20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Brokil

Waking to the rays of sunlight through his window would never cease to bring him peace.

Brokil pulled himself out of bed, briefly noting that the spot held by the elf the night before was empty. He had probably woken early, taking another one of Brokil's books to the living area to spend his time like usual. Brokil took his time pulling on his clothing for the day, ignoring the growling in his stomach. Food would come, he could afford to move leisurely. It meant more time to think.

More time to figure out what the fuck he was doing.

Sharing his bed with the elf hadn't been the best decision in his life. When the Tyrant King finally responded to their demands, it was a definite possibility that he would have to hold up his end of the bargain and kill the elf. If he didn't, his command would come into question. His ability to lead his people would come into question. The council agreed to the terms before Brokil carried out his plan, and he could not ignore them without the risk of being viewed as weak, unable to do what needed done.

Silvyr knew this and, perplexing as it was, didn't seem bothered by the possibility that his end would come by Brokil's hand. He didn't count the elf to be so foolish that he didn't think it was possible. Maybe he even seemed hopeful for it.

For a moment, Brokil let himself wonder if Silvyr felt the same calm that Brokil did when they shared a bed. Silvyr was not the first he had lain with, certainly wouldn't be the last, but when he thought back to previous lovers, none of them fit in his arms as well as the elf, small as he was. It was disturbing and unacceptable, yet he couldn't help yearning for another night like it.

Brokil shook the thoughts away, resolved to keep himself on the path set before him. The path he agreed to. The wiles of a pretty little elf should have no influence on the future of his people.

Tying off his trousers, Brokil stepped into the living area, scanning the room only to find it empty. His stomach dropped.

"Boy?" Brokil called, receiving no answer.

No matter, Brokil walked through the kitchen to check the washroom. It wouldn't be the first time the elf woke before him to clean himself, and after their evening… Well, Brokil wouldn't mind a wash either.

Silvyr wasn't there either.

Dread and rage broiled in his stomach as he flung himself outside. He had been tricked. That damned fucking miserable elf tricked him. He was a snake and nothing more, and Brokil fell into his trap like a damn fool.

Expecting to see the soldiers moving to find the elf, he was utterly shocked to see the people moving to and from their homes with little sense of urgency. They didn't know Silvyr had gone. Good. He couldn't let panic seep into their people. If Silvyr wasn't returned, their plan would be ruined, their people would be ruined.

He needed to find Murzush. She would know where to start. Her tracking abilities were better than anyone else in the village and she'd be the least likely to mock him for losing the elf. Salthu wouldn't hesitate to tease him, if only after they dragged the boy back.

He took a long inhale, forcing his shoulders down and his posture casual as he began the walk to the city proper. He couldn't let on that there was anything wrong, not until he reached the Council Chamber to start the official search for the little shit of an elf. Around him, the people continued to go about their day, completely unaware. A little victory.

"Chief!"

Brokil turned his head at the call, watching an older gentleman, Grunbar, rush up to him. He did not slow his gait, but made sure to give the man his attention.

"Yes?" he said, hoping his voice displayed just the right amount of urgency and calm.

"The elf asked me to tell you," Grunbar started and Brokil came to a halt, Grunbar nearly stumbling over his feet in his haste to follow. "Ah, sorry. He asked me to tell you that he went to the meadows."

Relief hit him like a wall, followed quickly by a fury that settled in his stomach. The elf required a chaperone, he knew better than to go out on his own, especially injured as he was. Hells, he was shocked that none of the other orcs of Ghizol stopped Silvyr from trekking out to the meadows.

Brokil nodded to Grunbar. "Thank you," he said simply, turning to head for the meadows beyond the farmland.

He would give Silvyr an earful for his antics. Just because he had been allowed to sleep in Brokil's bed did not mean he had free reign of Ghizol. It certainly did not mean he could just leave without a word, or a note, or anything to let Brokil know where he was going. More than that, Silvyr could have gotten himself hurt again, and without Brokil there, who would ensure his safety? For all he knew, Silvyr could be bleeding out in the meadows with no one to help him. Without Brokil there, how would Silvyr defend himself from anything?

Quickening his steps as he moved through farmland, politely saying hello to whoever acknowledged him, Brokil crossed the border of Ghizol to the wildlands surrounding them. Before him, a valley of wild grass and flowers flowed in the breeze. Not too far off, Brokil spotted the errant elf and stomped his way over to the boy. Silvyr didn't seem to notice as Brokil neared him, too focused on the flora surrounding him.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Brokil demanded, stopping just behind him.

Silvyr did not look at him. Instead, he turned a petal between his fingers, the other hand holding the flower it came from. "I'm looking at the flowers," he said simply, making no move to get up. From the sounds of it, there was no intention to apologize either.

"So, what was I supposed to think when I awoke to an empty home? Will I have to bar the door even when I'm there?" Brokil asked him, stepping around Silvyr to look down at him and crossing his arms over his chest.

Finally, Silvyr looked up at him, his expression calm, though his brows furrowed upward, as though he didn't understand why Brokil was upset with him. "I had asked someone to tell you where I was. His name was Grunbar, I think?" Silvyr set the flower in his lap to give Brokil his attention.

Brokil sighed, plopping into the flowers across from Silvyr. "I thought you had run off."

"I didn't run," Silvyr said, and Brokil rolled his eyes. Obviously, he could see that. His next words dropped lower, nearing a whisper. "There is nowhere for me to go if I did."

Brokil eyed him, unsure of what to think. The night before he had seen a glimmer of something in Silvyr's eyes, but he turned away before Brokil could identify it. Now, in the sunlight where he could not hide, Brokil could see the storm inside Silvyr. A losing battle against himself.

"Home, I would assume," Brokil said, blinking in surprise when Silvyr chuckled and shook his head.

"I don't think I would. That isn't home," Silvyr admitted to him, a strangely sad smile crossing his face.

"What do you mean?" Brokil couldn't understand what on earth the elf was talking about. It was clear that he led a lonely life, but he was a prince. The son of the most powerful man around them and destined to take over once the Tyrant left the mortal coil. How could he not wish to go home?

"You lead your people well. They respect you," Silvyr stated, turning his attention to another flower in his lap, peeling apart the fibers of the stem. Saying nothing, Brokil waited for the elf to continue. "People do not respect my father. He rules through force and fear, but I'm sure you know that."

Plucking off a petal, Silvyr turned the silky piece in his fingers, his hands trembling slightly, though he did not acknowledge it.

"I do know that," Brokil answered. Slowly. Carefully.

The pieces were starting to come into view, blurry at first, then clearer and clearer. Every little instance he'd thought odd or out of place for a supposedly spoiled prince. The lack of love in Silvyr's eyes when his father was mentioned, the outburst by the river, the way he tried to avoid any conversation around his father. The loneliness in every word he spoke about his family. Would family even describe it? The elf spoke of them as if they were blood ties and nothing more.

Silvyr stopped moving his fingers along the petal, staring at his hands. "Father runs the family in the same way," Silvyr said, dropping the petal in his lap.

Silence hung around them. With his eyes down and his hands still in his lap, it was nearly impossible to tell what the elf was thinking. Normally, all Brokil needed was to see the look on Silvyr's face, as the elf wore his emotions and thoughts like a title within his eyes. Perhaps that's why the boy wouldn't look at him now.

"You are right when you call him the ‘Tyrant King,' you know," Silvyr continued, letting out a small, bitter chuckle. "It's probably foolish to tell you this, but I know that if he accepts your demands and I am returned home, I will receive the punishment he had planned for Ghizol."

Somehow, that did not shock Brokil, yet hearing the words out loud set his veins alight. It would not be surprising for the Tyrant King to take out his anger on Silvyr instead of the orcs when the terms in their demands prevented his retaliation. But it should be surprising. The idea of it was so astronomically ridiculous that Brokil struggled to understand it.

"Why would you be punished?"

Finally, perhaps mercilessly, Silvyr lifted his head, locking eyes with Brokil and letting him see the truth. "I let you take me," Silvyr said simply. "You remember when you stopped the caravan? I willingly let you take me with you. I did not fight back."

"I recall you running the first chance you got," Brokil countered, though part of him felt that he just needed to bring some levity to the air around them.

"I'm not a fool, I couldn't know what you had planned for me," Silvyr's lips twitched into a light smile, barely there, "but after you told Ascal that you would have the escorts I traveled with killed, I had to stop you. I didn't want bloodshed."

Of course, Brokil remembered. It had been surprising at first that Silvyr seemed to give up with little fight. "And your father—"

"Will think I'm a fool regardless. If I had followed his desires, I would have let my escorting guard fight," Silvyr explained. "But I didn't know how many of you there were, and you had already subdued us. Making them fight would have been foolish, and we would have lost without much struggle. Even knowing that, knowing that we couldn't have won against you, Father will find fault in that I did not even try. I should have fought you, even if it would have led to the death of the escorts. Even… even if it led to my own death."

Every point Silvyr made was correct. If he didn't want bloodshed at that moment, Silvyr made the right call. He made the call that ended with every single member of his traveling party returning home to their families, that allowed Brokil and his warriors to return home safely as well.

"He cannot possibly put that blame on you." Brokil didn't believe it. He didn't know how the Tyrant King could twist the situation in that way. Yet looking at Silvyr, the sadness in those eyes, he knew he spoke truth. "But he would."

"Yes. When you stopped us, we were on our way back from Xeatia. Father sent me there to try to collect the taxes they hadn't been paying for the last few months. From that venture, I would have returned empty handed." Silvyr brushed the remains of his flowers from his lap and shifted to hug his legs to his chest. He set his chin on his knees to maintain eye contact with Brokil. "I was expecting punishment when I returned from that as well. On top of my failure to bring the promised revenue, I also allowed myself to be taken without a fight. Combined, Father will view this as my failings. That's how he is. If he cannot punish you, he will find someone to punish in your place."

"The scars on your back—"

"Father prefers to exact his punishments with the lash," Silvyr told him, shrugging his shoulders, speaking as though it were nothing. As though the lash was an obvious choice, a constant in his life. "It will not be the first time I have been punished. It will likely not be the last."

Looking at him head on, Brokil would not have assumed that Silvyr had ever known the lash. That first night when he took Silvyr so roughly in his tent, the faint lines on his back had barely registered to him as they glimmered beneath the lantern light. Long faded, either through time or medicine, and Silvyr hid them well. Then last night, seeing them under the moonlight before Silvyr turned to hide them from view, then his refusal to speak on them when Brokil asked, the evidence was plain to see.

"You believe that when you are sent home, you'll meet the lash again," Brokil said, watching Silvyr tilt his head forward. Not quite a nod, but answer enough still. Sudden fury filled his veins and he took a breath to calm himself, counting down until the red left his vision. "Do you even want to return home?"

"No," Silvyr said, almost too quickly as a bitter smile crossed his face. "That makes me stupid, doesn't it? That I'd rather be held here than return home. What sort of idiot wants that?" Every word spilled out faster than Silvyr could contain them, and the sorrowful wetness at the corners of his eyes threatened to spill over with every confession. "What sort of idiot would rather die here than be sent back home? Gods, I'm a fool."

When the tears finally came, a dull throb ached in Brokil's chest. Tears were not made for a face like Silvyr's. He wanted to believe it was a lie. He wanted to think that Silvyr was making everything up to gain sympathy and force Brokil to remove whatever was left of his defenses. Yet maybe, against his better judgment, he believed him.

He hoped it wasn't willful ignorance.

"Come here," Brokil said, patting his thigh for Silvyr to sit. He didn't know what he could do, but he wanted to do something.

For a moment too long for his liking, Silvyr stared at him, eyes widening at the offer, the steady stream of tears continuing. Silent and constant.

The elf shifted, and at first Brokil thought he would take up his invitation, instead Silvyr pulled himself to his feet. "I fear I have spoken too much. I'll return to your home now," Silvyr said, though he didn't turn to leave. He remained there, waiting for permission to go.

"Go ahead," Brokil said, though he did not like his concession. He hated that he didn't make the demand to pull Silvyr to him. Might have, if not for the way the elf's lips quivered with his hesitance.

What would he be able to do about it? Silvyr wasn't a fool. He knew just as well as Brokil did that no matter what, the two courses his life could take were set in stone, and neither option was fair. When Silvyr turned to walk away, Brokil remained, watching him until he disappeared from view.

Where he had been, the remains of mutilated flowers littered the small piece of meadow that Silvyr had taken refuge in. Brokil reached out, plucking up the flower Silvyr hadn't had time to destroy. A pink blossom with veins of purple and yellow that shimmered in the sunlight. Brokil set it behind his ear, planning to bring it back for the elf.

Laying back in the flowers, Brokil stared into the cloudless sky. He knew the Tyrant King was a monster, but he imagined at least his family would be safe from his rage and tyranny. When he met the elf, he assumed Silvyr was nothing but the spoiled brattling of a king with too much pride and power. Just how wrong had he been?

The flames behind the elf's eyes deceived him. Brokil had thought they belonged to someone with just as much cruelty and hatred as the Tyrant King. It wasn't so. The elf gave too much away, and Brokil could feel the fight within him, though it was bred for a different purpose. What that purpose could be, Brokil didn't know, but it certainly didn't match that of the Tyrant King. Now, no matter what, Silvyr would either be returned to his father where he would continue to be tormented, or Brokil would take his life. Brokil couldn't say which would be more merciful, but he knew which Silvyr seemed to prefer, and he hated himself for it.

Pulling himself off the ground, Brokil returned to the village. There was no concern that Silvyr had gone anywhere other than where he said he would be. It would have been wise for Brokil to assume Silvyr would run, but he knew he wouldn't. If he spoke truth, and Brokil saw no lies within him, then there truly was nowhere for him to go like he believed.

With the noon sun high in the sky, Brokil made way for the center of Ghizol, intent on updating the council on the elf. He would not betray whatever trust Silvyr held in him, nor share what the elf confided in him, but he would make his concerns for the honoring of their terms known.

He knew what telling the council meant. It was no secret the heavy risk their plan had been to take, and most believed the prince would die by their hands when they sent their demands. For their freedom, the price of war was well worth it.

Yet now, Brokil did not know if he had the strength to plunge the blade.

???

Leaving the Council Chamber, he had half a mind to go straight home. Yet through the entire meeting speaking with The Elders, Brokil couldn't stop thinking about the elf. Not the elf as their hostage, but Silvyr, who was filled with so much pain. Maybe keeping the elf so close was a mistake. He was wavering.

It was unacceptable, and he needed to be returned to center. He could have asked Salthu or Murzush for their guidance, but he knew the answers they would give. They would have Silvyr sent to the dungeons, and the darkness below would consume him. Though it might have been the smart thing to do, the thought twisted Brokil's stomach. Salthu and Murzush would not do. He needed guidance from one person, and one person alone.

Urzul.

She would know what to do. She always did. If Brokil couldn't trust anyone else, if he couldn't even trust himself, he could trust her. There was no one else who would provide him brutal honesty and gentle understanding. Surely, with her many years of life experience, she would know what to do. If Brokil simply followed her guidance, he would be okay, and Ghizol would thrive.

His father followed that maxim, and Brokil would too.

He didn't bother knocking when he reached Urzul's home, though the inside gave him pause as he shut the door behind him. Brokil had long ago gotten used to the clutter, an organized mess his father used to call it, but now the home looked cleaner than usual. Judging by the height at which that organization stopped, he could only assume Silvyr had spent his time here doing more than just making salves.

Brokil caught himself smiling and shook his head. "Mother," he called into the home.

"One moment!" Urzul called from the kitchen.

Instead of waiting, Brokil decided to join her, stopping at the entryway to the kitchen. Urzul was on her knees, searching through the cabinets, probably for a container to put whatever tincture was boiling on the stovetop.

"I need to talk to you," he told her.

"And I told you one moment." Urzul was stern, and Brokil bit back a groan. Yes, Urzul was the only one who would know what to do, but dammit, she was stubborn. "Be useful while you're here and grab that pot."

Brokil huffed and grabbed the pot handle, pulling it from the stove. When Urzul finally removed the container she was looking for, he poured the stinking mixture into it, crinkling his nose. He didn't know what she was making, but by the smell alone he suspected some medicine for a horrible affliction that Brokil had no interest in testing out.

"Thank you." Urzul said, setting the container and pot aside and wiping her hands off on her linens.

"Can we talk now?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yes yes, come sit." Urzul motioned toward the scattered sitting pillows and fur rugs that took up the living area and Brokil didn't hesitate to take his usual spot beneath the window. "You want to talk about the elf, yes?"

"The— How did you—"

"He came by a few hours ago to get more tea," Urzul said as she sat down, unphased by the surprise in Brokil's voice. "He looked a little, oh what's a good word? Wilty. So, tell me what happened. Did you hear word from Athowen?"

He heard word, but not from Athowen itself.

"Athowen hasn't sent anything. Not yet." Brokil rubbed his face. He rehearsed what he would say over and over again on his way to Urzul's, but looking at her now, he wondered if she just knew.

She looked at him intently, like she was analyzing one of her herbal medications for quality. It was a little unsettling, knowing that she could see right through him and whatever mask he put on. Though, that's why he was there. He needed her to look beyond the mask and tell him what to do. What was right. For Ghizol. For the elf. For himself.

"Well. Then what did you want to discuss? I do hope you're not planning on stopping him from visiting me," Urzul said. "I quite like having the extra set of hands around here."

"That," Brokil said. "That right there. He's going to be gone soon. I don't know how soon, but he will be. Whether he's returned home, or ended by my hand." Saying it out loud tightened his throat. The reality of the situation, while never far from his mind, twisted itself around his ribs, tightening their hold. "Gods dammit," Brokil groaned, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"And you don't want that." Urzul spoke with such certainty, she might as well have slapped him in the face.

"I'm not going to betray Ghizol. I'm not going to let the Tyrant King walk all over us and bring us to ruin," Brokil said, though who he was trying to convince, he couldn't say. "I know that's the right thing to do. I know keeping everyone here safe is what's best, and we're too far in to go back now, but—"

"Silvyr is not what you expected," Urzul finished the thought for him, a knowing smile on her face.

"Not at all," Brokil admitted. "How is that possible? He was raised by that monster, but he's nothing like the Tyrant King. Mother, the elf can't even hold a kitchen knife correctly. How will killing him make us any better than his father? When we made the plan, I thought that if we had to kill him, we'd be removing another monster. We'd be ridding the Tyrant King of an heir that was just as horrible as he is."

Urzul said nothing, only stared at him, silently urging him to continue.

"But the elf isn't a threat. He picks flowers and makes medicine. He admires your books on flowers, and talks about anything but war. How will killing him make us good?" Brokil asked her. "I know I've killed before, and I regret none of the lives I've taken, but him… I think I would regret killing him."

If what the elf said in the meadows was true, sending him back to Athowen would still be a death on Brokil's hand. Even if Silvyr still breathed, his spirit would die, and that would fall on Brokil now. His actions would create that torment upon the elf.

"You and Thrakil are so much alike," Urzul said, her voice falling to the low, soothing tone she took when Brokil was a child and had scraped his knee. He almost smiled. "You are facing the same conundrums he did as chief. Situations are rarely black and white. Thrakil struggled with it then, much like you are now."

"What would he have done?"

"I cannot say—"

"But—"

"Don't interrupt me," Urzul chided, waggling a finger at him. Brokil swallowed his words, despite how badly they wanted to tumble out. "I cannot say what he would do, because he was not a man swayed by rigid lines. He did what his heart told him to do. What is yours telling you?"

That was the problem. He didn't know what was right. He didn't know what to do. How could he trust his heart if it had the potential to lead him away from serving the people he swore to protect? It wasn't an option. Ghizol was the gem he was charged with defending, not Silvyr.

Brokil dropped his head. "I don't know."

"Then you need to figure that out. I wish I could tell you how to act and what to do, but I can't. I am not the chief of Ghizol. You are," Urzul said, reaching out to rest a hand on Brokil's knee. "Our people chose you. They chose you because they know your heart is ultimately good, and you will do what needs to be done. Whatever that is, they trust you to do it. You need to find that. I cannot find it for you."

As much as he wanted to deny her and demand a straight answer, he knew Urzul was right. As frustrating as it was, as horrendously maddening as it was to have a compass without a needle, he knew he would have to craft the pin himself to guide Ghizol to prosperity.

"Go home, Brokil. You have much to think about," Urzul told him.

"Thank you, mother." Brokil lifted himself to his feet, Urzul following his lead.

"Of course." Urzul reached up to cup his face in her wrinkled hands and he leaned into her touch. "You are a good man, Brokil. Remember that. You will do the right thing. I have faith in you, as does the rest of Ghizol."

"I hope you're right," Brokil said, setting one hand over Urzul's. "None of this is what I expected. These feelings are confusing, and I fear they are only leading me astray."

"I know. You are feeling these things for a reason. If you had no qualms about killing an innocent, you would not have been made chief. You would not be your father's son. But you are, because you are good." Urzul pulled her hand back and straightened up. "Now, get home now. Oh, and if you can, send the elf here tomorrow. I need help making some tea for the colder months."

Brokil smiled and nodded. "Of course. I will send him to you," he said.

When he stepped back on the path home, the sun was nearly touching the horizon and Brokil had no true answers to the questions that tore through him. He plucked the flower from his hair and twirled it between his fingers, tracing the shape of the petals beneath his finger as gently as he could.

He wanted to do the right thing. He wanted to be a good man above all, to keep those he cared about safe, all of them. He just needed to find a way.

And if he could protect Silvyr in the process, he would.