"I'm listening."

He's not a killer. He is, but - he's not a danger, not here, not now. 

He leans forward, clasping his hands together. 

“I could decorate your scarred little heart with dramatic words about how this is simply another battle you must face, or how you can learn to grow beyond the war while still keeping it within you. While this is all true, I suspect merely stating it would be unhelpful at present.”

“Voltur, the fact of the matter is that you are a man of action. You have always done as you must, and you will become the perfect Duke of Volturgard because you must. I will help you. But you need not abandon the terror.”

His eyes burn holes into Voltur’s, strip him naked down to his very soul.

“Allow me to put the fear of the gods into you.”

His eyes dart down to the elf's lips, back up again. 

His breath stutters.

"Yes." He hears himself say.

"I- I mean- what do you mean?"

Those lips curl as Ophel smiles kindly at him – beautiful. So beautiful.

“You were part of something so much bigger than yourself. You had no power you did not have to fight for. I cannot recreate the circumstances of a battlefield, but I can take you to similar spaces – spaces that may allow you to feel complete again without compromising any progress we might make in turning you into a gentleman. You do wish to court Miss Bridgerton, do you not?”

"I-" he hadn't thought about it in exactly those terms but-

"If you can truly do as you say then- then-"

He lifts a brow. “Then what? Speak, boy.”

"Then do it. "

He laughs handsomely. “Good. Your duty for today is simple: finish your meal, and go home. Prepare for tonight’s ball. I will be there, watching your every move. If you make a single mistake, I will know.”

...He turns back to his meal, the tips of his ears bright red. 

As soon as he'd left the elf's home, it was like awakening from a dream. 

He has no idea what came over him. Damn elves and their enchantments. 

But he does need to show up at this ball and make an actual effort. 

So he confers with Talen and dresses and is announced at the Smythe-Smith house. He hasn't met them yet, not really, but apparently his dukedom merits an invitation, scandalous stranger or not. 

Or maybe everyone will just assume it's Anthony's- Lord Bridgerton's fault. 

He politely greets his hosts and politely takes a drink and scans the crowd for anyone he knows. 

He is not there yet.

He sidles up next to Voltur, looking over his shoulder at… something. “I don’t suppose you’ve brought my flask with you.”

"Of course," he says, producing the flask and opening it with a flick of his thumb. "I took the liberty of refilling it. That whisky was a present from the dwarf king, so go easy, it's strong stuff." A rich scent wafts out of it.

Here goes. He does know how to admit when he's in the wrong. 

"...Mr Bridgerton. I'm sorry about- I apologize for my actions that night. Thank you for stepping in."

“Thank you kindly.” Benedict accepts the flask, but doesn’t take a swig. Voltur notices – he seems more reserved now, less open towards him. “I… really should not be speaking to you. Anthony told me what happened, and Eloise confirmed. What you said, that is. It is… disheartening to know what you truly think of us.”

He levels him with a stare, too uncharacteristically cool for one so usually warm.

“Between you and me, the only reason the whole family is here tonight is so that we can keep up appearances. But do try to stay on the opposite side of the room to Anthony.”

He holds up the silver container, before slipping it into his pocket. “I appreciate you holding onto this.”

Benedict makes to leave.

"Mr Bridgerton." He doesn't move to physically stop the man leaving, but even without raising his voice he can still inject some of the General's stop and listen like your life depends on it quality. "I am sorry. I spoke intemperately to your brother because of my own ignorance. I do not think so little of your family, or indeed of him. Our quarrel was my fault, I shall freely admit."

He might be an aristocrat now, and this may not be quite how they do things, but he's still being polite and he is not letting this turn into some kind of ridiculous feud on his first week in society. 

The Duke scratches his ribs absently, a brief frown on his face.

It doesn't feel fair to him, but the ultimate cause of this is that he, Voltur, failed. He tried to interact with high society and blew it; blaming society might be justified, but it won't change anything. 

"I will neither avoid him, nor confront him; if he wishes to make his displeasure known, I shall allow it, and apologise. I have no right to ask a favour of you, but he may like to hear of my regret for my actions for his own sake. And- Miss Eloise ought to know that Her Majesty received and viewed her manuscript personally."

Manuscript?

Benedict’s steel cracks at the edges, his eyes softening a little. He grants Voltur a single nod.

“If you wish to apologise formally, I will make sure the doors to my house open for you. Any hope you have of seeing my sister is otherwise done.” He sighs. “Gods, I really shouldn’t be here.” If his elder brother sees… “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace.”

And this time, with a bow, he really does go.

“Your Grace!” She wears a dress of bright pink feathers, her necklace glimmering with dragonscale that brings attention to those sharp collarbones. “I must say, I am pleased to see you here after that awful business with the Bridgertons. They do rather maintain the habit of being the centre of one scandal or another – none would blame you if you saved yourself the trouble.”

"Miss Cowper." He bows very carefully - not quite the right way, as it happens, it's not really in him to take his eyes off someone and offer the top of his head where they could hit it. "Thank you for your kind words, sincerely. But the error was mine. I spoke in ignorance, and Lord Bridgerton's anger was entirely understandable. I believe in fact that I owe you a similar apology." Hey, maybe he's getting good at this. 

A certain wallflower's sullen glare at Cressida slowly morphs into a fascinated, almost predatory, expression. 

“Why. Me?” That has taken her aback. Cressida blinks, but quickly recovers her poise. She places a hand on his arm and laughs delicately – a group of vultures debutantes sigh and glare. “I am certain that there is no need, my Lord. You are, after all, much too handsome for social ruin.”

"Nonetheless. I spoke to you freely but without consideration. It was impolite of me, I did not know better, and I apologise." 

It is only a little bit like pulling teeth. He's been through worse.

He extends a hand. 

"Perhaps you might allow me to make it up to you with a dance. And perhaps you will find the story of how I slew the dread black dragon better suited to your ears."

See, it's not hard. You just say you're sorry in fancy words and talk like they're made out of glass.

She hesitates. There is something more… human now, to her eyes. 

“I would be honoured,” she responds softly, accepting his hand.

He must like her. Surely.

This is going well! Maybe he doesn't need the elf's help after all. 

He'll go through the motions of the dance, keeping his eyes fixed on her. 

He'll tell his story, carefully leaving out anything that might be too shocking for her sensibilities.

...It's still rather exciting. 

"Will you tell me if yourself, Miss Cowper? I fear in the... confusion I have neglected to come to know you."

Oh.

”Of course, Your Grace. I certainly favour the act of embroidery, and I do so enjoy the pianoforte. I am told I have… very deft fingers.” She all but purrs as he dips her. He is, or was a knight – surely he cares for those horrid beasts known as horses. “Riding, too. I go out every morning onto my father’s grounds. There truly are many acres to explore. It is rather excellent for one’s constitution, do you not agree?” The lie pours so smoothly from her lips.