His hands are in the elf's before he can think twice. 

He examines Voltur’s battered knuckles carefully. His hands are so… rough. To have split such callouses open, he must truly have over-exerted himself.

Foolish human.

“Come.”

Ophel leads him to one of the drawing rooms on this floor. At his request, a servant brings them a bowl of warm water and a cloth.

Gently, he cleans the dried blood away.

“You have made a mess of yourself.”

"So have you." His voice is low, and rough. "I can smell it, you know, on your breath. You're not even sitting up straight."

“Ha.” Ophel presses down harshly all of a sudden, digging his fingertips into one of the wounds. He pulls away after a second, though the sting remains – and he carries on tending to him. 

“No, my dear brute. You have made a mess of me.”

He doesn't flinch. Just looks the elf in the eyes. He can take pain.

"I?" If this is somehow his fault he'll- he doesn't know. 

“Yes. You.” He dips the cloth into the basin, turning the water red. “I suppose I have returned tonight with the intention to beg.”

His head spins. He's drunk too much tonight as well 

"To- what?" It's not real, it doesn't feel real, really none of this has. 

“End the work order on my house. Let me go.”

"Oh."

He doesn't know why that hits him like a blow to the stomach. 

"I-" 

He'd in truth mostly forgotten about that. Ophel dwelling here had simply become - normal. Irritating, but normal. 

"I did not think that was still-"

What? Still why he was here?

It had all - just been a joke, a silly game, a battle of wits-

"That- it was never serious. I- Yes. Of course."

He stands too suddenly, knocking the bowl of bloody water away to spill across the floorboards. 

"I will see to it immediately. You will be able to return home in the morning - later tonight, if you wish it. Goodnight, Lord Ophel."

He turns to go.

“Wait.” He catches his wrist.

He pauses. 

Slowly, he turns back to the elf. He's so close, delicate fingers looped around his wrist, too-blue eyes shining. 

His jaw clenches. 

“Voltur, I am worried about you. Pretend you do not hate me for a moment. Talk to me.”

His lips twist bitterly. "Elvish trickery. I never hated you. It was always, from the very beginning, you who despised me, for who I am. You need not feign concern now, your secret is safe regardless, I have that much honour at least."

His grip tightens… and then he lets go.

“You are mistaken.”

Ophel leans back into the chaise, closing his eyes for a moment. They are glassy when he opens them. “My concern is not feigned. You are the protagonist of this disaster.”

Now he's just confused. 

"We both know I don't know what 'protagonist' means." 

He's working on it. He has people to read lexica to him. He's up to the Ns.

He actually smiles, faintly. “‘Main character,’ in common terms. One whom the tale revolves around.”

"Oh."

"I am fine."

He buries his head in his hands, and to his surprise there's the beginnings of tears there. 

He swallows. 

"Well. I suppose I am not. It is strange to think, you know, how much better I was liked when I led men into blood and terror, than now, when all I seem to do is talk and dance and simper at fools," the last word comes out with venom. "I have helped parents bury their children, and they thanked me, though they died for my mistakes - and now I have brought peace I have not a friend in the world. I thought Eloise might be different, but - it is all the same, in the end." 

…

“You are my friend. If that means anything.”

"Elves speak strangely to their friends, then." He smiles a little, though. 

He shakes his head. “Only you.”

With a tug of the arm, the elf guides him to sit again. And then he hugs him, tightly, drawing Voltur into his chest.

It is torture, being so close to him. Feeling the naked skin of his torso, breathing in his scent, tracing lines through his hair with his fingertips. Those black curls are softer than Ophel thought they would be.

It is a shock, having the elf be this gentle.

“What happened with Eloise?”

He lets it happen. 

Up close, the elf smells - enchanting, that's the only word for it. 

"I am- not sure."

He recounts the conversation as best he can, keeping his voice carefully steady. It had cut deeper than he had thought it would to hear such words from her. 

"She - did not take the revelation of- of that night- very well at all. You were right. And then- I think I know now why she was so averse to the idea of marriage. But in the end she- was not the person I thought she was. I do not know what to do now."