36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Brokil

Brokil's heart had always been in Ghizol.

From the time he was a young boy he believed that the greatest glory came from death on the battlefield. Death in service to his people. Death as a warrior tried and tested. From the moment he graduated the agoge in his eighteenth year, he believed he would fall in service to Ghizol, and he would be happy to do so.

Then that fucking elf traipsed through his heart like it was nothing more than a field of amethyst bellflowers.

In the agoge he learned to make sword and shield as much a part of him as his own beating heart, but now there was something missing. Now, during the month's travel it took him to arrive home, he knew there was a hole in that chest where something else belonged. Silvyr, haloed in the morning glow, was the blood that flowed through him. Cradled in his chest, the elf was the force that gave him life. He was his heart.

And Brokil left that heart behind.

With each day that passed on his way back to Ghizol, he considered turning around to take Silvyr home. He could do it. He was sure of it. He could find his way inside the castle and follow the scent of citrus until he found his elf. He would throw Silvyr over his shoulder and run for the horse before anyone was the wiser. Politics and proper permissions be damned. Silvyr didn't belong there.

Maybe if he were a braver man, he would have.

Instead, he found himself in the fields of Ghizol once again. Found himself before the Elders, informing them of everything that transpired in Athowen. Putting on the mask of Chief again was a heavy burden, but a necessary one. He didn't have time for heartbreak. There were still too many things to do.

The Elders took the news of the Tyrant King's death with excitement and cheers, already planning a celebration at the pyre. And though the hesitance for an alliance remained, they did not argue quite as vehemently as Brokil expected when the topic came up.

They didn't trust Silvyr the same way Brokil did, he understood that, but he knew the elf would never willingly send the armies of Athowen to Ghizol. While he couldn't be sure about Arlen, he knew Silvyr wouldn't declare war on Ghizol. He thanked all the gods that Silvyr held more power than his brother, and though he missed his elf more than anything, Brokil was not so selfish as to believe that Silvyr in Athowen kept Ghizol safe.

Leadership was returned to him as soon as the meeting concluded, and he thanked Salthu for taking charge in his absence. Though she excelled, she seemed thankful for his return. The position of Chief, despite how skillfully she took to it, was not her calling.

"Thank the gods you're back," Salthu had told him, slapping a hand so hard on his shoulder he nearly stumbled. "If you hadn't returned and left me in charge indefinitely, I would have found a way to bring you back just to kill you for it."

That was the first time he laughed since leaving Athowen.

His home was just as empty and frigid as when he left it. He couldn't blame the cold on the winter chill, much as he'd like to. His fireplace had been lit, and warmth permeated through the stone, yet the ice remained. The golden sunshine that followed the elf, that warmed every corner of the home, was nowhere to be seen.

He couldn't spiral. He couldn't let himself get lost in thoughts of the elf. He still needed to be a shield for his people, and distractions would destroy Ghizol. They would destroy him. But how would one go through their day to day, when the biggest part of their heart was trapped a realm away?

Days passed in a blur of activity. Every day he returned to the Chambers to speak with the Elders, and every day he returned to his vacant home. It was the same routine he had before the elf came around, but now just felt empty.

Until hope sparked again.

When the emissary from Athowen arrived, the Elders feared the worst, but Brokil knew better. He knew the emissary would only bring good news with them. They were waiting inside the Longhouse when Brokil arrived, and he eyed them carefully, noting the bundle of cloth in their lap, the shape clearly that of a sword and much too large for the smaller elf to wield.

"Ah, Chief Brokil." They stood when Brokil entered, setting the sword on the table and bowing deep at the waist. I smile spread across their face as they straightened, and Brokil wasn't quite sure what to do with it. "My name is Zera. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Welcome to Ghizol, Zera," Brokil politely replied. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"I will not keep you long, Chief." Zera returned their attention to the sword. They lifted it carefully, the effort to hold its weight plain in the strain of their arms. "High King Silvyr Quilen stated that this is to be returned to your hands only."

Brokil took the sword, carefully untying the emerald cloth that enclosed it. Its weight was familiar in his hands, but it wasn't until he saw the pommel that his heart sank deep in his chest. He knew this sword. Had searched for it for days when Thrakil fell. Lost sleep for countless nights due to its loss. Begged for forgiveness to the dirt beneath Thrakil's grave marker.

And now it was home.

"I thank you," Brokil managed to say, though he couldn't tear his eyes off the sword. If his voice sounded strained, no one said anything about it.

"Of course. The King wishes to present you with his declaration as well," Zera said, holding out a scroll wrapped in fine green ribbon. Much finer than the one he still wore around his wrist. "He advised it is for your eyes only. We hope you will continue to maintain a good relationship with Athowen."

Though he was loath to part with it, Brokil set the sword on the table and unraveled the ribbon holding the scroll together. Just like he thought, Silvyr's declaration was one of peace. Athowen would no longer bother Ghizol or any settlements within the Amesisle Range. They would no longer require them to maintain trading permits to trade among themselves and stated that future emissaries would be arriving to discuss terms of trade with settlements inside Athowen's empire.

Perhaps what made his heart soar all the higher, however, was Silvyr's note at the end of the declaration.

‘I will return to you.'

"This is good news, and I thank you for bringing it." Brokil folded up the paper and tucked it into his leathers. "Please, allow us to house you for a few nights. Join us tonight for a feast at the pyre. We must celebrate."

The words felt hollow in his chest, but Zera's smile was sweet and wide. And though they insisted they couldn't stay longer than a night, as High King Silvyr would want word back as soon as possible, they accepted without hesitation. Of course, Brokil understood and wouldn't keep them longer than necessary. A day was plenty of time to ensure they were supplied enough for a comfortable journey home. Thankfully, they also accepted the offer of an escort to Athowen's borders. Whatever Brokil could do to show Ghizol was grateful, he would do.

With the emissary taken care of, and the city busy preparing for the pyre, Brokil clutched Thrakil's sword in hand and made way for the one other person who might appreciate its return as much as he did.

"Urzul," Brokil said as he stepped through the door, unworried about how hurried he appeared. He hadn't even bothered with knocking, much to his mother's disdain if her annoyed groan from the kitchen was anything to go by. It only made him smile wider.

"Have you lost your manners boy?" Urzul called amid the clanging pots and pans.

"I have something to show you," Brokil said as he closed the door behind him. "It's important. It's Thrakil's."

The clanging stopped the moment Brokil said his father's name, and Urzul appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Thrakil?" Her eyes fell on the sword in his hands, growing wide with surprise. "You found it?"

"Silvyr sent it," Brokil rushed to say. "Thrakil perished in Athowen, not on the battlefield."

Urzul took a breath and reached out, brushing her fingers over the hilt of the sword. After a moment, she nodded. "I know."

"You know?" Brokil's jaw dropped. How could she know? Brokil hadn't even known until he read Silvyr's letter.

"Sit, Brokil," Urzul said, motioning to the floor. Brokil went, placing the sword across his lap and watching his mother. She stepped up to a cupboard, pulling a piece of parchment from it. "Thrakil got a letter out to me," she finally said as she knelt before him, holding out the parchment for him to take.

"You knew and you never told me?" Pain bloomed in his lungs, anger and betrayal mixing with old wounds. "How could you—"

"Hush and read the letter. Then you can tell me I did wrong," Urzul snapped.

Arguments remained on his tongue, but he forced his eyes down to the parchment instead, heading his mother's demand. Clarity settled in with each word he read, the pride he felt for Thrakil, for his father, spreading warmth through his chest. Of course, his father would ask that his capture be hidden. Brokil was not foolish enough to think they could avoid war if the Elders knew of how he truly died. He didn't think his own heart would have allowed for peace if he had known.

No, he knew it wouldn't have. News of Thrakil's death to a tender heart would have led Brokil down a path of vengeance. He'd have endangered Ghizol in his search for revenge. There was no honor in that. Even if he had destroyed Athowen in his rampage, peace would never have followed. There would be no room for it if he allowed his heart to be filled with hate.

"He meant to protect your heart, Brokil." Urzul reached out and set her hand on his knee. "And look at you, Chief of Ghizol. You're a strong man and a respectable, honorable leader. You are kind and generous. You are good. He was right, Brokil."

Though forgiveness felt far off, the understanding settled in his veins. He would not blame his mother for honoring his father's wishes, and he would not fault his father for doing what he believed to be right. But the hurt remained. The betrayal hung over him, and without the sun to dispel the rain, he let himself freeze.

As much as he would have liked to linger, he needed to prepare for the pyre that night. More importantly, he needed to write a letter to Silvyr. Whatever gloomy reflections that could trap him would have to wait.

As soon as he reached his empty home, he placed the sword on the mantle above the fireplace. When he had the time, he would mount it, but for now he allowed himself the comfort of its presence watching over him.

The pyre would be starting soon, but Brokil found his feet moving on their own, his hands grabbing for blankets and pillows without a thought. He arranged them into a pile before the fireplace, as though guided by phantom elven hands, and once nestled within, he wrote to his Flower. When finished, he wrapped his leather headband around the scroll, tying the cord carefully so as not to dent the leather during the long journey to Athowen. He'd give it to Zera in the morning before they left, trusting it'd make it back to Silvyr as soon as possible.

The celebration at the pyre was a success, and to his surprise, a much-needed break. Brokil found himself smiling with his people again, enjoying the company of so many others around him. Even when he saw the ghosts of Silvyr wherever he looked, he feasted and sang and danced. He lost himself in his city. In Ghizol, and imagined it was what Silvyr would desire of him. Hells, the little shit would demand it even.

Months passed after the advisor left, and though he found it easier to focus on his duties once more, the ache in his chest never quite left him. Every night he went to sleep in an empty bed and prayed for his elf to return to him, and every morning he awoke to the morning sunshine and empty sheets.

It was not for lack of trying.

On more than one occasion, Brokil requested permission to venture to Athowen to meet with the King in a diplomatic setting. He may not be able to bring Silvyr home with him, but he could see him. That could be enough for him. Yet every time, the Elders would not allow it.

"You are needed in Ghizol."

"We have emissaries trained for the tasks of diplomacy."

"We cannot trust Athowen's intentions. It's too soon."

"No."

Though he despised it and wanted to fight against the chains thrown around him, he could not. Ghizol had her traditions, and Ghizol had her laws. Not even Brokil could reject them. He could only resign himself to lonely nights and empty mornings.

Until the mornings changed.

Just like all the days before, the sun's rays filtered through the window to wake him. He lingered in that place between sleep and the waking world, dreamt that his arms we wrapped around his little elf. Citrus and honeydew filled his lungs and he buried his face into the source, desperate to remain in that dream as long as possible. His fingers brushed over warm skin, tangled through soft, short curls—

Eyes shooting open, Brokil found himself staring into rolling fields of emerald. He forgot how to breathe. He might have believed he was still dreaming if it weren't for the sloppy chop of golden hair, Brokil's own leather cord holding it down, and the dew glistening at the corners of his elf's eyes.

"Silvyr."

"Brokil."

Gods, that voice was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. A smile spread across Silvyr's lips, and Brokil couldn't stop himself from cupping the elf's face in his hand, his blush warming his palm.

"You're real." Brokil could hardly believe it. After so many mornings of false hope, so many mornings of missing the heartbeat in his chest, Silvyr was here. Silvyr was in his arms. Silvyr was clutching his sleeping tunic so tight he might tear through it if made to move. "You're really here."

"Salthu and Ascal helped me sneak in to surprise you," Silvyr whispered, pressing his face into Brokil's hand, his own hand coming to rest on top. He held him there, as though Brokil might pull away.

But gods damn him, he was not a strong man. Brokil pressed his lips against Silvyr's, swallowing the gasp that escaped the elf's lips, feeling his heart throb in his chest as if Silvyr's mere presence gave it life again. He didn't dare pull back until Silvyr was panting for air, and even then, he didn't go far.

"You're wearing my leather," Brokil whispered against his lips, swiping his fingers over the braided circlet.

"You're wearing my silk," Silvyr replied, slender fingers wrapping around Brokil's wrist where the ribbon lay.

They lay there like that for a long moment, simply existing in the silence of each other's breaths. Brokil took the opportunity to look at his elf. He looked so different, with the soft curls framing his face, but it was still him. Still his Little Flower.

Brokil's heart sang, even as Silvyr's eyes shone with that playful fire he'd grown so fond of, and the elf opened his mouth to say—

"I'm dead, you know."

Brokil pulled back, staring at the elf in horror. Whatever expression he wore must have been truly something, because Silvyr broke into a fit of giggles that he tried to hide in the curve of Brokil's palm.

"Dead?"

"Mmhm." Silvyr stifled the giggles and propped himself up on his elbow, his free hand sliding over Brokil's neck to settle on his chest. "Arlen will be king now. As far as anyone in Athowen is concerned, I got so very sick on a trip to the countryside and just couldn't fight it off. I was buried two weeks ago. It was a very sad affair."

"I'm sure it was a lovely service," Brokil said, realization sinking in.

Silvyr was no longer king. Silvyr got what he wanted, and in turn, Brokil received his deepest desire. Silvyr was free.

"Stay with me."

"I'm staying."