34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Brokil

He should have expected this.

Being in chains was always a possibility with the Council's plans, one he didn't want to speak into existence. Yet now he sat in the empty cells below the Athowen Castle, manacles around his wrists and ankles, weighing him down. No matter how hard he pulled, he could not break free of those damned chains—orcish steel, of course, bastardized and used against him by the Tyrant King.

Somewhere above him, a monster walked freely. Somewhere above him, a flower was in danger of wilting, of being crushed under the boot of that corrupted disgrace. Everything Silvyr had said about his father, the punishment that would await him upon returning home ran through Brokil's head, and it made him sick.

He'd known Silvyr hadn't left on his own, he didn't need Urzul to tell him that. Silvyr's promise was enough to be confident in that truth, if nothing else.

But then the Elders received Silvyr's letter, and while the confirmation of that truth relieved Brokil, it also terrified him.

Silvyr had never blatantly told him what the Tyrant King did to him, but he'd said enough for Brokil to read between the lines. That monster never cared for anyone but himself and his own ambitions; having his son back home would not be a cause for celebration, but an excuse for more punishment. To make matters worse, that little shit, Arlen, saw fit to give the Tyrant King the letter, further sealing Silvyr's fate. He had to know what it would do, had to know that handing it over was only damning Silvyr to the lash. As far as Brokil was concerned, Arlen was just as horrible as the Tyrant King, and any blood Silvyr shed would be on his hands too.

The implications of that reality churned Brokil's stomach every day since he'd been ambushed. He had promised that no one else would hurt Silvyr again, but there was nothing he could do to protect his elf inside the walls of Athowen, nothing he could do to protect him from his own fucking family.

Brokil didn't know how long he had remained in those cells. It couldn't have been long, as he hadn't slept since arriving, but it felt like days had passed, weeks even. He wasn't given the opportunity to rest between the interrogations and prodding from the jailers. The incessant mocking and threats against Ghizol. Empty coming from the likes of a lowly jailer, but Brokil knew the origin of those words. He knew whose mouth they originated from.

His stomach churned with hunger and he found it harder to remain awake for long periods of time. Food stopped coming days before he arrived in Athowen, and anything they gave him now were scraps, barely enough to feed the rats that scuttled around him. The Tyrant King was trying to break him, there could be no other explanation. Brokil would not yield. Let the king kill him, he would die before he let his spirit be broken by a man like that. Ghizol would be in good hands under Salthu's leadership, the Elders were sure to vote for her to replace him, and Brokil would know he died with honor.

The creaking of a door opening made Brokil turn his head. Long adjusted to the darkness of the cells, he watched the outline of a figure guided by torchlight. If he weren't chained, he would stand to meet whoever had come down. Most likely it was another one of the Tyrant King's minions, trying to get Brokil to break and give them what they wanted. Information on Ghizol and how they could be destroyed. They were utterly misguided if they believed Brokil would utter a single word that would hurt his family. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat, ready to tell them just what he thought about their incessant questions—

A golden curtain of hair illuminated by torchlight sent the words tumbling right back down to his stomach, the thin body huddled in the little dome of light setting all of Brokil's nerves aflame. Wearing the white and gold silks of Athowen, Brokil briefly considered it a trick, wondering if his mind was once again seeing his elf where another stood. But there was a limp in his steps that made Brokil's heart ache, and an emotion in those green eyes when they finally met his that could not be faked. His Flower. His Silvyr had come, and gods he was beautiful.

"Silvyr," he breathed, watching the elf rush forward, nearly dropping the torch in his hurry. If he was a hallucination, Brokil would find the gods and fight them himself.

"Brokil," Silvyr sniffed, setting the torch up on a mount. "Are you okay? Were you hurt? I'm going to get you out, just don't move, okay? You might hurt yourself. Give me a second."

His words blurred together so quickly, Brokil nearly missed them entirely, too focused on drinking in the sight before him. Afraid if he looked away for a second, the elf might disappear altogether. Silvyr pulled a keyring from his pocket, his hands shaking as he tried to slip it into the keyhole. It took a few tries, but with a final resounding click, the door swung open and Silvyr was there, in front of him, beautiful as the day Brokil left for the hunt.

"Just let me—I have to get the chains," Silvyr was muttering, searching frantically for the locks that kept him in place. Brokil reached out, as far as he was able, and took Silvyr's hands in his, squeezing them to quell their shaking. Green eyes shot up to his own, and his heart soared.

"You're here," Brokil said.

In the dimming torchlight, Brokil could see the glimmering threat of tears. If he could reach his face, he would have taken it in his hands.

"I didn't want to leave," Silvyr whispered back, his voice trembling with what Brokil could only assume was fear, as though he expected Brokil to hate him. Foolish little elf.

"I know," Brokil assured him, letting go of Silvyr's hands once his hands stopped shaking. "Urzul told me what happened, and I got your letter."

"I wanted to stay. I promised you that I would, I'm sorry, Brokil. I'm so sorry." The tears spilled over Silvyr's cheeks and it took everything in him to keep from pulling against the chains to envelope his Flower in his arms. To hide him from the cruelty of the fate he'd been dealt. Luckily, he didn't need to. With steadier hands, Silvyr slipped the key into the manacles and let them drop with a loud clang to the ground.

Brokil didn't hesitate to pull Silvyr into his arms, squeezing him tight against himself, breathing in the familiar scent of him. He might have stayed there, held him for eternity if allowed, but Silvyr's gasp of pain had him pulling away immediately, searching his elf for any sign of injury.

"What happened?" Brokil asked, noting how Silvyr turned his head away. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach. That fucking monster— Grabbing his chin, Brokil forced Silvyr to look at him. "Tell me."

Silvyr stared at him for only a moment before turning around, revealing the blood that stained his silks in long streaks of red. The Lash. As Silvyr moved to pull up the shirt, Brokil grabbed his hands to stop him. Rage coursed through his every limb. The desire to rip the Tyrant King limb from limb had never been stronger. Silvyr had told him that he would be punished, but Brokil didn't want to believe him. Now Silvyr sat before him, bleeding through his clothes, because of Brokil.

"Father found the letter I sent you," Silvyr whispered, hanging his head.

With a gentler touch, Brokil pulled Silvyr against himself, burying his face in his hair. Under his hands, the elf trembled and sniveled, though he pressed back against Brokil. His hands came to rest on Brokil's arms, squeezing tight. Though rage still coursed through him and the desire to slice through the Tyrant King couldn't be suppressed, having his Flower in his arms again felt like a gift. Like he was in the eye of the hurricane and Silvyr was his anchor to peace. Finally, he could breathe again.

"He won't hurt you again," Brokil said into Silvyr's hair. "I swear it."

"Father wanted me to execute you," Silvyr told him, his nails digging into Brokil's arm. "I wouldn't…"

Brokil didn't need his explanation. The cruelty of turning the only pure member of the Quilen line into an executioner, of turning petal into poison, was no less than he expected of the Tyrant King. It would have been the ultimate punishment, worse so than the lash and the insults. It was that monster's final attempt to crush Silvyr. The final calamity that would destroy his flower completely.

"I know this, Silvyr," Brokil told him, fighting against the urge to tighten his own hold. "You're not the Tyrant. You're here, and we're going to leave."

Silvyr turned those beautiful emerald eyes up to him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as his shoulders relaxed. "Then we should leave quickly." Silvyr stood on shaky legs, taking Brokil's hand as he followed. Determination sparked in his eyes, and he squeezed his fingers tight. "Let's go home."

Home. Before they could take another step, Brokil surged down and took Silvyr's lips in his. He framed the elf's face with his hands, savoring the way Silvyr pressed against him, grabbing his linens tightly. They couldn't linger, he knew that, but he would have this. He would allow himself a moment, just a moment, to hold his heart in his hands and feel it flutter.

When he finally pulled back, Silvyr looked reluctant to let him get far. Brokil brushed a finger across his cheek and smiled. "Let's go home."

Silvyr's smile could outshine the sun as he pulled Brokil toward the door. "Follow me," he said.

They left their torch behind as Silvyr led him out of the cells and toward their exit. Once they reached the stairwell, lit by several sconces, Brokil turned to Silvyr. "What is your plan?" he asked in a low whisper.

"I have horses ready. We get on them and we don't stop until we get to Ghizol," Silvyr answered, looking up at him with fire in his eyes. A fire Brokil had missed more than anything. "After that, we send word to Father that the terms set by your Elders must be met, or I will not return."

"Is that something you are willing to do?" Brokil didn't want to ever send Silvyr back to the Tyrant King, but keeping Ghizol safe should be his priority. Silvyr putting Ghizol above himself both elated, and mutilated, Brokil's own heart.

"I'm here, aren't I?" Silvyr squeezed Brokil's hand once again, shifting to entwine their fingers. "I may never return to Athowen, but I won't let Ghizol be subject to Father's rage. I'll do whatever it takes, and he knows that. I may not be as versed in war as my brother, but I know how Athowen works, I know how Father works. With my help, Ghizol could withstand whatever Father chooses to throw at her."

Brokil didn't question him further. He could see the passion in Silvyr's eyes, could hear the truth in his words. Home, he'd called Ghizol, something his Flower had never had before. Not truly. Brokil knew now that he'd protect that with everything he could.

Silvyr led him silently up the stairs, his footsteps all but nonexistent despite how quickly they moved. At the top of the stairwell, Silvyr brought him down a long passage and as they passed by the windows, Brokil realized the moon was high in the sky. With so few people or sounds within the Athowen castle, he should have expected it to be late in the night.

When he arrived in Athowen, he was brought to the dungeon with a burlap sack over his head, leaving no opportunity to see the interior. Now, surrounded by marble and glass, gems inlaid in nearly every surface, Brokil's discomfort nearly shook his legs. Or maybe it was his hunger. When he met Silvyr he could easily imagine the elf living in these walls and thriving, being the favorite of the Tyrant King. Now, his Silvyr stuck out just as much as Brokil. He wore their silks, spoke their language, but he belonged nowhere else but Ghizol, surrounded by the warmth and the flowers, far away from the cold emptiness of Athowen.

They turned down a long corridor, barren of doors and windows, and Brokil couldn't help the paranoia sinking into his skin. As if eyes were peering at him through the shadows, watching as they made their escape. Stopping halfway down the passage, Silvyr pressed a hand against the marble wall and Brokil's eyes widened when he revealed a new passageway.

"It's secret," Silvyr whispered, motioning for Brokil to go in before him.

"I thought so." Brokil stepped inside the new passage with Silvyr behind him, closing the passage and cutting off the sconce light from the hall.

Darkness enclosed them, but Silvyr's hand still held Brokil's tight. The passage itself was not made for someone as wide as Brokil, but he fit enough to make it through and used his free hand to glide along the wall as he inched forward.

"When we get to the end, you'll have to push at the bottom right corner and it will open," Silvyr said, voice still whisper soft, even with the thick walls to mute their noise.

"Have you used these passages before?"

"No. It's meant for emergencies. I suppose showing you where one of them is makes me a traitor." There was a light air in Silvyr's statement that brought a smile to Brokil's lips.

"Ah, this makes you a traitor. Not sharing a bed with me?" Brokil couldn't stop himself from teasing. Silvyr's soft chuckle made his stomach flutter.

"A traitor two times over then," Silvyr whispered through an airy giggle, squeezing Brokil's hand.

They finished moving through the passage in silence, only the sounds of their breathing surrounding them. It was longer than Brokil thought it would be, but the gentle slope downward must mean it was bringing them to the ground level of the castle. Finally, Brokil's hand pressed against a wall in front of them.

Even though he couldn't see Silvyr in the darkness, he turned his head in the direction of his elf. "What's outside this door?"

"The courtyard. Beyond that, there's a bridge we'll cross into Athowen proper. The side roads will be our best route, they're harder to track through and the buildings will block the view of them from the castle," Silvyr told him. "I had Ascal help me find a way out."

"Do you trust her?" Brokil asked, his nerves suddenly on edge. He didn't know the woman, but he knew that name. She'd taken Silvyr from him in the first place, and if their fate was in the hands of someone who could betray them, he needed to know.

"I do," Silvyr said. "She's the only one I can trust here."

Brokil nodded and leaned down to press the corner of the door. The night air sent chills down his spine as he looked around, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight. The empty courtyard was unnerving, save for two horses waiting by the gate. Their saddles appeared full and ready for the trek to Ghizol, and Brokil felt an odd sense of pride that Silvyr had managed to get this all together for them, even with his injuries.

Fuck, his Flower was strong.

"Hurry," Silvyr whispered, pulling Brokil toward the horses. He followed without delay, though forced himself to step slower than usual to keep pace with Silvyr's shorter strides even as the elf jogged at his side.

"As expected."

Silvyr froze beside him so suddenly that Brokil nearly stumbled. His eyes were wide, his face pale as the marble walls, as if the unfamiliar voice was a blade, striking a killing blow. There could only be one person that struck such fear on his Flower's face, and as they both turned, Brokil couldn't stop the snarl that escaped his throat at the sight.

King Keryth was exactly what Brokil expected. Silvyr's image reflected in a mirror of corruption. His scowl and dark eyes twisting Silvyr's beauty into something hideous and vile. Behind him, a woman stood, only vaguely familiar from that fateful day he'd stolen Silvyr, but Brokil didn't need to recognize her to know who she was.

Ascal. That fucking traitor.

Brokil took a step forward, ready to snap both their necks, only to stop when Silvyr stepped in front of him. His elf stood tall as he faced down his father, his chin raised and shoulders taut. He looked strong.

"We're leaving," Silvyr said, his voice tight and with an edge Brokil had never heard before. Full of defiance, yes, but also confidence. Even when he first met the prince and flung him to the ground, Silvyr never spoke to him this way. "I don't care what Ascal told you, but Chief Brokil and I will be leaving Athowen."

"Ascal will be dealt with, as will you." Malice dripped from the Tyrant King's words, his every pore seeping with distaste, all directed at Silvyr. Anger and hatred misplaced on a boy who had done nothing to warrant it. He didn't even spare Brokil a glance, and it had Brokil's chest burning with rage.

Yet Silvyr did not waver, his glare daring and defiant against the older man. Once, Silvyr had confided in him that he feared his father, but there was no hint of that fear in him now. Placing a hand on Silvyr's shoulder, Brokil offered his support and strength, standing beside him as he let his elf handle the situation. For just a brief moment, Silvyr leaned into that touch, then pushed his shoulders back and stood against the Tyrant's storm.

The woman, Ascal, looked almost ashamed at the king's words. "Silvyr, I didn't—"

"You will be silent, knight," Keryth interrupted with a wave of his crooked hand. "Your betrayal will be dealt with in time."

Silvyr ignored his father and turned to the knight, something hesitantly hopeful in his eyes. "Ascal?"

"I tried to check on you, but King Keryth found me in the process," Ascal admitted, bowing her head. "I'm sorry, Silvyr."

"So, you not only choose to undermine my rule, but attempt to turn my knights against me," Keryth said, his voice nearly a growl.

"Chief Brokil and I are leaving," Silvyr said again.

"You will do no such thing," the Tyrant King snarled, taking another step forward, then another, until he was only a pace away from them. Brokil squeezed Silvyr's shoulder, ready to yank him back and run for the horses. "You insult me in my own home, bring disgrace to the Quilen name, and now this? You seek to destroy everything I've created like a spoiled, selfish child. The gods cursed me with the likes of you."

Brokil's lips curled back in a silent snarl, his grip on Silvyr's shoulder tightening until he felt Silvyr's soft fingers resting on his.

"No Father. You bring disgrace upon yourself," Silvyr countered, chest rising with a deep breath. Before the Tyrant King could speak, Silvyr continued. "You do nothing but bring hatred and cruelty wherever you lay your hands. I want no part of it. I'm finished trying to please you and your impossibly cruel demands. You have another heir; it is no longer me."

"You had promise, Silvyr of Athowen. I had hope that you might have risen to kingship with grace and strength, but I see now you truly had me taken for a fool," Keryth sneered.

"No! No, you don't get to act like everything you did was for my benefit!" Silvyr took a single step back, pressing against Brokil's chest, hands curling into fists. "You tried to poison me, destroy me. If I could tear your blood from my veins, I would. I want nothing to do with your cruelty."

The Tyrant King stared at Silvyr, disbelief written in the lines of his face. Brokil's heart swelled with pride for his elf, his Flower. To do something none had ever done before, standing up to the Tyrant King, calling out his flaws to his face.

The king's eyes shifted, finding Silvyr's hand on Brokil's. The fury curled his lips into a sinister snarl and his hands twitched at his sides. Brokil didn't have a chance to pull the boy away before the King struck Silvyr's face, nearly sending him to the ground if Brokil hadn't been holding him.

Before Brokil could throw himself at the man and rip him apart, Silvyr held his arm out, blocking Brokil's path to the king. Had it been anyone else, he would have pushed past, but Silvyr's outstretched hand may as well have been iron. It didn't stop him from snarling low in his throat.

At first, nobody moved, until Keryth looked down at the heavy signet ring on his finger and sneered at the blood that coated it. As if Silvyr's very essence disgusted him. "Ghizol will burn. Nothing you can do will stop this from happening, and if you burn with it, then so be—"

Silvyr lurched toward his father, cutting his words off and replacing them with a loud, wheezing gasp. The king jerked against him, grasping at Silvyr's sleeves as if in desperation, and it was only when Brokil saw the blood that he understood why.

For a single, sickening moment, Brokil feared who the blood belonged to, but even as Silvyr's body trembled, the king was the one who gasped and gurgled around the pain, clawing at Silvyr's arm for relief.

"You won't touch Ghizol," Silvyr said, and though Brokil could not see his face, the way his voice cracked around a sob betrayed his emotion. "I won't allow it. I won't."

Jerking back, Silvyr stumbled into Brokil's arms. He grasped the boy's arms, holding him steady on his feet. A glimmer of metal caught against the moonlight, drawing Brokil's attention to the dagger in Silvyr's hands, covered in the same blood that soaked his silks. His grip on Silvyr's arms tightened as the Tyrant King fell to his knees, clutching at the wound in his stomach, eyes filled with shock and, for the first time in his miserable life, terror.

"We have to leave," Brokil told Silvyr, pulling him back to lead him to the horses. If they stayed any longer, there was no telling what could happen to them.

But like a boulder, Silvyr wouldn't move, only turned his head to look at Brokil, tears in his eyes and blood dripping down his cheek where the ring had cut. "Go," he said, shaking his head when Brokil started to argue. "If we both go, they will blame you and Ghizol will burn anyway."

"You're coming with me." Brokil wanted to plead and beg for Silvyr to come with him, no matter how true everything Silvyr said was. They could protect Ghizol together, couldn't they? Wasn't that what Silvyr said they would do?

A sudden wet struck his cheek, and he would have believed it to be his own tears had Silvyr not turned his head up to the sky. The rain fell hard, frigid and sharp and all at once.

"Let me do this, Brokil," Silvyr whispered, tears mixing with blood before being washed away by the rain. "Let me keep Ghizol safe, please."

Brokil stared down at Silvyr, wanting to scoop him up and bring him to the horses no matter what he said or how much he fought back. Brokil was strong enough to do it. But he knew that he needed to listen, he knew that Silvyr was right, no matter how much it hurt to lose his Flower again.

"I'll come back for you. I swear I will," Brokil told him, lifting his hand to cup Silvyr's pretty face.

"I will wait for you," Silvyr said, forcing a smile through his tears. "I promise."

"You." Brokil turned to Ascal, setting his lips in a hard line. "Take care of him."

"I swear it on my life," she replied immediately.

Knowing that he needed to leave quickly, Brokil leaned down to take Silvyr's lips just one more time. Desperately, Silvyr kissed him back, choking on a sob against his lips as the dagger cluttered to the ground. He tasted like rainwater and flowers, and Brokil drank it in until he had no choice but to claw his way to the surface, lest he drown.

It took everything in him to step back. Everything in him to climb on a horse and sprint away. Everything in him not to stay.

Brokil left his heart in its marbled grave, and he didn't look back.