35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Silvyr

Three months might as well have been an eternity.

Everything happened faster than Silvyr expected. He never could have predicted how quickly the crown would be placed on his head or how soon he would be given his new duties. When they found Silvyr beside Father's body, Ascal's hands a comforting weight on his shoulders, there was little question as to what happened. Silvyr made no attempt to hide the blade or the blood that covered his silks. He would let them see what became of the Tyrant King.

He would let them see that Father was no more than a man who hungered for power and Silvyr the man who took it away.

He was thankful for Ascal's presence. Thankful that she spoke for him when words wouldn't come. Thankful that she brought him back inside the castle and helped him clean the blood from his hands.

It didn't come off. Even after she scrubbed until the water ran clean, even after she assured him it was all gone, Silvyr knew the stains remained. In the creases between his fingers, the space beneath his nails, Father's blood festered and boiled, digging inside him.

The poison remained.

No amount of washing would remove it. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until his hands were raw and aching. He scrubbed until the early morning when Ascal returned. Scrubbed until she pulled his hands away from the water, led him to the bed, and applied a soothing balm to his red skin.

"It'll be okay, Silvyr," she told him when she cupped his face. She swiped the tears with her thumbs and pulled him against her when the next round of tears came.

The trial, if one could even call it that, was short and purely a formality. Silvyr was not the first in the Quilen line to commit patricide. Father himself committed the crime when he had barely seen his thirteenth year. In that way, he supposed, Silvyr and Father were one in the same.

The Council held no contempt for him in the wake of Father's death, and though Mother looked unhappy with it all, she voiced no complaint against him. Even Arlen, surprised as he was by the turn of events, called for support in Silvyr's rise to the throne. Though, Silvyr was not foolish enough to believe that Arlen was pleased with the crown on Silvyr's head. His brother knew how to place his bets, knew how to bide his time. For now, he would support Silvyr, until the time came when the crown passed down to him.

As soon as the trial ended, Silvyr's hair was cut. He wanted to argue against it, but there were traditions that could not be ignored. Shaving the head was meant to display how long someone held their position, and Silvyr was not exempt from this law. No one in Athowen was. From the farmers to the blacksmiths to the members of the Council, every elf removed their hair when a new position was reached.

Ascal received her cut the same day. Silvyr offered to let her remain a Prince's Guard with Arlen, but being the stubborn woman that she was, she took the shears and made the first cut herself. She stood tall and proud when she accepted her new position as King's Guard.

A part of him still wished he'd run when he had the chance. He wished he'd gotten on that same horse that Brokil had, his back pressed against the orc's chest, those strong arms around him, blocking him from the rest of the world. But he couldn't move his feet that day, no matter how much he'd wanted to. He couldn't take a single step knowing that Ghizol would suffer for it. Relief soared through him as Brokil rode off, but that dull ache of his absence never left Silvyr's heart.

Each night when he returned to his chambers for sleep, when he fell in that space between light and dark, he prayed he would feel the cushions sinking around him and those arms wrapping him up. In the mornings when the rays of sunlight brought Silvyr out of the bleak, he prayed he would find himself staring at that mossy skin, the scent of earthen spice filling his lungs. A foolish little fantasy, but he allowed himself to indulge in the memories at least.

Even as the talk of marriage floated around the Council, Silvyr would not let himself lose the hope to see that man again. Even once would be enough.

Despite all of his daydreams being tangled with melancholy, Silvyr couldn't neglect the new duties placed upon him. To the surprise of everyone around him, except for Ascal, Silvyr fell into the role with ease. They must have forgotten that regardless of Father's criticisms and constant berating, he had groomed Silvyr for the kingship. He may not have wanted the throne, but Silvyr would not waste the opportunities it gave him.

His first act was to address the issues of slave trading throughout Athowen. Funds were directed to the cities and townships affected by the black-market trade, and stricter laws were put in place to fight against the practice. Father might not have cared, but Silvyr very much did, and while he knew he couldn't eradicate it by signing a single piece of paper, he could give the people, his people, the funds to protect themselves and increase the fines and penalties for the act itself.

The Council was incredibly displeased when Silvyr signed into law that the victims of the practice would receive funds from the treasury to reestablish themselves wherever they deemed fit. But what could they do? It was Silvyr's decision now. Some part of him reveled in the power that came with simply signing his name on a piece of parchment, in knowing that finally some good was coming from it.

Perhaps Ghizol should have been his first item of action, but he knew that Brokil would forgive him, that he might have even done the same thing under the circumstances. Ghizol was not forgotten by Silvyr. The moment Silvyr stepped foot in Father's office, he knew what he needed to do.

It took him half the morning to push the desk against the wall so he could climb atop it, but the slight pain in his back was nothing compared to the elation he felt when he plucked Thrakil's sword off the wall and held it in his hands. It felt heavier than he expected, not only due to the size, but the implication, the history, the guilt.

As Silvyr wrapped the weapon in an emerald cloth to keep it safe, he made another promise. Not to Brokil, but to the man who'd raised him. The man who taught him kindness and joy, taught him what it meant to be a good leader and chief.

"Never again," Silvyr swore, placing a hand on the sword and hoping Brokil's father could hear him.

He sent an emissary with the sword to Ghizol, along with a scroll of promises Silvyr made on Athowen's behalf. No longer would Ghizol need to worry about violence at the hands of Athowen. Not while Silvyr lived.

The Council of course wasn't pleased with that decision either, but Silvyr didn't care. They were still stuck in the mindset that war would bring peace and power. Regardless of their arguments and their prodding, Silvyr would not bend. He knew the power that could come with kindness.

It was worth it the moment the emissary returned with their reply from Ghizol. They had been treated well upon arrival, stating that Brokil welcomed them with open arms and a feast at the pyre to celebrate the news received in the scroll. Though Silvyr ached to return, knowing that they were thriving was enough.

It would always be enough.

More than that, the emissary also brought Ghizol's official response. A scroll wrapped in Brokil's leather hair band. The sight of the gold beads in braided leather nearly sent Silvyr to his knees, and the moment he unraveled the cord, he tossed his emerald circlet to the ground and wrapped the leather around his own head, holding down the new growth in his hair.

It might have been his imagination, but he swore he could smell Brokil's spiced musk in the leather.

He had no qualms about wearing the leather in place of his circlet. The Council already knew about Silvyr's feelings toward Chief Brokil of Ghizol, Father made sure of that. It was worth the stares and whispers when he entered the Council Chambers wearing Brokil's leather. He would do it again, and again. In fact, he doubted he would ever wear the circlet again now that he had the simple leather braid.

Even still, while every day was a whirlwind of activity and nonstop work, nothing could stop the loneliness from settling in. Silvyr knew that reflecting on Ghizol too much would lead to nothing but sorrow, but he couldn't stop the thoughts. He couldn't stop thinking about how sitting alone in Brokil's home felt far more comfortable than sitting alone in his room. How Brokil's soft furs and large blankets filled him with warmth, while his silk sheets and feathered cushions in Athowen were frigid and stiff. It was all so… Uncomfortable.

As if Athowen was intent to show him that he didn't belong.

One little mercy was the gardens. Without Father to tell him no, Silvyr could go to the gardens whenever he desired. Before, he'd never been allowed to walk among the blossoms. They were simply something Father would show off to visiting nobles and kings, a show of wealth and importance that didn't belong to Silvyr.

But they belonged to him now.

The first few times he visited, he did nothing but look for the flowers that they shared with Ghizol, elated when he found the hyacinths and azaleas easily. He spent days settled beside them, watching the last bees of the season collect their nectar and leave with pollen clinging to their fuzz.

Even when the snow came, and Silvyr lamented the death of the flowers, he still found himself wandering through the garden maze behind the castle. The bees and butterflies no longer came to visit, but the birds remained. Silvyr took to carrying seeds and dried fruits in his pockets to toss whenever one crossed his path. He always found himself smiling again when he stepped out to find the birds waiting for him.

Time moved as it always did, slow and steady and endless. The first signs of spring came, and the frost dissolved. Green returned to the gardens, and Silvyr took to having lunch among the new growth. The brick benches in the garden were perfect to eat his bowls of fruit and bread rolls. Later he would need to return to the Council to discuss Xeatia's newest tax documents. He had a feeling that they still weren't paying their dues, and to an extent he understood Father's frustrations with them, though what he would do about it, he still didn't know.

The sound of footsteps drew Silvyr's attention away from a gathering flock of birds, and he glanced over just in time to see Arlen turn a corner in the maze and head toward him. His brother offered a polite bow as he reached the bench, and Silvyr set his bread roll aside, motioning for him to sit.

"Good afternoon," Silvyr said, his voice sounding dull to his own ears.

"Afternoon," Arlen returned as he took his seat beside Silvyr. For a while, he was silent, watching the birds hopping around the scattered birdseed on the cobblestone. Silvyr was content to let him ponder. "How are you settling into your role, your majesty?" he finally asked.

Silvyr forced out a chuckle. "You don't need to be so proper. You know I hate it."

To his surprise, a smile twitched at Arlen's lips. "You're not very good at hiding it," Arlen agreed, crossing one leg over the other. "I meant what I said before. I want the throne, you don't."

"And yet here we are," Silvyr grumbled, gesturing to the gardens around them, "stuck in positions neither of us want."

"Are we?"

The question was said so simply, with only the slightest hint of hesitation to it, but Silvyr couldn't parse out what it meant. Surely Arlen knew how trapped they both were. "The Council would never approve of me stepping down, you know that," he said, assuming that's where his brother was going with this ridiculous conversation. "They'd sooner tie me to the throne itself. Never before has a Quilen abdicated, and they won't see it happen now simply because I don't want the crown bestowed on me."

"No, they wouldn't, but I have another solution." Arlen turned to fully face him, an unusual trepidation in his movements that had Silvyr's muscles tense with nerves. "It sounds bad, but hear me out. If you were to die—"

Silvyr recoiled immediately, his back scraping against the bench's brick arm, only freezing when Arlen held up a hand to stop him.

"I'm not going to kill you, Silvyr." Arlen rolled his eyes, then paused and shook his head a bit. "Well, officially I will. Unofficially, you'll be in a carriage to Ghizol."

"A carriage…" Silvyr blinked, sitting up straight again. He shouldn't hope… It would be foolish, stupid, and yet… "You mean to fake my death?"

"I thought it was the preferable route. You'd rather not die, and I'd honestly rather not kill you. This solution is much easier."

"Brilliant," Silvyr said, unable to stop himself from smiling. Gods, he wished he had thought of it himself, thought of it sooner. "How soon can you ‘kill me?'" Silvyr asked through an airy laugh. The promise of Ghizol, of returning, of seeing him again filled his chest with a pleasant heat. If he didn't know better, Silvyr imagined he could float to Ghizol on hope alone with how much of it flooded his veins in that moment.

To his surprise, Arlen laughed as well. "As soon as tonight. Though, you should probably inform your guard. She won't be pleased if she believes the trick too." Arlen tilted his head toward the castle. "She'll probably want to escort you to Ghizol herself too."

"I'll talk to her tonight," Silvyr agreed. He'd probably talk to her sooner. The sooner she agreed and learned of their plan, the sooner he could leave. He had half a mind to grab her now and leave without an item to his name if it meant getting home quicker. "You'll need a King's Guard," he said, remembering what he'd told Ascal all those months ago, "and I think you should take on Ascal once she returns from Ghizol."

"She won't stay with you?"

"I don't think she would want to. Her life is here. Her everything is here." Silvyr shrugged his shoulders. He would miss her, but she would be happier here, he thought. "Besides, I don't think I'll need her protection if I'm ‘dead' and in Ghizol."

"I suppose you're right. If she's agreeable, I'll accept her. I'd be hard pressed to find someone as strong as her otherwise," Arlen said with a chuckle. "Go on and pack your things. I'll have a carriage ready for you to leave tonight. I'll handle the rest."

Silvyr stared at his brother, his own arms trembling with the urge to pull him in for a hug. He refrained, and perhaps Arlen could sense it, because relief washed over his face when Silvyr held himself back.

"Thank you, Arlen. You'll be a good king."