The Flowered Blade

32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Brokil

If Brokil had known that Silvyr would be gone when he returned, he would have never left home that morning.

The hunt itself had been successful. This time of year, the best piece of meat one could find in the woods around Ghizol was deer, and they had been plentiful in the last few years. Several members of the hunting party were able to take down enough large bucks for the pyre that night, while the rest of the food would be supplemented by the farmers.

A hefty buck had been strapped across the back of Brokil’s own horse, the wound in its chest long since clotted by the time they made it back to the city proper. For a fleeting, almost silly, moment he was excited to show Silvyr his abilities on the hunt. Not that he needed to prove himself to the elf, but the approval and adoration that would fill those viridian eyes was near impossible to pass up.

The same look he hoped to see when he took Silvyr to the pyre that night. He’d been planning it since he returned from Bravrith with the elf in his arms, though he did not let Silvyr in on it. He wanted it to be a surprise, wanted to see the excitement light up his face and send him bouncing through the home to get ready like he’d done when Brokil took him to the meadow again. Showing up with the elf at his side would solidify the commitment they made to each other, and Brokil couldn’t help the warm burst of his own excitement at the idea.

Of course, the Elders remained naive to what Brokil asked of Silvyr and what the elf promised in return, but that didn’t matter now. Today was cause for celebration, and the Elders could be left for the next morning. In this moment, Brokil would enjoy their promise of forever.

Ghizol was unusually quiet when they finally returned from the hunt, but Brokil paid it no mind. With the pyre that night, people were likely in their homes preparing for the night’s events, still several hours off. Once they set to work lighting the pyre, it would be a whirlwind of activity until the sun rose the next morning. He didn’t consider that the silence was a warning.

Perhaps he should have.

With a friendly goodbye and a promise to see them later, Brokil parted from the hunting party and headed for home. The buck would need skinned and carved as soon as possible if he hoped to have the meat sorted in time for the pyre, but he intended to check on his elf first to make sure he was resting before getting to work. He doubted Silvyr would want to see that, but perhaps he wouldn’t mind helping him sort once the dirty work was finished. It would keep him from exhausting himself before they even reached the event.

When he dismounted, Brokil reached to open the door, but it swung inward before he could grasp it, and he was met with Urzul’s forlorn face. His heart dropped, dread tightening around his throat.

“Come inside, we need to talk,” Urzul had told him, her voice soft and smooth, as though she were trying to soothe an injured child. It had been over a year since he’d last heard that tone, and he’d hoped he never would again.

“Where’s Silvyr?” Brokil demanded as he pushed past her, assuming the worst. Had his injuries turned and taken Silvyr from him? They looked fine that morning when he checked. The cuts hadn’t looked infected, and the bruises hadn’t gotten any worse. Brokil applied the ointment, replaced the bandages, and did everything just like Urzul instructed.

His mother’s instructions never failed him before.

Urzul reached for his hand as he passed, but he pulled away and hurried to his room, slamming the door wide open. He expected to see the elf sitting in the middle of the bed with that same red book in his lap, letting out a surprised squeak at the noise as he jerked his head in Brokil’s direction. He expected to see the happiness in his eyes at Brokil having returned, to see the smile that would light up his face as he greeted him.

But Silvyr was nowhere to be seen. The blankets were still on the bed, not nestled in the living area like Brokil had become accustomed to. Urzul’s red book still sat in its place on the shelf, rather than splayed out in front of his elf. Frantic, Brokil checked the living space, then the kitchen, the bathing area, but there was no one else there aside from Urzul and himself.

“Stop moving and come sit,” Urzul said, her voice firm yet still carrying that soothing edge. And despite how his heart raced and his palms pooled with sweat, Brokil sat.

His voice was barely a whisper when he finally managed to speak. “Mother, where is he?”

Moving to her knees, Urzul took his hands and squeezed them tight. “A woman named Ascal came,” she said, and Brokil struggled not to recoil at the words. Perhaps a fate worse than death for his Little Flower. “He wanted me to tell you that he had no choice but to go.”

No choice. Brokil knew this. If Athowen had sent that woman to retrieve Silvyr, she would not leave without him, no matter what Silvyr wanted.

Staring at his hands in his mother’s, Brokil forced himself to focus on his breathing, to focus on slowing his racing heart so he could think. He stayed silent far too long, but Urzul did not rush him. She didn’t scold him for how tight his grip became, or mock him for the tears that clung to his eyelashes, refusing to fall. She sat stalwart before him, a rock to steady himself with when the world was tipping beneath his feet, threatening to pitch him off the edge into nothingness.

He wanted to shatter, but he forced himself to remain whole.

“He’s gone,” Brokil finally said, the words from his own lips shattering his heart and filling his veins with icy darkness.

“He wanted to stay. That much is clear,” Urzul reminded him, though her attempt at comfort only settled the dread deeper in his stomach. What did it matter if he wanted to stay? He was gone, and Brokil couldn’t protect him anymore, not where he was now.

Back in Athowen, where Silvyr would be subjected to more pain at the hands of his demon of a father. Back in Athowen, where he had no one to keep him safe, no one to pull him out of the nightmares that continued to plague him. Who would take care of his Little Flower in his stead? Who would prevent him from wilting and being crushed under the boot of a monster?

“Thank you,” Brokil told her, wondering idly if his voice sounded as empty as it felt. “I need to prepare for the pyre.”

He needed to be alone. The mere thought of the Tyrant King’s treatment of Silvyr had the dread in his chest morphing and bleeding into rage, had him itching to pick up his sword and storm Athowen to retrieve the boy himself. He needed time to think, to process. The idea of moving on like nothing happened tore through his heart like a spear, but Ghizol needed him. They needed a leader, not a tagalong pup whining for his elf.

Without another word, Urzul stood and placed her hand on Brokil’s head, curling her fingers in his hair for just a moment, before disappearing out the door.

Leaving Brokil alone to pace with his thoughts.

He’d wanted nothing more than to protect Silvyr from the darkness. He wanted to keep him out of the Council’s dungeons, out of his own mind, out of Athowen. Yet within the span of a few hours, Brokil had failed so completely that his Flower was now on his way right back to the center of that wretched void. Nothing he could do would stop it, no matter how hard he wished he could.

Maybe if they left immediately, they could have given chase. They might catch them still, if they rode hard and long, and a group of his finest could take down Ascal without much of a fight. But it would be a fight, and Brokil knew Silvyr wouldn’t allow blood to be shed for him. There was no telling what Ascal would do to keep Silvyr in her possession, and even if Brokil made the demand to stay their blades, she may not obey him.

Yet the alternative was letting Silvyr fall into the hands of the man who had tormented him his entire life. He would be trapped in Athowen, surrounded by people who cared so little for him, they would watch as he drowned in loneliness and never offer to help. How did he bloom there to start with? Would he be able to continue on like he had before? Would he be forced to?

Would he be forced to face the fucking lash? Had he already tasted it?

Pain laced through his knuckles as he slammed his fist into the mirror, uncaring about the glass that rained to the floor or the blood that traced rivers down his arm. He didn’t recognize the man in the fractured mirror. Weak, broken, unable to keep the one promise he made to keep his Flower safe.

Brokil let himself sink into the rage, let it fester between his fingers and grow. Upturning the vanity beneath the mirror, he didn’t care that all his jewelry and ceremonial pieces clattered to the floor. Sweeping the pots and pans off the counters, he didn’t care when they clanged and assaulted his ears. Dropping to his knees, agony shooting through him as he pounded a fist into the floor, Brokil didn’t fucking care who heard him roar.

Let them know how deep his anguish ran.

???

In the weeks that followed, Brokil found little to keep his time occupied. The pyre had gone on without him, but while he dodged the questions from prodding townsfolk of why he’d missed it, the Elders could not be so easily avoided.

The moment they realized that Silvyr was gone again, this time taken by a warrior from Athowen, they knew it was only a matter of time. There was no chance the Tyrant King would heed their demands now, not with his son back in his possession and Ghizol without her leverage.

The Elders committed to meeting daily to ensure Ghizol was prepared for the war that would come. They required the warriors to be ready at all times, insisting on extra patrols and warning the citizens to remain on high alert. Even Brokil wore his full leathers every day, just in case the Tyrant King initiated war when they least suspected it.

It should have been a welcome distraction, but none of that mattered. By now Silvyr was in Athowen facing his father. Alone.

Every day, against all good sense, Brokil hoped he would open his eyes and find the elf back in his bed, pressed against him. He would imagine Silvyr slipping his legs between Brokil’s, smooth and slender, cold to the touch but quickly warmed under Brokil’s hand. Every day he hoped he would wake up with his face buried in Silvyr’s hair, inhaling the sweet honeysuckle and orange peel, while the elf’s soft hands slid around his middle and squeezed.

Yet, when morning came, the bed was always empty, the scent that once lingered on Silvyr’s pillow long since faded.

Brokil pulled on his leathers for the day, clasping each strap and wrapping himself in furs. He’d yet to repair the fur he ripped from his cuirass in Bravrith, hadn’t had the time or energy, and now he didn’t think he would. It was another reminder that Silvyr existed, that he survived. Even if he wasn’t here with Brokil, Silvyr lived.

There were many reminders of Silvyr scattered throughout his home, and just like the fur, he refused to be rid of them. The red book that stuck out an inch more than the rest because Silvyr had been too hurried to slide it all the way in. The two clean bowls on the counter, one that remained empty and unused, but was never put away. The basket of flowers near the door, gathered during Silvyr’s last visit to the meadows, now wilted and dead.

The last reminder, the one Brokil treasured most, he lifted from his jewelry box. The green ribbon had seen better days, frayed and stained from Silvyr’s constant use of it, but Brokil didn’t care. He tied it around his wrist, gave himself a moment to just breathe, and walked out the door.

In the Council Chamber, Brokil took his seat at the head of the table and waited for the Elders to make their way in. Salthu already sat at his side, remaining silent as she carefully watched the Elders. She had been a solid rock since Silvyr disappeared, steady and unyielding, even when Brokil struggled to keep his footing. She had wanted to give chase and bring the elf back by force at first, but Brokil turned her down. She’d argued, as she was wont to do, but in the end relented. Ever since then, she had been there next to him, keeping him grounded and focused on his responsibilities, rather than letting him spiral into emptiness.

Once the Elders were all present, Bashuk stood from her seat, turning her steely eyes on Brokil. “We’ve received word from Athowen,” she said, and Brokil jerked to attention, curling his hands into fists as she pulled the scroll from her robe and held it out.

One by one, the Elders passed it down the table, tradition demanding no one read it before the chief. When the scroll finally reached him, Brokil had to will his hands not to shake as he grasped it, had to remind himself to breathe as he broke the seal. It could be anything from a declaration of war, to word from his Flower, they had no way of knowing. He knew which he prayed for.

Unraveling the scroll, Brokil’s heart skipped at the familiar handwriting that greeted him.

Brokil, I apologize for my leaving Ghizol after the promise I made to you. Please know that it was not my decision…

Brokil finished reading the scroll, a mixture of emotions soaring through him. His Flower was alive, he sent word to them, and the Tyrant King was furious.

“We received word from Silvyr Quilen,” Brokil announced after the long silence, watching the Elder’s as they shared hesitant glances with each other. “He advises us that the Tyrant King is planning an assault on Ghizol, and that he is working to try and prevent it.”

Confused murmurs filled the room, and Ghorza stood from his seat. “How can we trust his word? He is, after all, the Tyrant’s son.”

“I trust that he would not lie,” Brokil said quickly, rolling the parchment and slipping it into his leathers, unwilling to part with it. “I see no reason not to believe that Silvyr is speaking truth when he says his father plans to attack. We must be prepared.”

Ghorza returned to his seat and while he didn’t look convinced, he could not argue the sense in preparing for the worst, like Silvyr warned in his letter. Brokil didn’t need to tell the Elders of Silvyr’s confessions in the scroll. They didn’t need to know of Silvyr’s desire to return to Ghizol, and to Brokil. They didn’t need to know the hope that Silvyr put to paper that one day he would.

Instead, he would focus on what he could. Silvyr wanted to warn them of the Tyrant King’s rage, and they would heed his warning. Even from Athowen, Silvyr worked to protect Ghizol and her people, putting his own life and safety at risk to achieve it. Brokil would find a way to thank him. Perhaps if Silvyr took the kingship soon, then Brokil could make his way to Athowen to see him once again and give him that thanks in person.

“We already have all warriors prepared for battle,” Bashuk told him, the other Elders nodding their agreements.

“And it will stay that way until we know that war has been declared. It’s only a matter of time before the Tyrant King acts, and we cannot be caught unawares,” Salthu said, and Brokil watched as the realization settled into the faces around them. Watched as they all realized it was no longer a matter of if there would be war, but of when. “I trust in Brokil’s judgment. It would do us well to heed Prince Silvyr at his word. If he says the Tyrant King means to destroy Ghizol, we will rise to stop it.”

What Silvyr said was true, Brokil knew it in his bones. The Tyrant King might have waited until his son was out, but there was nothing that would stop him from razing Ghizol to the ground.

“This was a risk we were prepared for. We won’t be caught off guard.” Brokil stood from the table, signaling the meeting had come to its end.

He needed to get a quill and ink and find a way to send a message back to Silvyr. His elf had to know that they believed him, that they would listen and be ready for whatever was coming for them. He had to know that Brokil missed him like a limb, that he still reached for him every morning and that he ached when his hand only met cold sheets—

But then, would it even reach him? Would the Tyrant King intercept whatever message he sent and read the words that Brokil meant only for Silvyr’s eyes?

His fingers itched to write them anyway, but he knew he couldn’t risk it. As much as he wanted to reach out to his Flower, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if Silvyr was punished for Brokil’s weakness.

“Chief.” Salthu’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, her hand settling on his shoulder and her eyes meeting his. She waited a moment before continuing, searching his face as if to be sure he was listening. “I will meet with our troops to advise them of the prince’s message. You will find me if you’re in need of me.” It wasn’t a question, but Brokil nodded anyway, and that must have been good enough, because Salthu said nothing else before leaving the chamber.

With their meeting adjourned, Brokil stepped into the early sunlight to prepare for his patrol of the borders. While their security was higher than it had ever been, none of them could neglect their duties, not even the chief. Now more than ever, their borders needed constant monitoring. Between the Tyrant King and the uneasy truce with Bravrith, they couldn’t afford to slip.

Up on his horse, Brokil trotted to his assigned post and relieved Grunbar from his shift. He hoped a day beneath the sun, scouring the landscape for threats, might prove a better distraction than the meeting had, but it only served to drive him more into his own thoughts. It always did.

Every time he came out for his patrol, he missed the feeling of the elf in his saddle, pressed against him, his head bobbing all over to take in the new sights. He might ask Brokil to stop so he could snatch a few flowers from the forest floor, or reach up to pluck leaves from their branches. He would lean against Brokil’s chest while he peeled them apart, making his fingers slick and sticky with sap, sometimes mumbling to himself the things he discovered while destroying the flora.

Shaking Silvyr out of his head again, Brokil trotted along the ridge of the hillside, scanning the horizon for any sign of what could come. Smoke, a downed tree, scattering wildlife. Anything. Yet when he stared into the grassy knolls, he found nothing out of place. Everything seemed just as peaceful as it had been before. Quiet.

Silvyr would love it.

Kicking his horse forward, Brokil continued his usual path. Leaves shaded him from the rays of the sun as Brokil entered into the thicket of trees lining the plains. The well-trodden path was easy enough for his steed to follow while Brokil scanned the tree line. Miserable as he may be, he wouldn’t half ass his job.

It took longer than he’d care to admit to notice something was off, but as he pulled his horse to a stop and curled his fingers around the hilt of his blade, it became clear. He found it odd at first, the quiet. But beneath the trees, the birdsong had vanished. It meant little on its own, the presence of a predator or his own quiet trek through the woods, but they’d never stopped their song during his patrol before. They may grow distant or quiet, but now it was as if they’d left entirely. Even the forest floor was devoid of its usual movement.

Someone was watching him.

Feeling eyes boring into him from all sides, Brokil didn’t know if he was truly sensing something malicious, or if it was just his mind playing tricks on him. Since the elf disappeared, every little thing raised the hair on his arms and sent sparks through his throat, as if his body was stuck in fight or flight. It would be easy to let the paranoia sink in, but he knew these woods well, he knew the animals that roamed and the patterns they kept. He trusted his gut when it told him something was wrong.

Brokil reached for the horn at his hip to signal Ghizol of the danger. Reinforcements may not arrive in time to do much for him at that moment, but Brokil would put up a hell of a fight before anyone took him down.

Before the horn touched his lips, something shot out from the trees and pierced through his shoulder, the sudden sharp pain that followed forcing a grunt out of him.

He didn’t let the wound deter him. Even with the arrow lodged just below his collarbone, Brokil raised the horn and blew, the sound echoing through the forest and alerting Ghizol. Moments later, the movement in the trees became more pronounced, surrounding him, and he decided he didn’t care to see who let the first arrow fly. Kicking his horse, Brokil took off through the trees, ignoring the way the branches whipped across his face and snagged on his furs. He reached up and gripped the shaft of the arrow, pulling it out to examine the make of the head.

Elven.

Fire flowed through him, pulling the rage that had settled in his stomach into his chest. Silvyr was right. The fucking Tyrant King was making his move.

A sudden movement to the left caught his eye, a second arrow striking before he could avoid it, this time into the flank of his horse. She bucked wildly, whinnying in pain and tossing Brokil through the air. He just barely managed to catch himself as he tumbled to the ground, sword in hand before he’d even made it back to his feet. He brandished it in front of him as the silhouettes in the forest closed in—too many, moving too quickly to make out a distinct number.

The first glint of metal flashed in front of him, and he swung his blade to parry. Again and again, he pushed back the onslaught of blades, grunting with each hit as his attackers faded into the leaves just as quickly as they appeared. Fucking cowards.

His blade made contact with one of the elves’ armor, slicing the leather and piercing through flesh. The soldier dropped to his knees, unable to retreat back into the woods, and Brokil followed through with his strike, sending the miserable creature to the afterlife.

The first kill. An elven body falling to the leaves, elven blood dripping from his blade. A turn in the tide his enemies could not allow. Another came to replace the fallen, then another and another, as the elves launched from the shadows, giving Brokil no moment of reprieve. No choice but to dig his heels into the dirt and push back against the onslaught. The elves didn’t hold back, but neither would he.

Brokil threw himself forward, cutting through another elf and sending them grunting to the floor, blood soaking into the earth. He held no sympathy for them, no respect for a fellow warrior. As far as he was concerned, every one of these fucks were complicit in his Flower’s misery, and if he couldn’t reach the Tyrant King, he would take out as many of these monsters as he could.

Again, and again, his blade connected with flesh, and again, and again, he bore down against each strike on himself. He could withstand the pain if it meant buying time for Ghizol. Besides, if they wanted to kill him, they would have to try harder.

He narrowly dodged another sword, this one aimed for his leg, as that thought stuck in his mind. The elves weren’t holding back their attacks, but certainly if they had archers, he’d have been dead by now. If they wanted to kill him, why not use more arrows? Why not shoot the moment he was distracted with the frontal assault? It took him a moment to sling the thoughts together, but the realization struck Brokil harder than any blade.

They meant to capture him.

Fighting was no longer an option, he had to run and meet his reinforcements. Letting that damned Tyrant take him wasn’t going to happen, Brokil decided as he slashed through another assailant and bolted through the trees.

He expected them to give chase, the shadows following through the trees evidence enough of that, but Brokil knew these woods better than anyone. The elves might be quick, but this was Brokil’s home. He would not let them win. He only needed to breach the tree line and his troops would be there. He only needed to push past the pain, to focus—

Sunlight poked through the canopy above, catching on a figure following beside him. A flash of golden hair, the spark of emerald eyes. A whisper of hope that struck him hard in the chest, nearly sending all the air out of his lungs.

Silvyr.

Then it was gone, fading back into the shadows so quickly, Brokil couldn’t be sure if he’d seen it at all. He couldn’t have. It had to be a hallucination. Silvyr wasn’t a warrior, and he wouldn’t be here in the forest right now, would he? Had he lied about his inability to fight? Was it a trick to keep Brokil unsuspecting and catch him off guard?

No, that wasn’t like him. Silvyr wouldn’t lie to him, not about this.

But the distraction caused a moment of hesitance, and that was all the elves needed. A sudden tightness around his ankle sent Brokil crashing to the forest floor, skidding through the brush.

“Ropes!” a booming voice called as Brokil tried to lift himself up.

Despite how he tore at the binds around him, ropes flew through the trees, catching his wrists, ankles, and neck with expert precision. They pulled taut until there was no give for Brokil to free himself. He still tried, of course, cursing the fucking Tyrant King as the rope around his neck tightened, sending blackened spots through his vision.

“Manacles!” the same voice called, and even though Brokil tried to pry and pull himself free, his wrists were shackled and his ankles tied tight.

The rope around his neck pulled back, forcing Brokil to his knees, then loosened just enough to keep him from blacking out. A figure approached from the side, leaves crunching underfoot, and Brokil turned to look at him dead on, refusing to let this monster defeat him. Again, his breath was lost.

Silvyr.

Only it wasn’t. They had the same green eyes, and the sun shone off the same golden hair that had been tied tight on the back of the elf’s head, but it wasn’t his Flower. This man was all hard lines and muscle, his face emotionless and empty, nothing like the soft curves and gentle smile of Silvyr. Still, the resemblance could have brought Brokil to tears if it weren’t for the rage flooding his veins.

“Arlen,” Brokil said through his teeth.

“You know me?” the elf asked, stopping a few paces before Brokil, crossing his arms over his chest. A stupid fucking question. Of course Brokil knew who he was. According to Silvyr, this boy was the one they should have stolen in the first place, though even if given the option, Brokil would change nothing.

“Many know the Tyrant King’s mirror,” Brokil all but spat, satisfied with the way Arlen’s brows raised, body tensing like he wanted to take a step back.

The unease was short lived. Arlen’s eyes caught on Brokil’s chest, and something sparked in the elf’s eyes. Interest? Victory? He stepped forward, and with the ropes cutting into him, Brokil had no choice but to stay still as Arlen leaned down and snatched a parchment from between Brokil’s leathers. His heart sank in realization.

Fuck.

“What’s this?” Arlen asked as he opened the parchment. Brokil kept his lips in a tight line, watching Arlen’s eyes widen further with each word he read. “This is from Silvyr.”

There was no need to answer him. It was obvious, and Brokil wouldn’t dignify Arlen’s question with a response to confirm it. Instead, he simply said, “Fuck you.”

With a scoff, Arlen rolled the parchment and handed it over to another elf. “Make sure the King receives this. I recommend you’re nowhere near him when he reads it,” he said before turning back to Brokil, eyes narrowed with a seething hatred that Brokil had come to expect from the Quilens. “Take him to the cart. We head for Athowen immediately.”

“Wait,” Brokil said as Arlen turned on his heel. The elf stopped, turning to look at Brokil over his shoulder. “Tell me how he is.” While he feared the answer, he needed to know.

Arlen turned to face him, his expression unreadable. A mask certainly forced upon him by the Tyrant King. For a long moment, Brokil was sure the elf wouldn’t answer. “He lives. That’s all I can say,” Arlen finally told him. “He exists within the walls, but he speaks little and remains in his chambers when he’s not required by our Council.”

It was more than Brokil expected to hear, but he was thankful for it, no matter how his heart twisted at the idea that his Flower was wilting. “Did your father blame him?”

“Yes,” Arlen didn’t hesitate to answer. A few of his soldiers eyed him curiously, surely confused as to why he was humoring Brokil’s questions at all. “I will say one more thing. I’ve caught him smiling once since arriving home, and I found it odd, though now I understand why he did. When he spoke of you, he smiled. Take of that what you will.”

Arlen turned away from him again, walking through the trees while the rest of his squadron pulled Brokil away. As he was set into the cage in their cart, covered with a heavy tarp, Brokil let out a long breath. He would be in Athowen soon, and once he was there, he would find a way to get Silvyr and return with him to Ghizol.

He just needed his Flower to brave the storm a while longer. He would be there soon.