8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Silvyr

"Get in the fucking water."

Next to the slow rolling river, away from their campsite, Silvyr stared at the chief, arms crossed and holding his ground. Though it had been a sunny morning, warm and sweet, the clouds soon rolled in and covered the river in a gentle haze. He would appreciate being able to enjoy the weather without that damned orc harassing him.

"Not while you're staring at me. If you think I'm going to undress with you watching me, you're mistaken."

If Brokil would just let him bathe in peace, Silvyr could be done by now. But instead, that stubborn man chose to argue the point for at least ten minutes, refusing to give Silvyr any kind of privacy. The insult was grave and completely inappropriate, and the man was utterly ridiculous if he believed Silvyr would just give in.

Brokil may be comfortable undressing in front of whoever, but Silvyr wasn't and he wouldn't let himself be bare around this beast. Certainly not after Brokil made it clear that he caught Silvyr that night in the tent. Heat filled his cheeks at the reminder, but still, he didn't budge.

Brokil snarled, his upper lip curling, his frustration mounting, but Silvyr didn't care. He wasn't asking for much, even if the damned orc refused to see reason, and he was sure the man would survive Silvyr's simple request.

"And I'm not going to risk you running off again. Either you get undressed and get clean, or I'll just throw you into the fucking water myself."

The audacity of this man to be so lewd and inappropriate, it was almost unbelievable. "How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not going to run?" He had said it so many times by now he might go crazy if he had to say it again. Yet every time Silvyr said it, the frown on Brokil's face deepened and he could swear he saw a vein in his forehead.

"Excuse me for not believing you when you've already tried running before," Brokil scoffed, taking a step toward him, but Silvyr held steady, refusing to let this man degrade him further.

While he knew he couldn't argue that point with Brokil, Silvyr wouldn't let Brokil intimidate him. The last thing he wanted was to be completely bare in front of him, completely and utterly exposed. It would spell disaster for him, and display a new range of vulnerabilities that the orc could take advantage of, and Silvyr couldn't risk that.

"Just turn around! I could have been bathed by now if you weren't so stubborn." Silvyr huffed, swallowing hard when Brokil took another step toward him. Then another. Until Brokil was nearly pressed right up against him, less than a breath apart.

Close enough that the heat radiating off of him echoed in Silvyr's cheeks.

"Get in the fucking water," Brokil said through his teeth, each word slow and pointed, the snarl on his lip sending shivers through Silvyr's entire body.

"I told you, turn around and let me bathe in privacy," Silvyr shot back. Brokil stared down at him, brows pinching with what Silvyr could only assume was pure frustration. Good. Let him unravel.

"I will throw you in that river and hold your head under until you finish cleaning if I have to," Brokil warned, crossing his arms over his chest.

Silvyr just stared at him, trying to decide if he truly meant his threat. Surely, he didn't mean to drown him, but would he? Swallowing hard, Silvyr decided that the threat was empty. "No, you won't. If you hurt me, then my father will be less likely to heed any of your terms."

"Is that what you think?" Brokil asked him, something akin to fascination, or maybe confusion, in his amber eyes. "Are you presuming to know my father better than I do?" Silvyr challenged, lifting his chin. He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince more at this point, himself or the orc?

"I am presuming that your father wouldn't mind if I taught his brat some manners, since clearly he failed in that," Brokil said through his teeth. Silvyr almost laughed at how close the orc was to the truth without even knowing it. Father had more experience in teaching him a lesson than Brokil ever could. "Now get in the water."

"No."

Without warning, Brokil's hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of Silvyr's hair as he leaned down to get face to face. Silvyr gasped, and heat rushed to his cheeks as he pressed his open hands to Brokil's chest to push him away. Not that it did him any good. His shove was hardly more than a gentle breeze against a mighty mountain.

"You are a fucking child. Do you want the manacles again? I've been too easy on you apparently, and I'm tired of your shit," Brokil snapped at him, baring his teeth and wrapping his massive hand around Silvyr's wrist, the fingers overlapping and the palm covering nearly half his forearm.

"Let go of me. If you're so tired of me, then leave me alone," Silvyr demanded, glaring as he slid his free hand down to the chief's stomach for better leverage. He pushed again, but no matter how much force he used, the orc didn't move. Inextricably solid. Herculean.

"Not happening. And if you keep this up, I may break my end of the bargain and send you back to your father as a bloody pulp!"

"Do it then! He'd probably thank you," Silvyr snapped before he realized what he'd said.

Brokil released his grip and Silvyr stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. Gods, had he said that out loud? How could he let those words out of his mouth? How could he be so foolish, so stupid, so thoughtless? Certainly, it was too late to take them back, not with the orc staring down at him like that, mouth open as though he too didn't believe what Silvyr said.

"What?" Brokil's voice was low, almost too quiet to be heard.

Silvyr took a step back, desperate to escape the conversation entirely. To get the orc to forget, or at least disregard, what he'd heard. With no other option, he hurried to the river and stripped himself down, ignoring the way his skin flushed at being bare around the other man. He slipped into the water and dropped down until it waded above his shoulders.

It was absolutely degrading and humiliating, but what other choice did he have? Explain himself? That wasn't possible, he wouldn't be able to do it.

"I'm bathing, isn't that what you wanted?" Silvyr said quickly, scrubbing at his arms with his hands as if to prove his point. "Will you leave me alone now?"

As much as he wanted to turn to see what Brokil was doing, if he truly was watching him as closely as he threatened, Silvyr feared that if he did, the tears would come. No Quilen was as foolish as he was, and now that damned man knew it. Gods, he could only imagine how Brokil would use that against him.

Brokil remained silent while Silvyr cleaned himself. For all Silvyr knew, he had walked away, but Silvyr wouldn't look back at him to confirm it. Instead, he focused on cleaning every speck of dirt out from under his nails and all over his body. Thankfully, mercifully, Brokil seemed content to let the silence continue. If he had said anything else, Silvyr might have let the tears fall. At least the water would hide it while he was turned away from him.

When he finished cleaning, Silvyr finally chanced a look over his shoulder, only to see the orc sat in the grass, his back facing Silvyr. Relief flooded him. Father would want him to use Brokil's inattention to run, but he knew he wouldn't be able to with such little of a head start. Even so, the way Brokil kept his leering eyes off him was an odd form of uneasy comfort. It was all Silvyr would get here, so he held onto it and stepped out of the river.

Staring at his clothes on the ground, Silvyr considered Brokil's offer for new ones. His were fairly dirty at this point, covered in blood and sweat and dirt, making them more uncomfortable than usual. But they were also all he had left of home. A reminder that he was a prince and he needed to act like one, or being around Brokil and his troops would destroy him. Maybe the hope that he could still make Father proud while being held captive was useless and stupid, but Silvyr couldn't let it go. He wouldn't.

He picked up the clothes, figuring he was dry enough to wear them comfortably and pulled them back on. They were worse for wear, and they hung too loose on his frame, but they would still work. It made him realize just how much the last couple of weeks had affected him.

Eating had been difficult. Not because the orcs had repulsive food as he was taught to believe—in actuality it was savory and filling—but because the further they got from Athowen, the more his resolve wavered. His resolve to be the son his father would want him to be. His resolve to run.

Though staying had its own dangers. That man, the Chief of the Amesisle orcs, he was dangerous. He made Silvyr feel traitorous, weak. Silvyr had already proven that he couldn't be trusted around him, that even his body would betray him where Brokil was concerned. Worse even, he couldn't help but wonder…

Would Father want him to use that to his advantage?

"Are you done?" Brokil asked, interrupting Silvyr's speculations.

"I'm done," Silvyr replied, standing still.

Whatever chance he had to try and run slipped away when Brokil stood up and turned to face him. He looked Silvyr up and down, noting the way his silks hung off his frame, torn and stained from the trip to Amesisle.

"I really don't want to have to chain you up again," Brokil said as he approached Silvyr, his voice low and tired. "It makes everything more difficult."

"My apologies for making all of this difficult for you," Silvyr grumbled, crossing his arms and fighting to hide a smirk when he saw the flames behind Brokil's eyes. At least prodding the orc could serve as a distraction from Silvyr's utter foolishness.

"Boy—"

"Silvyr."

"Do you argue this often all the time?" Brokil asked, and Silvyr could swear he caught the hint of a smile trying to pull free.

"What do you believe?"

"I believe so."

Silvyr couldn't stop himself from chuckling. "Then perhaps you are not as thick-headed as I thought."

???

Maybe if the trees weren't so thick, Silvyr would have seen the vibrant white clouds morph into gray.

By the time he realized it was raining, the heavy drops clattered against the leaves and drenched him just when he had fully dried off. At first, the shock of it made him jump. The heaving drops against his skin were new, and the sensation pulled his skin taut and rolled gooseflesh all over him. It was so much like the river, but not at all the same. A contradiction. One that had his heart pounding.

Turning his face up toward the sky, Silvyr closed his eyes and gave himself a moment to take in the fresh downpour. Back home, he had always remained within the castle when the rain started. Father never let him outside to feel it for himself, left to watch from behind windows that didn't open, that had never opened. He couldn't help but think the pattering against the glass did the rain no justice.

Cooling and sweet, every time the raindrops kissed his skin, soaking him to the bone, Silvyr wished and wished again to remain with that feeling. Even as Brokil snatched his arm in a vice, dragging him back to camp, Silvyr laughed, ignoring the look of utter confusion on the orc's face. He almost didn't notice how Brokil's eyes grazed him up and down. He simply didn't care, not when the rain continued to caress him so sweetly.

"Would you move faster?" Brokil grunted, yanking Silvyr forward and making him nearly stumble over his own feet.

He should have been upset with the way he was being pulled around, but it felt oddly sacrilegious to frown when the rain felt so euphoric.

"Why? It feels so nice," Silvyr said, though he followed Brokil regardless.

Brokil paused after a moment and Silvyr wasted no time turning back to the sky, opening his mouth and nearly laughing when the droplets fell in his mouth. They tasted clean, like a bright morning with the promise of something sweet. Like morning dew kissing flower petals in the back of his throat. It was clear why Father would never let him out in the rain. Father must have known that the rain brought joy.

"Unless you want everyone to see you through your clothes, I recommend you move your ass and get back to my tent," Brokil said, draining the sweet joy from Silvyr immediately as he snapped his head toward him.

"What are you talking about?" Silvyr swallowed when the orc eyed him, and he turned his head to look down at his white silks, completely transparent from the wet. Pressing his hands against himself to cover whatever he could reach, Silvyr felt his face grow hotter and his eyes sting with the threat of tears. Whatever happiness the rain brought was gone. "Gods."

Sighing loudly, Brokil leaned over and without hesitation, scooped Silvyr up and over his shoulder. Silvyr didn't fight it, though he did squawk at the sudden manhandling.

"Come then," Brokil grunted, turning back to camp, moving quickly through the trees.

Covering his face with his hands, Silvyr couldn't find it in himself to fight against the mortifying situation. Part of him was thankful that he was held over Brokil's shoulder, covering most of his body from view. It was a little mercy that he should probably thank Brokil for when he wasn't so horrified. The other part of him couldn't get the look on Brokil's face out of his mind.

The way the orc licked his lips as though a fresh meal were put before him. Gods, he couldn't bear to imagine how red he was.

Peeking through his fingers, Silvyr quickly covered his eyes again when he realized they were back at camp and the other orcs were staring at him. Brokil's large hand moved to rest on his rear, covering him from the view of the others, and Silvyr swore he'd never felt more mortified. Another small mercy, despite the heat spreading through Silvyr's body from the feeling of Brokil's hand covering his ass. Massive and hot.

Once they passed through the tent flaps and Brokil set him down, Silvyr let his hands fall from his face to cover himself again. For a moment too long, the orc's eyes lingered on him. Ravenous and dark.

When Brokil turned to close the tent flaps to keep out the rain, Silvyr hurried to his side of the tent. All but collapsing on the ground, Silvyr curled up with his knees tucked tight to his chest, trying to keep himself covered. Mercifully, Brokil moved to his trunk without giving Silvyr another glance and began to pull out dry clothes for himself.

"Take those silks off," Brokil said, his tone tight.

Shivering against the sudden cold, Silvyr chewed his bottom lip. In the dry tent, the wet silks were incredibly uncomfortable, but it was nothing compared to the discomfort Silvyr imagined he'd feel being without them in Brokil's presence.

"I'm fine," Silvyr finally said, hugging his knees tighter.

Brokil glanced at him, rolling his eyes as he pulled another bundle of linen out of his trunk. "You're going to get sick. Just put this on and stop being stupid," he huffed, tossing the linen at Silvyr, the fabric flopping just before him.

For a moment, Silvyr only stared at the clothing on the ground with disdain. As though accepting the offer would mean that he was giving up what he was so desperately clinging to. And for what? Was holding onto the visage of being the beloved prince of Athowen worth freezing in wet silks? Was it worth the possibility of falling ill amongst a group of people who would only insult him for his weakness? It's not as though Father would know that Silvyr accepted this act of kindness. He likely assumed Silvyr already had. He was weak, after all.

"Can you please turn around?" Silvyr finally mumbled, quietly enough that he thought Brokil might not have even heard him. The thought of saying it again twisted his stomach, but thank the gods, Brokil turned away from him.

While Brokil pulled off his own wet clothing to change into dry linens, Silvyr peeled off the wet silks, shivering from the cold against his skin. He hurried to pull on the shirt, a wave of earthy spices hitting his nose and settling in his belly like a crackling fire. Warm. Comfortable. He tugged the fabric down to fully cover himself, the linen falling just below his knees. It might as well have been a sleeping gown for how well it fit Silvyr. Even the collar slid scandalously down one shoulder, too wide for him.

Wearing Brokil's clothes brought a new flush to his cheeks. The linen was rough compared to Silvyr's soft, smooth silks. Rough like the orc's hands. Like his voice. He wondered how long the woody scent would linger on him after he removed it for his own clothes again.

Standing up, Silvyr took his silks and moved to the backside of the tent, laying them out and smoothing out the wrinkles. He hoped that by morning, they would be dry enough to wear again. He didn't want to keep wearing Brokil's clothes. He couldn't keep wearing his clothes. The coil tightening in his belly was already too perilous.

"You're going to need another blanket," Brokil grumbled, pulling one off of his own cot.

Tilting his head to the side, Silvyr eyed him, unsure of what to say. "Um… Thank you." He took the blanket carefully, hugging it to his chest. He had thought Brokil might rip it out of his hands and tell him it was a joke, sending Silvyr back to the floor with a new round of humiliation.

Thank the gods he didn't, and Silvyr returned to his spot. Settling in and pulling the blanket over his lap, he turned his face to the canvas above him, listening to the pattering of rain. If it wouldn't ruin his clothes, Silvyr would ask Brokil if he could return outside to spend more time in the rain. He wondered if he'd let him.

When he glanced over at Brokil, the orc had already finished changing and sat in his cot, watching Silvyr. Embarrassment flooded Silvyr's cheeks and he returned his gaze to his lap, squeezing his hands together to keep them from shaking. He was being foolish. What would that man care about Silvyr's desires to see the rain? Would he even understand why? Would he believe him?

Of course, he wouldn't. All Brokil cared about was keeping Silvyr under his thumb, nothing else. He'd made that perfectly clear.

Just like Father.