer, Silvyr rolled to face Brokil, setting his hands on the orc's chest. Sometime in the night he must have removed his shirt, and Silvyr let his fingers curl into that thick layer of chest hair.

As though it were completely natural, Brokil's arm returned to its position over Silvyr's slender waist. He found himself moving closer, sliding his leg between Brokil's for no other reason than to touch as much of him as possible. To soak up the warmth Brokil provided, the safety and protection that his hold promised.

"Yes," Silvyr finally answered. "At home it is nothing but lies and political games. I can't… There are no lies here. It's terrifying and exposing, but I find it relieving in a way. I think I could get used to it."

Brokil was silent only for a moment. "The politics of your court are confusing," he said, bringing his hand up to cup Silvyr's cheek, running the pad of his rough thumb over Silvyr's lower lip. "I like you better when lies do not touch your lips."

"Yes. You must read between the lines. I like that I do not need to do that here," Silvyr replied, trying to keep himself from shuddering under Brokil's touch, somehow gentle despite the rough calluses.

He should stop talking. He shouldn't let this man know his weaknesses, or know that he was comfortable here. He shouldn't be. Regardless of where he was, the floor or the bed, he was Brokil's captive.

But Silvyr was a fool, and he wanted so desperately to feel like he belonged somewhere.

Silvyr dropped his gaze from Brokil's face to his chest, painted with a lifetime of scars. He let his mind wander, imagining what could have caused scars like that. His own body certainly had them, though the elven healers did well to hide them. Brokil's, however, deep velvet against the musky green skin, they almost looked artfully placed. As though they were meant to be there to decorate Brokil. Even the scar Silvyr had patched up himself, nearly fully healed, was a new piece of art on the canvas of Brokil's flesh.

Silvyr hadn't noticed he had begun to trace one of the longer scars with his fingertip until Brokil spoke, answering the unasked question.

"A dagger," Brokil said, bringing his hand to Silvyr's, setting Silvyr's hand upon another scar. "An arrow. Or rather, three." Brokil placed his hand upon yet another. "A sword, damn near removed my arm."

"It's so much..." Silvyr whispered, watching Brokil take his hand from scar to scar. "How can you take so much?"

He didn't know why he asked. What answer could Brokil give him? Nothing Brokil said would help Silvyr with his own scars. Brokil was powerful and trained for this, Silvyr was made of weakness and cowardice. Their scars, while similar in that they left a mark, couldn't be compared. Brokil wore his proudly, a show of honor, and Silvyr hated every inch of skin that his own scars touched.

"Every scar came from protecting my people. I would take every wound again and again if it meant keeping them safe," Brokil told him.

In a way, Silvyr could understand that. After all, he had thrown himself into that boar pen with only the thought to protect that child, Rugbu. He would do it again in an instant, no matter what Brokil said about staying away from the boar pens. Knowing the pain came with that decision, knowing the child was unharmed, made it easier to take. Perhaps the only scar he could proudly display.

"You really do care for your people," Silvyr murmured, more to himself than to Brokil.

He certainly couldn't say the same about Father. When was the last time Father went out to the fields to speak with the people who provided them food in the same way Brokil had? Would Father even consider it? What would Father say if Silvyr even suggested it? Would it be considered another sign of weakness?

"I do," Brokil said.

He didn't need to finish his thought. Silvyr knew it. That's why he was here. To protect his people and give them a better life. Gods knew that Father wouldn't allow it if it were up to him. There was no other option for Ghizol. Father couldn't be convinced with words or bribes, not even the promise of peace would sway Father. If only they had taken the right person, Father would bend to their will. Silvyr was not that man.

Letting his hand rest on Brokil's chest, Silvyr lightly curled his fingers back into that thick layer of hair. He didn't want to think about Father anymore. "How long have you been chief?"

"Ten years. I took my position when I reached my twentieth year," Brokil explained, mercifully allowing Silvyr to change the subject. "It was taken by a vote."

"A vote?" Silvyr shifted, trying to lay eye level with Brokil. He wanted to laugh at how easy it was while they were laying down, he had expected it to be difficult.

The look on Brokil's face was one of amusement. "That isn't normal to you, is it?" Brokil chuckled low in his throat. "When the chief steps down, from age or death, a new chief is selected on merit. Usually, the prior chief joins our council of elders, as I plan to do."

"So, your people chose you to rule them," Silvyr said.

"Not rule. Lead," Brokil corrected him. "There is a distinction." It made sense of course. Silvyr could see it in the way people followed Brokil, watched him when he walked by, and spoke to him like a friend, albeit a very polite friend.

"What made them choose you?" Silvyr asked.

Already he could imagine a multitude of reasons. Brokil was strong, smart, and charismatic. The qualities of a natural leader were all there, all within that powerful man. Silvyr knew it the moment he saw him, radiating his strength in the sunlight. Terrified as Silvyr was then, the exhilaration was undeniable, and he knew he was not the only one who felt it when looking upon Brokil. But he learned other things over time as well, like the honesty and kindness the orc showed, to his people, his city, even to his supposed enemy's son.

Yes, Silvyr could see why they'd chosen him for the honor.

Thankfully, Brokil didn't seem to take offense to it. "I'm told I'm a natural leader. But I'm certain it's because I simply do what it takes for us to live in peace," he said as though it were the most natural thing.

"Surely you're not the only one who does that," Silvyr said, Salthu and Murzush coming to mind. They both seemed to do whatever it took to protect their people. Yet, they followed Brokil's lead with obvious respect and dignity.

"Perhaps not," Brokil answered, a vulnerability in his words for the first time, "yet they chose me, and I do not want to let them down."

In his eyes, Silvyr could see the desire to follow through on what their demands had promised. While Silvyr was still the bargaining chip, he couldn't find it in himself to be upset. He needed to hate this man. Curse him, spit on him, fight against him. But none of that seemed to matter. Instead, respect and admiration took over. If Silvyr had even a fraction of what Brokil had, maybe he could be a worthy king after Father, if he ever made it to see the day.

"I haven't seen much, but I have seen that you are a good leader," Silvyr told him, his lips twitching into a smile. "Your people respect you. It's obvious."

"Is that what you believe?" Brokil sounded like he didn't quite believe him, as though Silvyr would lie to him.

"I do. I've seen it," Silvyr told him.

The way Yotul just knocked on his door to speak with them, the way Sharn spoke to him with ease, the way Salthu challenged him, never afraid of repercussions. Silvyr could think of no one else who commanded in such a way. It was completely unknown to Silvyr.

Brokil hummed, his hold around Silvyr tightening just a little. Silvyr allowed himself to be pressed against the larger man, letting his forehead rest against Brokil's collar bone. He took in the sweet musk that sent warmth through every vein, pulling him in deeper and deeper.

He wouldn't sleep yet, not with the dream still lingering and the threat of the chamber and the lash still forefront in his mind, but Silvyr imagined he could if he wanted to. Wrapped here in Brokil's arms, the warmth and protection could easily lull him back if he let it. He didn't, willing himself to stay awake and praying to any god that would listen that Brokil would be kind enough to stay awake with him.

"Will you tell me about your family?" he asked quietly.

"Hmm. You've met my mother already," Brokil said through a low chuckle, and Silvyr couldn't stop himself from lifting his head back up.

"I have?" he asked, trying to think of everyone he had met him Ghizol so far. The realization was obvious, and brought a laugh out of him. "Urzul."

"The very same," Brokil said, tucking a strand of hair behind Silvyr's ear, letting his fingers linger.

"I should have guessed it was Urzul." Silvyr traced his fingers across Brokil's cheeks and smiled when the man leaned into the touch. "You have her eyes. They're the same color."

"She's a good woman, if not stubborn," Brokil said.

"Sounds familiar," Silvyr couldn't help but tease, and the smile on Brokil's face made his stomach flutter. "So, you grew up with Ghizol's healer. Was she always in that role?"

"From the moment I was born, yes," Brokil told him.

"What about your father?"

"He passed before I became chief. He was chief before I was," Brokil said, letting his own hand rest in the crook where Silvyr's neck met his shoulders.

Silvyr should have stiffened under his touch, but he found himself leaning in as Brokil ran his calloused thumb along the length of Silvyr's jaw. "What was he like?"

Brokil hummed in thought, closing his eyes as a small smile slipped onto his lips. "He was a good man. Strong and fearless. Everyone he met respected and loved him. Every day he would leave home early to meet with the Elders and do jobs around Ghizol, not returning until long after the sunset. He died protecting Ghizol," Brokil said, opening his eyes. "I want to be half the man he was."

Vaguely, Silvyr remembered everything Urzul said about her late husband and couldn't help but smile. They both talked about that man with such admiration and love. It felt nice. Yet, Brokil spoke with undeniably more reverence.

"I would have liked to meet him," Silvyr said, an honest response. Anyone who could uphold the description Brokil gave him had to be someone worthy of leadership. "Under different circumstances."

Brokil chuckled low in his throat. "Under different circumstances, he would have liked you."

While kind and very sweet, Silvyr didn't think he believed it. The son of a tyrant was not liked by anyone. They both knew that, and whatever kindness they shared with each other now wasn't meant to last. It couldn't last. Before Brokil could bore into his mind, Silvyr shifted to press his face against Brokil's chest.

"What is your mother like?" Brokil asked before Silvyr could force himself into sleep.

Taking a breath, Silvyr considered how much he should share with this man. Telling him the entire truth was out of the question, yet the idea of hiding it twisted his gut. If he told Brokil, would he go and tell the Elders about it? Would it be used to further degrade him and humiliate him?

Laying in his arms, Silvyr decided that whatever humiliation was coming his way would be unavoidable regardless. "I don't know her," Silvyr admitted for the first time out loud. It wasn't a secret to those within the Athowen castle grounds, but when he felt the orc shift and felt that hot breath on the top of his head again, he knew he had taken Brokil by surprise. "I was raised by nurse maids. I didn't meet Mother until I attended my first meeting with Father's Council."

"Not once?" Brokil's voice was suddenly strained, full of disbelief.

"Not that I remember. I had a nursemaid named Velora, she's the one who took care of me as a child, before Father's tutors took over," he explained.

"Was it the same with your brother and your mother?"

Silvyr nodded. "Yes. Arlen's nursemaid was Coral."

Brokil was silent, and Silvyr might have assumed he had fallen asleep if he weren't still running his fingers through Silvyr's hair, lightly pulling apart the tangles. "Are you close with your brother?"

Silvyr could have laughed. "No," he said, probably too quickly as Brokil's fingers curled in his hair. "He took up the sword, and Father kept him with the troops and assigned him several tutors in the arena of war."

"You never took up the blade."

Silvyr shook his head. "No. I told you before, I am not good at it. My studies remained political and medical. While Arlen was leading troops on campaigns, I traveled to make reports on taxes and other contracts. There was little overlap." Silvyr closed his eyes, nuzzling into the orc's coarse chest hair. "I would see him, with Mother and Father, during meetings with the Council and feasts when Father was entertaining guests. Mother and Father proudly displayed his accomplishments."

"And yours?"

"None to speak of." This time Silvyr did allow himself a broken chuckle. "You could probably count being the only Quilen to have been held for ransom as my first." He knew that's how he would be remembered. Father would ensure it. Back in Athowen, he imagined it was a hot topic of discussion, Silvyr's absence and his failure to prevent it.

Brokil did not laugh. "You never took up the blade, and yet you carry scars that come from those captured after a battle. How?" Brokil asked, his fingers leaving Silvyr's hair and trailing down the phantom lines across his back.

Throat dry and sudden dizziness slamming into him, Silvyr sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, pressing his face harder against the orc's chest. There should be no comfort there, yet it quelled the raging storm within him. Still, he knew he couldn't speak of that. Not right now, not when he was this close to Brokil. They had shared too much already, and he wouldn't understand it anyway.

"I need to sleep," Silvyr finally whispered, praying to all the gods that Brokil would let him.

"Will you answer just one more question, Silvyr?" Brokil asked him, his voice suddenly so tender it made Silvyr's eyes sting with tears.

Struggling to think of any reason not to, Silvyr nodded. "Yeah, I can."

"The scars on your chest," Brokil started, his hand sliding over Silvyr's side and to his front, his thumb grazing the scar through his linen. "I know what you've done, but how?"

Grateful that he left the other scars alone, Silvyr shifted to lay his head back, gazing up at Brokil. "I told you I studied medicine."

"Yes. Do you mean to tell me you did it with no help?" Brokil asked, his hand slipping underneath the linen to feel at Silvyr's chest. It should have made him uncomfortable, having the man set to kill him one day touch him so intimately and know him to his core, but as Brokil ran the pad of his rough thumb along Silvyr's scar, he only found that he felt secure for the first time.

"I had help," Silvyr admitted with a light chuckle. "I did a lot of research, and I found a group of scholars and healing priests who had experimented with this—" Silvyr paused to place his hand on Brokil's, only his linens separating them. "—I had them brought to Athowen to do it to me."

"The scars look like leaves, or petals," Brokil murmured, dropping his gaze to Silvyr's hand resting over his. His heart fluttered in his chest, and he wondered if Brokil could feel it. If he could, he made no sign of it. "They are beautiful."

Heat crept into Silvyr's cheeks, warming his ears and rolling down his neck. "Really?" It was nearly impossible to consider the notion that any part of him, let alone his scars, was beautiful. But Brokil hadn't lied before, and Silvyr saw no reason for him to start now.

"You don't believe me?"

"It just feels… Strange," Silvyr admitted, unable to look Brokil in the eyes. "I should probably sleep."

"Sleep then," Brokil said, a little mercy that could have brought Silvyr to tears. Instead of crying, he let himself rest an arm over the orc, allowing himself to be drawn in, pressed tight against Brokil's sturdy chest.

Before the night took him, Silvyr wondered if home would ever feel like this.