He scowls. "I talked with her in the park. She had some strong ideas about how the ton ought to think better of women, so I offered to talk to the Queen about it. She had me meet her in her garden to give me her letters. I invited her out to the town for a drink. We had some drinks. Then we walked home. Then her brother intervened and started shouting about duelling, as though he knows a damn thing he's talking about, so I put him in his place and the next thing I knew he was being dragged away and this Whistledown character was writing snippy stories about me. Maybe I should've talked Anthony down, but he was the one who started with the deadly insults, here. All I said was hello."

The corners of his lips twitch. So that is what Miss Eloise does in her spare time. He likes her. As far as options go for the fledgling duke, they do seem well-suited. 

He ignores the sour feeling in his chest.

“And what did you say to him?”

He glares. "I said hello. He responded by threatening to duel me and calling me a commoner and so on. I politely pointed out some of his personal failings and said I earned it the old-fashioned way, and he just traded on great-grandaddy's past glories and didn't deserve the viscountcy. I know that part wasn't very diplomatic, but I still don't see what was wrong with 'hello Anthony'."

“Politely?” He is the picture of calm, but his words are cutting. Sharper than any sword Voltur has ever gone up against.

“Your Grace, you were unpleasant towards him and you know it, regardless of who started it or not. Note that I am referring to you by your title. Calling him by his name was a playground insult. You… are a grown man, are you not? It truly is so difficult to tell with humans.”

It is strange. Voltur is pretty sure he’s being scolded, but Ophel speaks so gently to him.

???

They do say elves are not like us, and they are not wrong. 

All right. Deep breath. He probably really can't tell how old people are.

"I think we are far enough apart in our understanding that I should be very clear. I am a grown man, yes. I know it wasn't polite to insult him, I know I shouldn't have risen to the bait, but what I don't understand is why he insulted me in the first place. At the start I did genuinely think I was being friendly. Are you suggesting it was an insult just to mention his name? We'd already met! I thought I was on his level now! I can't keep calling people Lord every time... can I?" Oh gods, if that's what all this is about...

“Calm.” He leans over and presses a hand to Voltur’s chest. It sends sparks through his body. “I am sorry that this society has left you second-guessing your every move, but spiralling will not help you. You did well explaining yourself to me.”

And then he smiles teasingly. “I see that you are not entirely a brute. We can make something out of you yet.”

He takes a deep, grinding breath. He is a soldier and a general, not a little schoolboy. Be diplomatic. "Thank you. I am told that I have my redeeming features, yes."

“And what do these unnamed people usually say?” He leans back, lounging into the velvet cushions. His eyes sparkle.

He gives him a flat look. "As I recall, it was something to do with saving the kingdom, defending the faith, and slaying the Black Wyvern Who Devours. You'd think people would say 'thank you', but you'd be surprised."

“Hm. Nothing to do with you yourself, though. How disappointing.” He tilts his head upwards. The slope of his jaw catches the light. “Are you much more than the sum total of your actions?”

He opens his mouth and then stops. He's not sure he even understands the question. Probably best to be direct. "I don't know what else you could mean."

“All I know about you is what you have done. Who are you?” His eyes pierce into him. 

Does the Duke know who he is, after years of war? Has he ever had a chance to leave the action, really?

He stares for a moment. The elf has such blue eyes, like a summer sky...

Who is he? What sort of man is he, what can be said of him, other than what he's done?

The question hasn't occurred to him before. He can't respond. 

He blinks. Perhaps this is how the elves get you, enchant you, they make you do this, this strange sort of staring at yourself until you're lost in your own head. 

"I don't know," he says shortly. 

He looks at him for a moment, unreadable. “Then you are little more than a blade to sharpen. Is that what you are telling me?”

A flush comes over his cheeks. He always feels like this around them, like the assumption is always that he's always doing something wrong according to some rules nobody ever explained made up by some dead prick pickled in shitty too-sweet wine. Who the hell died and put the elf in charge of judging the souls of men?

"Maybe. Wasn't much time for sitting with my thumb up my arse and pondering my own virtues when the war came." 

What's the elf ever done except sit around and be graceful and gorgeous?

He grins, flashing perfect white teeth.

This man is so pretty when he blushes. There is something softer to him, then. More authentic.

Good. That is, at its purest, the task at hand. He will make him do it more.

“Very well, Your Grace. Where do you most feel yourself lacking?”

He folds his arms and glowers. "I seem to keep pissing off the aristocracy."

“Good. Now say that again, properly.”

Fucking smug fucking elves. "I do not understand how to speak with members of the ton properly."

“Better.” He sits up, resting his hands on his knees. “It is all about your choice of words, what to say at the right moment. Perhaps begin by thinking. When the Viscount began insulting you, you were quick to insult him in turn. That, Your Grace, will not make you any friends.”

“Let us first examine the simpler matters. You address one by their title, unless you are granted explicit permission to do otherwise. Seeing as we are clearly going to be exposed to one another for the long term, you may call me Ophel.” He smiles softly. “Though I do find the thought of you calling me ‘My Lord’ rather appealing.”

"Hmph. You'd have to call me 'Your Grace', and I don't have any grace." At least he's allowed to use people's actual names here. 

...This is the elf being nice, isn't it. Gods fucking damn it. 

"Thank you, Ophel."

His name. It sounds wonderful, on this human’s tongue.

“I am not so sure. I watched you dance, at the ball. A little stiff, but…” The elf straightens as an idea comes to him. “There is another ball tonight, I recall. The Smythe-Smiths, if I am correct?” He stands, holding out a hand. “Dance with me. Let us practice.”

He meets his gaze, unmoving.

He didn't think it was this bad, this new-found fear of embarrassing himself. His heart is suddenly hammering and his mouth is dry - gods, this is ridiculous, he can't be afraid to dance, he's slain a dragon.