6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Silvyr

Blaring horns yanked Silvyr out of his restless sleep.

Rubbing his bleary eyes, Silvyr assumed that morning had come sooner than he thought, yet no sunlight illuminated the tent. Dark night still hung around them like a shroud. Then came the shouts, indistinct and scattered all around.

Rousing from his rest, he sat up, looking around the dark tent and trying to force his eyes to adjust faster to the darkness. The only thing he could see was the outline of Brokil pulling on his clothing. His heart dropped with Brokil's urgency. He didn't need or want panic to seep in, but as Brokil snatched his longsword from underneath his cot, Silvyr's throat went dry.

"What—"

"Silence," Brokil commanded in a tone that Silvyr hadn't heard from him before, one that stiffened every muscle in his body and filled his chest with dread.

When the clashing of metal against metal sounded through the night, Silvyr realized why the horns went off. Obeying Brokil's order, Silvyr swallowed any questions he might have and pulled his blanket up as though to cover himself in modesty. Though in truth, if what was happening outside was what he thought, it would do nothing if the danger came to him. It had to be an attack, by who though, Silvyr couldn't say. Torches lit outside the tent cast shadows along the canvas as the orcs in the camp ran toward the fight, the shouting only growing louder.

"You stay here," Brokil barked at him and Silvyr hurriedly nodded. He wasn't going to argue with Brokil now, the last thing he wanted to do was leave the tent when chaos seemed to surround them.

Sword in hand, Brokil bounded out of the tent, not bothering to tie off the flaps. In any other circumstance, Silvyr would have used the opportunity to escape. Though now he was frozen to the spot, only trembling while battle surrounded him. He knew he couldn't just stay where he was. He was a sitting duck out in the open, and if any of the attackers reached the tent, there was no way to know what their intentions would be. Not to mention Silvyr was utterly defenseless.

Alone in the tent, Silvyr jumped to his feet, looking for a place to hide. The tent wasn't much, since that damned Brokil traveled with so little, but there was one place Silvyr could think of that might work, one that might conceal him until Brokil returned. The trunk.

The sickening thwack of metal slashing flesh sent Silvyr rushing to the chest, flipping it open and hoping Brokil didn't pack the thing to the brim. There would be little opportunity to look through the items inside, and his presence would be too obvious if he tossed anything out. Much to his terrified delight, the trunk was only half full, containing clothing and other small items he didn't bother to catalog. It would work, and for the first time Silvyr was thankful for his tiny stature. Pushing the clothing aside, Silvyr pulled himself in, tucking his knees to his chest and closing the lid over himself.

If the night was dark, inside the trunk was a void. Squeezing his eyes shut, the muted noises from outside still plagued him. Indistinct shouting and war cries, metal clashing and screaming pain from both the orcs and whoever was attacking them. A few times he heard men hitting the tent, scraping against the canvas. Over the sound of his own thumping heart, Silvyr couldn't tell if they sliced through or moved on, he could only try to breathe and stay quiet and still.

Through the mounting chaos, Silvyr wondered which side would claim the victory. Part of him hoped the orcs would see success and Brokil would return to the tent and assure him that the attackers were a nefarious band of thieves or raiders. Another part hoped that the assailants were sent by Father or Ascal, ready to rescue Silvyr the moment they found him.

If he could summon his courage to leave the trunk, he could find out. All he needed to do was pop his head out the tent flaps for a moment, a moment to see who it was they were fighting. The risk of Brokil's wrath would be of little concern when the promise of escape was so close, if not for the fact that Silvyr could be wrong.

Gripped with indecision and a rising fear that churned his stomach, Silvyr covered his ears, hoping the fight would end soon.

He had never seen battle, and he never wanted to. Much to Father's distaste, Silvyr was not built for war. With each cry of pain and slice through flesh that passed through the barrier of his hands, Silvyr's stomach roiled and he willed himself not to be sick all over Brokil's clothes. If Father could see him now, he would see how truly pathetic Silvyr had become, cowering inside a damn trunk while men and women outside the tent fought. If it was Father and his forces outside the tent, Silvyr would surely see punishment for his actions.

After a painfully long silence, the whooping of successful orcs filled his ears. Pulling his hands away from his ears, Silvyr opened his eyes, blinking into the dark trunk.

Footsteps echoed all around him as the warriors returned to their duties and tents. Brokil's voice broke through the clamoring, assuring Silvyr that they were indeed victorious. A bittersweet sensation.

"Solaro! Administer first aid immediately!" Brokil's order echoed around the clearing even as his footsteps neared the tent. Silvyr heard the flaps being pushed aside, then the rage filling Brokil's voice as he entered. "Where the fuck are you?"

Despite how a new fear gripped his heart, Silvyr pushed the lid of the chest open, lifting his head. "I'm right here! I never left," he said, trying to focus on Brokil in the darkness, hoping that the orc didn't redirect that anger on him. He opened his mouth to say more, but even in the dark, Silvyr could see the damage.

From Brokil's right shoulder down to the bottom of his left pec, a large gash marred his flesh, bleeding through the night shirt he wore. Silvyr scrambled out of the chest, ignoring the way Brokil scoffed at him.

"Hiding?" Brokil grumbled as he stepped in further.

"You need the healer," Silvyr stated the obvious, ignoring Brokil's comment as he hurried over to him.

The chief shoved Silvyr out of his way and all but collapsed on his cot. "The others need him, I'll be fine," Brokil said, stubbornness in every word, turning his eyes on Silvyr's as though to challenge him.

Silvyr didn't know much, and he hadn't seen a wound like that before, but he knew enough to confidently say that Brokil would not be fine without help. "You're bleeding everywhere, you need help—"

"Shut your mouth, I don't need help," Brokil interrupted him again, even as he tried to cover the flash of pain across his face at the same moment.

"Clearly all is well," Silvyr grumbled, rolling his eyes as he stepped up to Brokil, hands on his hips. "Listen, if you won't let me get the healer, then at least let me take care of it."

Brokil laughed, though it was cut off with a pained breath, only further proving that Silvyr was right. Brokil needed help, whether the dumb brute wanted to admit it or not.

"Why should I?" Brokil asked him. "You'd do more harm than good."

"I'd do better than leaving it alone to get infected, or worse," Silvyr countered.

Truth be told, the risk of Brokil being taken out by his wound would make Silvyr's chances of surviving this ordeal far worse than they already were. If Brokil died because he was too stubborn to accept help, Silvyr would be put in the hands of someone like Salthu or Murzush, and he much preferred the demon he knew. He knew next to nothing about those women, but at this moment, he knew Brokil enough to deal with him while he looked for a way to escape. Being with anyone else would mean he'd have to start his planning all over again.

Besides that, he simply couldn't let this man suffer, no matter how cruel his actions were. It wasn't in him. Maybe that was another thing that made him weak.

"How can you possibly know what you're doing?" Brokil asked, moving to take off his shirt only to lower his arm again with a sharp breath. "You would have me believe that a spoiled brat like you knows anything about medicine?"

Silvyr wanted to snap at him, but he held his tongue, taking in a deep breath. If he wanted to get this man to let him help, snapping wouldn't help his case.

"I found out what was in your salve by smell alone," Silvyr reminded him, trying to keep his voice steady, but if this damned stubborn man didn't just let him help, Silvyr might not be able to contain himself against his better judgment. "Just let me help you and I'll tell you how I know all this. Does that sound fair?"

Brokil eyed him, suspicion clear in his eyes, which of course Silvyr expected. "Fine," Brokil finally conceded and Silvyr almost let a smile slip. "Try anything funny and I'll throw you to the wolves."

"Consider me informed," Silvyr replied, thinking the threat quite empty considering he had no intentions to maliciously hurt the orc. He returned to the trunk and rummaged through it, looking for the jar of salve Brokil used days ago. "Do you have a needle and thread? Alcohol?" Silvyr asked while dropping the clothes to the side as he searched the chest.

"Yes, it's in there. And matches for the lanterns. I'd prefer you not do this in the dark," Brokil told him, and Silvyr rolled his eyes at the idea of doing any kind of medical work in the dark. He was confident, but certainly not that confident.

"It wasn't in my plans, just so you know," he said, grabbing the jar and setting it carefully to his side. He found a small tin and flipped it open, smiling when he saw plenty of thread and a decent curved needle, followed by the bottle of alcohol. Rum. "What are you, a pirate?"

Brokil's low chuckle reverberated through him, and Silvyr fought back another smile. "The traders bring in good liquors," Brokil said as though it were obvious. "And you're annoying enough that I need it."

"You're insufferable." Silvyr shut the trunk, setting his supplies on the cot but keeping the bundle of matches in hand.

Silvyr lit one of the lanterns, which he might have hung from the hook on the center pole if he could reach it. He found himself frowning as he craned his head back to look at the hook, mocking him from so high up. Unfortunately, this tent was made for giants and he was much too small, so he settled for placing it on the ground near his feet for now.

Once he was sure he'd be able to see sufficiently, he picked up the salve and looked to Brokil.

"Ready?" Silvyr asked him.

"Yes, but I want you to explain everything you're doing. I'm not going to let you make this worse," Brokil said, watching Silvyr's hand like a hawk would a mouse.

"Fine. I'm taking off your shirt. Try not to move your arm," Silvyr said, grabbing the hem of the linen, carefully pulling it over Brokil's head, following the curve of his body to remove it without aggravating the wound. It was almost surprising that Brokil obeyed his order to remain still. He half expected him to move just to spite Silvyr, even if it brought him more pain.

Dropping the shirt to the ground, Silvyr lifted the lantern and held it up to the wound to examine the damage. It was deep, but thankfully not deep enough to cause any permanent damage. If what he read was correct, all he would need to do was clean and stitch the wound, then the ointment would speed up the healing and prevent any infections. It could have been entirely avoided if Brokil had enough time to put on his leathers. Linen against a sword would always be a losing battle.

The blood dripped in a steady stream down Brokil's stomach, soaking into the waistband of his trousers. Silvyr lifted the lantern and held it out.

"Hold this with your good arm so I can see," he said, and, without question, Brokil took the lantern. "It could be worse, but I can fix it. There's a lot of blood, you'd bleed out before your healer got to you if you didn't let me help."

"I don't recall asking for your opinion," Brokil grunted while Silvyr grabbed a clean shirt and Brokil's canteen.

"You'll get it regardless," Silvyr retorted with a shrug of his shoulders. If Brokil was going to be stubborn, Silvyr could play the same game.

Brokil eyed him as he poured water on the shirt to soak it. "Are you going to tell me how you know what you're doing?"

"I studied medicine," Silvyr told him, pausing only long enough to inform the orc that he was just cleaning the area before getting to work. The wound still bled, but Silvyr was able to slowly dab away most of the blood, leaving a clean canvas for him to work with. "I excelled in the topic, more so than other subjects."

It was a brag, but one he believed he deserved. It was one of the few things his tutors had praised him for after he tore through every book in their library, which required the librarians to seek out more, lest Silvyr grow bored.

"According to who?" Brokil asked, watching Silvyr's hand on his chest. He barely moved while Silvyr cleaned the wound, and Silvyr couldn't help but wonder if most men were like that when their wounds were being treated, or if Brokil was simply used to it. "Have you done this before?"

"I haven't, but I memorized every book and passed the tests set by my tutors. I suppose not even my father would purposely wound his men for me to practice on. I wouldn't want that anyways." It was probably the only decent thing he could say about Father. Silvyr wasn't important enough to waste soldiers on.

"He must not have wanted you to maim his troops more," Brokil said, eyes glimmering with what Silvyr could only assume was teasing.

Silvyr grumbled as he uncorked the rum, splashing it over Brokil's wound without warning. A crude disinfectant, but it would work for a wound so large. The indignant yelp that escaped the chief brought a smile to Silvyr's lips. "Oops, sorry."

"I'm sure you are, boy," Brokil said through his teeth while Silvyr wiped the edges of the wound again.

Once it was dried enough, Silvyr uncapped the salve and dipped his fingers in. "I'm going to put this on the cut," he said, though ‘cut' seemed far too tame a word for the wound gouged into the man's skin.

When Brokil only nodded, Silvyr pressed his fingers to the wound, focused on getting the salve into every crevice. He didn't have time to consider the way Brokil's blood glistened on his own pale skin, but he found it didn't bother him as much as he thought it would.

Underneath his fingertips, the orc remained silent aside from his deep, even breaths. Brokil didn't so much as flinch, but Silvyr knew it couldn't be comfortable, remembering the burn from the small amount placed on his lip and scrapes. Still, he tried to work quickly without sacrificing the quality of his work. If he missed a spot, it could lead to infection.

"Almost done with the salve," Silvyr mumbled, scooping more out with his clean hand. Finally done with covering the wound, Silvyr used the dirtied clothing to wipe his hands, then tossed it away. "You'll have to have someone wash these."

"Noted." Brokil gave another small chuckle, and again Silvyr wanted to smile. He pressed his lips tight instead, wondering how it was this dumb horrible brute was managing to make him smile at all.

Silvyr lifted the bottle of rum and held it out to Brokil. "Give me the lantern and take a drink. A big one. The needle and thread will hurt more than the salve and rum," he said, reaching for the lantern with the other hand. Brokil made the trade and brought the bottle to his lips. He took three large gulps before pausing to release a sigh, then taking another.

"If you want to get me drunk, you'll have to try harder than that," Brokil said, pushing the cork back into the bottle.

Silvyr snatched the rum away from him with a huff, his face heating as he shoved the lantern back in Brokil's hand. If he wasn't about to stitch him up, Silvyr could smack this man. "Let me focus, you brute. I don't want to butcher you."

"I'm sure." Brokil sounded more relaxed now, and Silvyr didn't know if it was the alcohol, the exhaustion after battle, or something else. He would figure it out later, for now, he had to focus.

He was exact in his motions as he took up the needle and threaded it, using more thread than was probably necessary since he didn't know how much he would need. He took a breath to steady himself before setting the need to Brokil's skin and beginning. Taking his time with each stitch, Silvyr slowly closed the wound, having to pause more than once to wipe his hands clean of new blood before continuing.

Underneath his touch, Brokil took deep breaths, and Silvyr could hear his teeth grinding. Gods, he should have given him a piece of leather to bite into. It was in all the books, and he had been given leather himself when he received stitches as a child when he tore his foot on a sharp rock. He had forgotten that, and at this point it was too late to stop to provide one for Brokil.

"Holding up?" Silvyr asked, nearly done with his work.

"Mmhm. I'm tougher than you assume," Brokil said, his voice teasing.

"Yes. A big tough man who wanted to refuse help." Silvyr glanced up at him, catching his gaze and smirking. "Must be hard for men like you to ask for help."

"Maybe I wanted to test you."

Silvyr scoffed, tying off the thread after his final stitch. "And? What's my score?" He took a step back to examine his work. By no means was it perfect, but it would hold until the healer could see him. That's all Silvyr needed.

"I'll call for Solaro tomorrow. He'll give you your score," Brokil answered, lifting his shoulders just until the stitches pulled before stopping. "But it feels correct."

Pride swelled in Silvyr's chest. He did it. He did it right. He had to fight back a smile as he collected the tools, using the rum again to clean the needle before returning it and the salve back into the trunk. He placed the discarded clothing atop it all and pushed the soiled clothing to the front of the tent, unsure of where else to put them.

"Perhaps you have some uses," Brokil said behind him and Silvyr forced out a chuckle.

"Some uses? Medicine, and what else?" Silvyr didn't know why he asked, or why he turned around to look at him. But watching the way Brokil shamelessly eyed him up and down, Silvyr felt heat in his cheeks and prayed that he was imagining it.

Brokil's lips pressed tight together. "I'm going to sleep."

"Sleep then," Silvyr said, turning back to his spot on the floor, trying desperately to ignore the strange confusion in his belly. "Wounds heal faster when you sleep."

The cot creaked as Brokil lay back. Silvyr remained in place, staring at his blanket in a heap. Around the tent, the chaos of battle had faded and incoherent mumbling replaced the shouting. The other orcs must have been returning to their tents as well. Only the soft mumbling of what were probably the injured waiting for Solaro to treat their wounds.

For only a moment, Silvyr wondered if Brokil would let him go outside and help. He would never ask, but he knew he would be useful, even if it wasn't the smartest thing for him to do. Treating the wounds of the people who organized and carried through with his abduction would make him the biggest fool. None of them would understand why Silvyr hated the idea of letting people suffer, even if they were guilty. Father would hate him for it, and the orcs would think there was something sinister in his motives. It wasn't worth asking about. Still, he wished he could. He hated feeling useless.

Soon, the heavy wheezing of Brokil's snoring broke the silence inside the tent. In the morning, Silvyr would have to ask who attacked them. He should have asked before the orc went to sleep, but his focus had been misplaced. If he were smarter, if he were the son Father wanted, he would have. He would have sabotaged the stitching or cleaning the wound. He would have never offered to help in the first place. There were so many things he did that Father would punish him for if he ever found out.

Mercy being the utmost sin Silvyr committed that night.

Shaking his head, Silvyr silently padded over to Brokil's cot, watching the rise and fall of his chest. He found himself staring at the muscular curve of his abdomen, down to his hips where the sleeping trousers cut off any view Silvyr might have gotten. Each night when the orc undressed, his impressive size couldn't be missed, no matter how Silvyr tried not to stare. Even now, the bulge in his trousers filled Silvyr's cheeks with heat.

He yanked the blanket to cover Brokil's legs and up to his waist, snatched up a clean shirt and Brokil's canteen, then stomped over to his side of the tent. Plopping on the ground, Silvyr poured water on his hands, scrubbing them as clean as he could of the man's blood. Tried to scrub away the feeling of his skin beneath his fingertips. The way his muscles curved and glimmered in the lantern light. How his chest rose with every breath. How his eyes seemed to shine as he stared into Silvyr's with a hungry predation that twisted the knot in Silvyr's stomach.

The way those very eyes scorched him, dragging down the length of Silvyr's body with no attempt to hide the lewd thoughts running through his head.

Shoving the canteen and shirt away from himself, Silvyr pulled the blanket over him and turned his back to the sleeping orc. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying and failing to go to sleep. Every time he started to drift, he returned to those damned eyes.

That hunger and need.

A burning desire that forced him to press his legs together as shame filled his cheeks with heat. Gods, there had to be something wrong with him. The exhilaration upon seeing Chief Brokil for the first time should have been the last of it. The only moment of delusional weakness.

Yet as he slipped his hand beneath the waistband of his trousers and sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, Silvyr let the craving guide his traitorous fingers. Betrayal coursed through him when he slipped the first finger into his wet heat, slapping his other hand over his mouth to contain the sudden gasp that escaped him.

It wasn't enough. Pressing a second finger inside his pussy, Silvyr rocked his hips forward, seeking the friction that he knew wouldn't come. His own fingers weren't enough. Too small, too soft, too slow. Silently, he pressed into himself, edging closer to the surface of agony in the wake of pleasure. Seeking relief. Seeking the powerful touch of another.

Of him.

Breathing heavy through his nose, Silvyr stroked and arched, toes curling with each pass. In the darkness of the tent, he begged the gods to relieve him of his foolish nature. To stop the pleading ache in his chest that could only be fulfilled by the one person who should never touch him.

But when he pressed his thumb against his clit, his hips stuttered and his pussy clenched around his fingers. Over and over, he told himself to stop. Told himself that he was a foolish, pitiful excuse for a prince.

Told himself that his desire to feel the calluses formed from a lifetime of battle against his sensitive folds would tear him apart. Told himself that the need to feel those tusks between his legs would send him tumbling on the winds like a dandelion's false prayer.

When he passed his thumb over his clit once more, squeezing his eyes shut and seeing those brilliantly fierce begonia eyes staring back at him, he couldn't stop himself from sucking in a sharp breath. Couldn't stop the rushing wave of pleasure that coursed through him, his body taut like a vine reaching through the trees, desperate to find the sun.

Desperate and delusional.