That bruise wasn't left by any kind of blow, was it. 

He doesn't need to know who the elf was fucking. It's really none of his business. 

"Not as tired as you must be. We return to Volturgard Manor. We have pressing business, as you may recall."

“If you wish for me to go home with you, Your Grace, you need not hide behind pretences.”

Seeing the look on the Duke’s face, the elf cracks a smile. “I jest. Of course. Lead the way, then.”

That look lingers on him for a moment. 

He could just lunge forwards and grab him-

It will be evident on his face. Voltur never was any good at hiding his thoughts. 

He turns. 

"Let us go."

Ophel glances back. Voltur will hear a delay in his footsteps.

And then the elf follows. 

They say their official goodbyes to everybody before stepping into that same carriage again – only this time, with the tense quiet, it feels even smaller than before. Their knees brush together, and the smell of sweet wine lingers in the space between them.

Ophel is the first to break the silence. “I have been thinking.”

It's so warm in here, next to the elf. He seems to radiate it. Voltur can see the glow of sweat on his forehead, the energy bound up in his delicate hands. 

He shakes himself. 

"Really? Congratulations."

Ophel gives him a look, but presses on. “I did not answer your question. From that night.”

He draws a breath, the words difficult to find even with the alcohol to act as guide. 

“And if we are to be drawn together like this, the least I could do is sate your curiosity. You… embarrassingly, you are the closest thing I have to a friend here. For some amusing reason drawn up by Fate.”

...Is the elf taunting him?

"That seems hard to believe," he says carefully. "You always seem to be surrounded by interested members of the ton."

...No, Ophel doesn't look like he's up to anything. Voltur hasn't actually seen him act like this before. 

Sometimes when people look like this, it's really best to listen. 

"...But speak on."

He laughs without humour. “An astute observation. They are certainly interested, yes, but I find nothing of interest in them. You are… oftentimes comparable to the dirt beneath my shoes, but you are different. And, most importantly: I am currently being held prisoner in your home.”

The elf peers out of the window, watching as the carriage navigates its way through the cobbled streets.

“Although, I do sympathise. I also had to learn the ways of this people when I first arrived here, perhaps two or three seasons ago. I was, however, a far more graceful student than you.”

He grins. It's too warm in here and it makes his head swim and the elf makes his fists itch, but somehow he feels alive. He can feel the memory of the other night, alone with the elf in his chambers, hot and close and so vivid-

"Dirt, am I?" he says softly. "I wonder what that makes you." Because he remembers the way the elf looked at him, moved for him, gasped for him-

"And you're stalling."

He keeps his eyes fixed on the window, his expression level. But when the lights from the street illuminate his face, Voltur can see the way his golden skin blushes.

“Your intelligence does you credit,” he drawls tiredly. “I did not leave… Elfland willingly. They would have needed to drag me from its gates had I known I would have the displeasure of meeting you soon after.”

It is so hard to speak. The human is not helping.

"Yeah. It's one of the many things about me that irritates the ton so, I believe."

He leans even closer. His rough fingertips brush Ophel's knee. 

"What happened?"

…

“One who I called brother.”

The elf draws the curtain shut, casting a shadow over his face.

“Astaldel was the son of my father, though in truth the burden of raising him fell to me. He was never truly gifted, but I tried my best. I was young, and I had my own whims. The years passed by. He grew to resent me. The hatred consumed him.”

He stares idly at where Voltur’s fingertips brush against his knee. There is a distant look on his face.

“He challenged me to a duel one day, in the square. I could not fight him, so I left.”

Ophel’s eyes travel up Voltur’s frame, meeting his gaze at last.

“I wonder what it is that you would have done in my place, General. The pivotal moment of your life, the very event that brought you to this place, was marked by the sword. Mine was that I would not touch the blade.”

"I would have punched his lights out." The answer just bursts out of him - he's surprised to hear his own words, the way they break through the elf's melancholy.

...He is not in fact stupid, and he is learning the game. The nobility are fragile. He needs to soften the blow now, doesn't he. 

...He really doesn't want the elf to be hurt the way Bridgerton was. 

"I should explain," he says more softly. 

"It... pains me to hear the way the ton speaks of such things as duels. To draw steel at all is- I will not say an ill thing, but every time a grave matter. Such is not for petty hurts and little rivalries. So frivolously to speak of deathly blows - that is a sickness, Lord Ophel. And I suspect it is caused by, well, I suppose among the ton, and among your elves, it is not thought proper to play roughly, to fight and brawl as children. I suspect your brother never had to take a punch in all his life. Never had to learn to use all that anger and master it in turn. It is no wonder he could so easily imagine your murder - he never understood what violence meant. I would have made sure he did." 

“What a brute you are,” he says softly. 

The carriage rolls to a stop.

"Mm. You should try it some time."

He smiles without realising it.

”No. I remain, of course, better than you.”

A footman opens the door and he gracefully steps out, as if no words at all had been exchanged in that carriage.

He sits frozen for a long moment before he shakes himself and hurries inside. 

"Your Grace."

He did not enjoy being away from Mother. 

He did not sleep for the entire evening. 

He does not like being told what to do by the scary lady in the hat she won't even let him eat and he does not like all the banging noises and he does not like the smelly dwarves everywhere and he has shown his displeasure by chewing everything chewable in the room and making a spirited attempt to scratch his way through the door. 

Ophel stands inside that room, silent for a long time.

“Perhaps leaving the dragon with your housemaid was not the best call.”

GROWL. 

He steps smartly forwards betwen the elf and the dragon and stares it down. 

"Your Grace. I have successfully contained the damage to this room only. Everything irreplaceable inside has been safely evacuated." She does not have a stitch out of place.