23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Brokil

If he ever got the chance, Brokil would savor the sensation of the Tyrant King taking his last breath, preferably with Brokil's hands wrapped around his worthless fucking throat.

He didn't know how much of what Silvyr said he believed, but he knew the elf was not a good liar, not when Brokil looked him in the eye. He would crumble or blurt out too much truth when he lied, but yesterday, everything he said had been slow and thoughtful. As though Silvyr passed the words over in his head more than once, practicing the way they might spill from his tongue. The way Silvyr's lips quivered so subtly, Brokil knew that he spoke truth. The evidence was right there, it would be foolish to deny it.

Then, when he looked into Silvyr's eyes in the midst of their fucking, he saw him, his truth, perhaps for the first time. Saw that Silvyr thought he'd never leave Ghizol alive, and that if he did, he would meet a fate just as cruel. Saw that despite all that despite all that, despite the tears that flooded over his cheeks, that fire still burned in his eyes. He hadn't given in, not yet, but they both knew it was only a matter of time, knew that if the Tyrant King had his way, Silvyr would crack straight down the middle. Brokil wanted the Tyrant King to pay for it.

After spending weeks with him, Brokil could see now that Silvyr was nothing like his father. Gentle and curious, Silvyr seemed to have no ability to hurt a living soul. Silvyr's fire, perhaps the only good thing his father gave him, shined with a different purpose. A purpose that was not tainted by conquest and subjugation. Brokil could not say what Silvyr burned for, but he knew for a fact that it was not the same thing as his father.

Once the Tyrant King was thrown out of the mortal coil, Silvyr would be a great ruler, Brokil did not doubt it. Perhaps it was a gift that someone like Silvyr had been born to the cruelest of kings, a way for fate to right wrongs. Though looking at him, seeing how his face turned sour when the Tyrant King was brought up, Brokil knew that Silvyr did not see it. The scars along Silvyr's back, the lash he had told Brokil, was proof enough that he suffered far too much, proof enough that Silvyr thought himself unworthy. When Silvyr was returned, would he truly face that lash again like Silvyr believed?

At first, Brokil was sure he couldn't. Not even the Tyrant King could be foolish enough to assume that Silvyr was somehow at fault for Ghizol's demands. He was not so certain anymore. About anything. He knew that when the time came, Brokil would have to return Silvyr home or kill him. Both options sent pangs of deep regret in his chest.

Against all judgment, Brokil did not want to let go of the sensation that was Silvyr. He wanted to keep him there, in his arms where the elf would be safe. Wanted to keep him there at night, when they retired and Silvyr curled up in bed away from him, only to find his way back into Brokil's arms without fail when his dreams plagued him; always nightmares, and Brokil wanted nothing more than to protect him from the terrors of the night. Wanted to keep him there when they ate in simple silence, or spoke by the lit fireplace about whatever had happened throughout the day, whether it be the flowers Silvyr found or the conversations with the Elders Brokil had.

Everything brought a calm to Brokil's heart that he never knew. All his life he had been at war. With the other orcs, with the Tyrant King, with his own desire to lead his people to a better life. Silvyr brought peace. That was the reason they took him in the first place but Brokil couldn't have imagined what peace felt like. What peace looked like. The way his name on the elf's lips might as well have been peace personified.

"Chief."

Brokil looked up at Murzush sitting across the table from him in the Council Hall. Not knowing how long he had been lost in thought after the meeting with the elders ended, Brokil glanced out the window, relieved that the sun appeared to be in a close position from when it ended. "Yes?"

"We need to talk."

First Salthu, now Murzush. It did not take a scholar to see what Murzush wanted to talk about. She had seen Brokil and Silvyr returning home from the meadow, Brokil's hand on Silvyr's back, clothing and hair disheveled. The look on her face had been unreadable. Unlike Salthu, Murzush was skilled in hiding her emotions until she wanted to let them be known, and it seemed like she was ready now.

"I'm listening." Brokil sighed, setting his elbow on the table and resting his chin in the palm of his hand.

"The boy. How long are we going to wait for word from the Tyrant King?" Murzush asked him. The pit in his stomach twisted cruelly, and Brokil forced himself to sit upright.

Taking a breath, he looked away from her. "We have not given them enough time to respond. We have to keep in mind how long the Tyrant King will take to prepare a response. Diplomacy or war, neither will come swiftly. You know he's a calculated man," Brokil told her, rubbing his temple with his thumb and forefinger.

Murzush appeared to accept his explanation, but the hard stare she set upon him told Brokil that she was not done. "Understood," she said with a curt nod. "I think it's time the boy was put in the chamber. It has been several months, and we need to set pressure on the Tyrant King to respond. We'll put the elf in the lower chambers and send a messenger bird to advise the Tyrant King that his lack of haste will result in his heir's death."

It was exactly what Brokil expected, though hearing her speak the words still dried his throat. The thought of Silvyr below the earth with no company but himself, and the word or two passed between him and whoever brought him a meal, was enough to make Brokil's veins go cold. It was not a question of if he could do it, for his people he could, and he would, but knowing that Silvyr did not deserve that treatment would be a guilt carried with him he did not desire.

Going beneath the earth would destroy him. Silvyr himself was evidence that without sunlight, elves would wither away and perish. Days, weeks, possibly months without the sun would drive the elf into insanity. The thought dampened his palms. He could imagine Silvyr fading away, that smile disappearing, never to return, becoming a shell of what he once was. Would the flowers make him smile again after the darkness consumed him? Would anything?

"The chamber is not an option," Brokil said firmly, hoping he left no room for argument.

Murzush's face creased into a harsh expression, but Brokil would not back down from his order. He looked her in the eye, daring her to speak against him. This was his village to lead, not hers. Her opinions were welcome, but she had no authority to tell him what to do. It did not matter that they had been friends since childhood. They were no longer children and Brokil was not going to let her goad him into obeying.

"Your judgment is clouded," Murzush told him, and it took everything inside Brokil not to snarl at her for daring to say something so foolish. "I don't know what he's been filling your head with, but you are losing focus. You walk around him like you're courting him."

Brokil stared at her in full disbelief. The last thing he was doing was losing focus. If anything, he had to be more certain of this than he was of anything else in his life. The path he was going down had to be the right one. This would work. Silvyr would be returned to his home, and Brokil and his people would be free from the tyranny of Silvyr's father.

Courting him had to be the last thing on his mind. It just had to be. He told himself that every morning when he woke up with Silvyr in his arms. He repeated it to himself every night the boy turned to him, pressing into Brokil's chest when the nightmares came.

It didn't matter that with each passing day he grew closer to him. It didn't matter that he could see now that Silvyr and his father were very different people. None of his father's cruelty had been passed down to his son. Everything that the Tyrant King was, Silvyr wasn't. If the others couldn't see that, that was on them, not Brokil. Certainly not Silvyr.

"Murzush," Brokil said, choosing his words with care, "I know what we are doing here. The Tyrant King will accept our demands, and Silvyr will be returned home. That is the deal we offered, and it is the best one for him to accept." Brokil locked eyes with Murzush, demanding her to disagree with him. Let her try. Brokil knew the truth better than she did.

"Do not say that you were not warned. I am not the only one who believes this," Murzush told him, pulling back the snarl that seemed to come naturally to her. "Remember who he is and where he comes from. If you think that he doesn't know how to trick and lie like the Tyrant King, you are mistaken. Do not let a pretty face cloud your good judgment."

"My judgment is not clouded." Brokil had to stand his ground here. He would not let Murzush or anyone else put Silvyr in the darkness. Standing from his seat, Brokil stared down at her, hating the mask of chief he had to put on, and yet knowing it was necessary to make her understand. "I am doing the right thing here. I told you and Salthu before that treating the prince well will only help us with our negotiations. Putting him in the dungeons will ruin that."

"Yes, clearly the elf's leisure is more important than the well-being of Ghizol," Murzush shot back.

Fire ripped through his veins, but he forced himself to take a breath. "Murzush," Brokil said slowly, refusing to let her enrage him. She meant well, he knew that, no matter how her words stung. "How do you think the Tyrant King would react if they discovered we tormented his heir? Holding him hostage is a big enough risk without treating him poorly."

"I think you care too much about the Tyrant King's feelings. We need to stop being reactive and start forcing the Tyrant King out of our borders." Murzush leaned forward, setting her hands on the table between them. "What's to say this will matter to the Tyrant King at all? What's to say that elf in your home isn't going to use everything you've given him to his advantage to help the Tyrant King destroy Ghizol?"

"I trust that at this time, the elf knows the importance of peace between Athowen and Ghizol. That was the goal, Murzush. Avoiding war was always the goal," Brokil insisted.

"If you continue treating this like a game, and treating the boy like some consort, then Ghizol will be destroyed no matter what your intentions." Murzush glared at him with such fire that it nearly sent Brokil aback.

"Are we done here?"

"Looks like we are." Murzush crossed her arms over her chest. She didn't look done, but Brokil didn't wait for her to get another word in before he turned to leave.

Neither Murzush nor Salthu knew what they were talking about. They didn't know Silvyr the way that Brokil had come to know him. If they bothered to speak with him for more than a few harsh words, they would see that while he was the image of the Tyrant King, their souls could not be farther apart. If they had seen the scars the elf carried because he wasn't his father, maybe they would see. They would see he was a warrior, yes, but not in the way of the Tyrant King.

The importance of keeping Silvyr and returning him home wasn't lost on Brokil, despite all of these things. It was offensive that anyone would assume that he would dare put his people at risk over a single person. He certainly wouldn't, but neither would it come to that. Silvyr may not believe that his father would accept the terms created by the Ghizol Council, but Brokil had to. He had to believe that he would return Silvyr home and his people would be free and live in peace without fear of subjugation or war.

Even if returning Silvyr home meant returning Silvyr to the man who tormented him just like so many others. Returning him to a place of evil and darkness, when Silvyr radiated good and light. Somehow, in a place where nothing could grow without malice smashing its very essence until it became tarnished and spoiled, Silvyr bloomed like the first blossoms that came with the Spring.

Returning him home meant Brokil wouldn't see him again. Not this Silvyr, at least. Even if Silvyr survived the wrath he feared from his father, the Silvyr that Brokil knew would be dead and buried if they ever met again.

He needed to clear his head. The conflicting emotions boiled within him, threatening to burst if he didn't do something to calm them.

There was only one place for that. Instead of following the path home, he followed the cobblestone until it morphed into hard packed dirt that gave way to lush grass. Already the familiar trek steadied his breathing and slowed his roaring heart.

"Father." Brokil dropped to his knees before the gravestone. "I don't know what I'm doing."

He knew that talking to a stone wouldn't give him any answers. The young boy in him wanted to believe that if he spoke long enough, confessed enough of his feelings, that his father would show himself and give Brokil the guidance he needed.

What would his father think of him now? How would he react to Brokil's need to keep the heir of Athowen safe, not just from his own father, but from Ghizol as well? Would he think Brokil was being foolish like Salthu and Murzush did?

"Tell me what to do," he all but begged the silent stone. "I can't… I don't think I can kill him. And if I send him to Athowen, he's going to fade away. He's not like the Tyrant. He's nothing like the Tyrant. How am I meant to kill someone who's done no wrong?"

Again, he was met with silence.

Though he wanted to stay and demand answers from the gravestone, he knew it was useless. Brokil stood and turned back toward Ghizol, the weight on his chest a bit lighter even though the one in his mind still sat heavy behind his eyes.

When Brokil finally made it home, Silvyr was already there. It had been weeks since he bothered to block the door whenever he left. Now he knew that if Silvyr was not home when he returned, he could be found in the meadows, or would return shortly after Brokil with a basket of flowers to settle by the fire, comparing each bud to the book he had taken such a liking to. Sometimes he would show Brokil a particular flower that had what Silvyr called a "mutation" and how it didn't change how the plant worked. Today he didn't need to wait.

By the fireplace, Silvyr sat on the plush rug, pulling apart pink petals and dropping them into a mortar. Underneath him, he had laid down a brown linen shirt, protecting the white rug from the floral stains. The consideration quirked the edges of Brokil's lips.

"You went to the meadow today," Brokil said, walking toward the kitchen, pulling out the pot he would need to prepare their meal for the night. He would make stew again. Silvyr always smiled when he was presented with stew.

"I did. Not for long, just long enough to collect a few azaleas," Silvyr said, not moving from his spot. He flicked a few more petals into the mortar. "Urzul told me that if you make them into a paste, it can be used for injuries." The grinding of the pestle should have annoyed him, but growing up with Urzul made him used to it, and Brokil found himself smiling at the stew pot as he dropped the vegetables in.

"Did you not know that from your studies?" Brokil asked him, a light teasing note to his voice.

"I knew it had other uses, but like most plants, it has more than one," Silvyr explained, pausing his grinding. "I think it will be good to have on hand. You never know when you'll need something to help with pain."

Brokil turned to look at Silvyr over his shoulder. Staring into the mortar, Silvyr held it delicately, as if holding it any harder would shatter the stone. "You plan to bring it home." It wasn't a question, but Silvyr's fingers tightening around the mortar gave him his answer.

Silence took over and Brokil returned to preparing food. They both knew the truth of Brokil's statement. If what Silvyr said was true, and the scars along his back were evidence enough, Silvyr would be using the ointment shortly after returning home. The thought filled Brokil's chest with something he couldn't quite place. Rage didn't fit, as the anger he felt in the past never made his hands shake, or made his vision blur. Fear never set his heart racing as though he were waiting for an attack from a hidden assailant. The tenseness in his muscles that came after battle had returned, yet no battle had been fought.

Brokil wanted to keep Silvyr safe from the darkness below the Council, but even that was not enough. He knew that no matter what the outcome, he would be hand delivering Silvyr to the void.