4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Brokil

The ride to their camp was quicker than Brokil expected.

The elf was surprisingly silent the entire ride, though he spent most of it staring straight ahead. Brokil almost assumed he had fallen asleep, but every now and then the elf would turn his head to look at something around them. He figured that he was exhausted from whatever happened with those traders, so Brokil let him sit in silence. It was a small act of mercy that Silvyr should be thankful to receive. He would receive very little of it moving forward.

The sun was setting by the time they finally met up with the rest of Brokil's troop, a whole day after retrieving the annoying prince. They had made a clearing for their camp and horses by cutting down the trees, the tents now placed in circles around the fire pits they had created. All but one, his own large war tent. Far larger than he needed, and near empty save for his necessities, but due to his station there was nothing to do other than accept it.

"Attention!" Brokil called, his voice booming across the clearing. In front of him, the elf snapped straight up and his troop turned their attention to him.

Once Brokil was sure all eyes were on him, he slipped from his horse, bringing the elf with him and holding him steady when he stumbled.

"We have taken Silvyr Quilen into our custody," Brokil said, pausing when whooping cheers threatened to cover anything else he might have said. Under his touch, the elf stiffened. "Our demands will reach the Tyrant King." Again, they cheered, clashing their mugs together. "I will say this once, and only once. No one touches him. If you value your hands, he will be returned home, unharmed, when the Tyrant King accepts our terms."

His troop cheered again—less enthusiastically, but cheered nonetheless. Brokil didn't pay much mind to that, he had more pressing matters to attend to. He turned to the elf who had taken a single step away from him. "You're in my tent," Brokil told him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him through the tent flaps.

Finally, they had the Crown Prince in their possession, but with all of his injuries, injuries that Brokil never intended, they were in deep shit if he didn't correct it quickly. The Tyrant King was not known for his kindness or willingness to compromise with anyone. At one time, the Tyrant King moved rivers and tore down mountains to get what he wanted, no doubt he would reign hellfire on Brokil and his people if they didn't hold up their end of the bargain and return Silvyr in one piece.

He hadn't noticed it until now, but the prince even limped as he walked. The once brilliant white silk trousers and tunic were stained with dirt, grass, and blood. Tears along the legs and sleeves clearly showed the abuse he had faced at the hands of those traders. Brokil should have punished all of them for their stupidity, and had Silvyr been anyone else, if he had more time, he would have. Men like that didn't deserve the mercy they received, but at least he was able to kill one of them.

The elf lifted his head, scanning the inside of the tent. It was minimal, probably poor in comparison to the luxury the prince traveled in, but it was all Brokil needed. His cot and his luggage. On the warpath, nothing else was required and he wasn't going to make his men carry anything that wasn't necessary. The tent felt larger because of it, and Brokil preferred it that way. It provided him more room to stay fit, to practice his combat maneuvers, and the undeniable ease that isolation brought after a day of fighting. Now, in the dark of night, the only other accessories in the tent were his lanterns in each corner to keep the tent lit.

"Come here," Brokil said, taking a step toward Silvyr. The elf didn't move toward him, but he also didn't move away from him. Instead, he just turned to look at Brokil, no hint of the exhaustion from earlier on his face anymore, only a deep glare. "I'm going to remove your manacles, but let me be clear. You are my ward now. If you leave this tent, you will be brought back before you can take two steps. Am I clear?"

Waiting for his answer, Brokil crossed his arms over his chest, as though to say he would not release Silvyr until the elf agreed to his terms. It wasn't unreasonable. None of Brokil's troop would risk Silvyr getting away a second time. They all knew the risks and they all knew how important it was to keep Silvyr in their possession.

"I understand," Silvyr mumbled, as though each syllable shamed him. Finally, he turned his back to Brokil and lifted his arms as best as he could, though Brokil didn't miss the soft way Silvyr sucked in a sharp breath at the movement.

Taking the key, Brokil released Silvyr from his binds and the elf immediately brought up his arms, rubbing his wrists where the skin had gone raw. Had he not struggled so much, and not run so foolishly, Silvyr wouldn't have to worry about that. Brokil set to work at his next task: fixing the damage done to the prince. He put the manacles into the trunk, sifting through it to grab the materials he needed. Setting a rag and a jar to the side, Brokil closed the lid, turning to look at his ward.

Silvyr had moved to his knees, threading his slender, scuffed up fingers through his hair, pulling out each twig and leaf, setting them in a neat pile at his side. The elf was staying out of trouble for the time being, so Brokil turned back to his cot, snatching up his canteen, sloshing the water around inside it. Collecting his items, he walked over to the prince and knelt in front of him, and when the elf turned to look at him, Brokil used that chance to grab the elf's chin.

Almost violently, the elf jerked his head away, eyes wide as he sucked in a breath. Fear flashed only for a moment before it was replaced with annoyance. "If you wanted to see what happened to me, you could ask," Silvyr snapped at him, scooting away from Brokil.

"You're forgetting your position here, boy," Brokil said, holding back a chuckle at the way Silvyr's brows narrowed at the nickname. "You are my ward. You are not a prince here. You are nothing."

Curiously, there was no reaction from Silvyr. If anything, there was a hint of relief. Now that was confounding. But that was a puzzle for another day, Brokil couldn't afford to concern himself with whatever Silvyr was feeling. All he needed to do was treat the wounds and make absolutely certain that they would heal properly. The rage of the Tyrant King would be indescribable otherwise.

"Let me see your lip," Brokil commanded, pouring water from his canteen into the rag. Silvyr eyed him with suspicion, and Brokil couldn't blame him for it. Nonetheless, the prince moved closer to Brokil, his limbs shaking.

Taking his chin again, Brokil brought up the rag and set to work wiping away the dried blood. Silvyr said nothing, squeezing his eyes shut as Brokil moved the rag over his lip, the barely scabbed over wound cracking open with new streams of blood.

"You could be more gentle," Silvyr mumbled after Brokil dabbed at the cut.

"I am," Brokil huffed, rolling his eyes at the prince. Here he was, being far kinder than the son of a tyrant deserved and still he found reason to complain. "You're just weak."

Silvyr's eyes shot open and he tore his face away from Brokil again. "I don't need your help. This wouldn't have happened if it weren't for you anyway," Silvyr spat at him, moving to his feet, fingers curled into fists at his side.

"This wouldn't have happened if the Tyrant King stopped his campaign of conquest, and if you had just followed like you were meant to." Brokil stood up, towering over the elf. He expected Silvyr to fold and show him that anxious faux confidence he had seen when they first met, but Silvyr looked in his eyes with stubborn determination.

"You act like it's my fault. It isn't. I am not weak, and I am not useless. I am none of those things!" Silvyr was almost shouting and Brokil wanted to slap his hand over that mouth to shut him up. The boy motioned to his face. "This is your fault. Not mine, and not my father's."

"I'm not the one who pummeled you," Brokil scoffed. "If you want to be mad at someone, be mad with your father and be mad with those monsters that decided you were a prize to be sold."

"What makes you better? Of the two options, you're the one with the threat of death," Silvyr said, his fists tightening.

"Well, if your tyrant father knows what's best, he'll agree to our terms and you'll return home where you can be surrounded by your servants and silks, spoiled by your luxury. Until then, I suggest you let me treat your cuts." Brokil had nearly enough of this conversation, if one could even call it that. The fighting spirit of the Tyrant King was alive and well in his son, that much was clear.

Even as Silvyr stared at him, hatred bubbling inside him, he said nothing more as he returned to the ground, crossing his legs underneath himself. Brokil followed, sitting before him and snatching up the jar on the ground. The salve was provided by their township's healer and she would not allow Brokil to leave without it. Now that he had use for it, he was thankful for her stubbornness.

Uncorking the lid, he caught the elf leaning forward to inspect the salve. "What's that made of?" he asked, his voice having suddenly lost the edge it carried before, replaced with curiosity.

"Does it matter?" Brokil asked, tired of his questions and his voice.

"It does. If it's made with the wrong ingredients, it will do more harm than good."

Brokil rolled his eyes. Even more, this prince complained. It would be a long trek home if he continued this act. "What do you know of salves and medicine?" he asked, dipping his finger into the jar to collect a portion.

Silvyr turned his eyes away from the salve and to Brokil. "More than you think. You may think me a fool or a child, but I know these things," he replied with a huff. "What's it made of?"

Unbelievable. "I don't have an ingredient list. It was made for open wounds. Do you want that cut to scar your pretty lips?" Brokil snarled. The flush on Silvyr's cheeks pleased him, though the prince tried to hide it by turning his head away. So, he hadn't imagined it before, that was definitely interesting.

"Fine. But I can do it myself," Silvyr said, reaching for the jar. Brokil pulled his arm back and out of the elf's reach over his own head.

Holding out his other hand with the salve on his finger, he shook his head. "I will not waste this portion. Don't abuse this kindness, boy. You will receive little moving forward," he warned.

Despite his irritation with the constant arguing and back talking, watching the prince weigh his options was endlessly entertaining. It was as though he could see him debating how much he could talk back before he received punishment, each possibility and internal conversation showing plainly on his face. The prince did not have the same stoic and expressionless nature as the Tyrant King, and Brokil would not waste that opportunity to see through whatever shields the prince put up. They were small and weak, easy to see through.

"Fine," Silvyr finally said, leaning forward, brows furrowed and his lips in a straight line in stubborn submission. It would do for the time being.

Setting the jar down, Brokil grabbed Silvyr's face again, pulling him closer to inspect the cut. The small yelp that came out of him made Brokil smirk and under his fingertips he could feel the heat in the elf's face. Again, Silvyr pinched his brows, but he didn't pull away, only stared at Brokil, seemingly refusing to be the first to look away. Paying no mind to whatever game the elf was playing, Brokil set the salve into the wound, carefully, so as to not draw blood again. Silvyr sucked in a sharp breath and his body trembled with the effort not to pull away from the burn that Brokil knew was coming.

"Oh, I must have forgotten to mention that." Brokil let him go, grinning wide.

"I'm sure you did," Silvyr grumbled. "Are you done?"

Still, Silvyr acted as though he was the one in charge here and Brokil knew he would have to break him of that soon, or it would get out of hand quickly.

"I'm not done. Take off your tunic."

Silvyr gaped at him, pushing himself back and away. "Excuse me?" he sputtered, looking absolutely mortified. Yet, there it was again—pink on those pale cheeks.

"Get back over here. You have more wounds, don't you?" Brokil questioned, thoroughly amused by the effect he had on the prince, who was not very princely when he was alone. "Your clothing is torn anyways. You might as well ditch it."

"I will not, you—"

"Watch your tongue. I said none of my men may lay a hand on you, don't think I won't," Brokil snapped. Silvyr clenched his mouth shut, but the powerful glare remained. If Brokil had been paper, he would have turned to ashes underneath that stare. "I have garments you can wear. They'll be big, you are quite tiny."

Silvyr huffed and shook his head. "I'll let you use that salve, but I'm keeping my clothes. I don't need yours," the prince said stubbornly, much to Brokil's frustration. There was no reason for the elf to continue to wear those fucking rags, and Brokil couldn't understand why he was so adamant on keeping them. Silvyr pulled his silk top over his head, setting it carefully to the side. "And I wouldn't have to wear these ruined clothes if you were patient enough to let me grab my luggage."

Ignoring the prince's griping, Brokil looked him over without the top in the way. Those traders hadn't held back when they beat him. Already flaming red splotches blossomed on milky white skin, and he knew they would flourish their purple petals in a few days' time. Unfortunately, Brokil had no salve for that, and Silvyr would have to deal with the pain. The prince must have thought the same, from the way he groaned when he saw the extent of his wounds, though it sounded more annoyed than pained.

More than the bruises and scrapes, the smooth, symmetrical scars under his chest caught Brokil's eye. Pale pink against his creamy skin, the scars almost looked like leaves, cupping the underside of Silvyr's breast. Though purposely placed, they looked natural against him. As though Silvyr had been born with those scars.

Without his asking, Silvyr moved back to his knees, closer to Brokil. "Can I at least do these ones?" he asked, holding out his hand, also covered in cuts and scrapes.

"I suppose there's no harm in that," Brokil said, setting the jar in Silvyr's hand. He watched as Silvyr dipped two fingers into the salve, removing a decent portion, before raising it to his nose to sniff. "That's not how it's applied," Brokil said through a snort.

Silvyr snapped his head over to him. "I know that. I wanted to know what's in it," he said, as though it should have been obvious.

"And did you figure it out?" From smell alone it would be impossible to know what was in the salve. All it smelled of was bitter paste, nothing in the entire world smelled the same way the salve did.

As Silvyr applied a small amount to each of his scrapes, he only glanced at Brokil. "Yes, I did. Do you want me to enlighten you?" The absolute gall of this elf to talk to him like that. Brokil would let it slide this one time, but he did allow a snarl past his lips. The prince needed to know that his patience had limits and he would push him back in the dirt if he needed to. "It's marigold and elm bark."

Brokil blinked. How could he know that from smell alone? Brokil would confirm with the healer back home, but the confidence in the prince's voice told him that he was correct. Brokil took the jar back, pressing the lid back on, standing to return it to his trunk. "From smell alone," he muttered.

"They have distinct smells," Silvyr replied, oddly as though it were a friendly conversation.

Brokil wasn't in the mood to humor the spoiled princeling with more conversation. From the depths of his trunk, he pulled out a long blanket. By the time he turned back to the elf, he had pulled his tunic back over his head and returned to work untangling his hair. There was so much of it, Brokil couldn't imagine how obnoxious caring for it would be.

Flicking his arm, Brokil threw the blanket, the fabric landing on top of Silvyr's head, ruining the work he had done to untangle it. With another huff, Silvyr pulled the blanket off, turning to glare at Brokil once again. "For you, boy," Brokil said, moving to his cot to prepare for sleep.

"Am I to sleep on the ground?" Silvyr asked, pure indignity seeping into every word.

"You must have issues with your sight. There is only one cot. Where else would you sleep?"

Silvyr pushed the blanket away from himself, turning to fully face Brokil, sitting on his knees. "So, you've not only degraded me to this point, but now I must sleep on the ground? A generous host indeed." Silvyr stared him in the eyes as he spoke. A challenge.

And Brokil had enough.

Pushing away from the cot, Brokil lunged at the prince, clutching that pretty little throat with one hand, shoving him onto his back. Silvyr threw his hands up to grab Brokil's arm, trying in vain to push it away, but Brokil hardly noticed the weak grip.

"I've had enough of your talking," he growled, straddling himself on top of Silvyr. Leaning in close, nearly touching his nose against Silvyr's, he bared his teeth. "I suggest you keep your mouth shut for the remainder of the night, or I will throttle you to sleep myself."

Silvyr tried to take a deep breath, struggling against the hand on his throat. He locked eyes with Brokil and tilted his head in a shaky nod. Something in his eyes caught Brokil's attention but he couldn't name it. There wasn't fear or even worry playing over his face. The prince even stopped trying to push him off, though his hands remained on Brokil's forearm.

No matter, Brokil lifted himself off the ground, stepping away from the elf. Behind him, he could hear Silvyr taking a deep, unimpeded breath. Then the shuffling of getting comfortable on the ground. Looking over his shoulder, he watched Silvyr curl up on the opposite end of the tent. Good. Stay as far away as possible. Brokil had already lost his calm more than once and he didn't need to do it again.

Yet, he couldn't help but wonder what the look on the prince's face was. He had not seen it before when he had someone under his thumb. Fear, pain, anxiety, a mixture of everything. But Silvyr… Was it curiosity? Or even excitement? The idea felt too ridiculous to contemplate. The prince had been nothing but a brat up to this point. It had to be surprising that someone wouldn't listen to his shit anymore and he had to face the consequences of his actions. Surely that was it and nothing more.

He needed to sleep. They would set out early in the morning and Brokil needed to be at his best for his people. Transporting a captive who had already tried to run once, more eyes would be on Silvyr and himself. His troop would want to see how he reacted after the prince's attempted escape. He considered the manacles again, however, if they did that, the trek by horse would be difficult. The entire ride there was hard enough with Silvyr's hands behind his back, pressing right up against him. Instead, he would make use of the rope in his trunk, then running would certainly be impossible.

Returning to his trunk, Brokil removed his clothing. For a moment he considered modesty, but he really didn't care. This was his tent and he could do what he pleased. It didn't matter that he was in full view of the elf. Let him see the might of Brokil. Perhaps then he would understand that no fight against him could be won when the prince was so small and lithe in comparison.

As he set the pieces of clothing into the trunk, completely naked, he chanced a sideways glance at the prince. In the brief glimpse he had, he caught Silvyr staring, the blanket pulled up over his nose as if that would hide himself. Brokil grinned as he shut the trunk. With this knowledge, he took his time moving from corner to corner, blowing out the lanterns, finishing with the one nearest to his cot.

"We ride in the morning. Sleep, boy," Brokil said as he climbed into his cot, pulling the blanket just up to his waist. He couldn't stop himself from smiling when he heard the faintest mumble from the other side of the tent, barely a whisper.

"My name is Silvyr."