Ha. Yes. An interest. But not an interest sufficient to supply their own blood or treasure. Good wishes and fervent prayers and barely not losing yet another war-

"Well. There is nobody more equal to the task than you, my friend."

Ophel nods just a second too late. 

“…Thank you. I am certain that I will find my footing soon.”

He is lying. That is new. The discomfort grips at his nerves.

“Is your– mother settling in well?”

Gods. He cringes at himself.

Yes. Ophel never did seem beset by the doubts of mere mortal men. 

"Well enough. She understands little of - anything outside her own world."

Gods. 

"...May I ask what your plan is?"

…Plan?

Gods. Right, he needs a plan.

The weight of this new responsibility threatens to overwhelm him already.

“We remain in the immediate aftermath of the dragon’s attack. My only concern now is to stop the invasion at Langar, and tonight I plan to contact the other parts of the kingdom where the dragon’s armies gather. As for your friend, the dwarf – I will confer with my company, and we will investigate his lead.”

Ophel hears it as soon as he says it. He is speaking like an adventurer, not like the head of the Church. 

In happier times, in happier places, there was catechism for local leaders of the Church, a central organisation of its actions across the kingdoms of the world. 

Now-

Ophel is on his own. 

"I see."

He falls silent. 

Perhaps he should speak up... he fears he will wound the elf terribly. It is a great thing that he has been tasked with. 

...Pretending that all is well will not make it so. The elf must rise to match his new station, whatever his own feelings.

It falls to him, unfair thought it might be; somebody must act, and nobody else will. 

He knows that burden all too well. 

"Ophel - do you know what to do? How to rally the Church in Valynrest? You - we need your sword arm, yes. But we need the Church to survive even more."

He cannot bring himself to lie again.

“No. Do you?”

"No."

He takes another drink.

"But I am not the head of the Church. How do you intend to find out?"

He shifts in his seat.

“I will pray to the Dawnfather for guidance, and request an audience with Her Holiness. Other temples in Valynrest still stand. I will send out word – arrange a system of communication. Something.”

"I see."

There's a moment. He sips.

"And do you think that will be enough?"

He gives him a look, and speaks with a trace of the voice of God. “You told me that you would speak plainly. Do so.”

He has stared down a fiend of the pit in all its black splendour; he does not blink. 

"That will not be enough. The kingdom rises or falls with you. We cannot afford that you should put forth a noble effort and fail tragically. Your best is not enough. Do something."

Anger? Hurt?

He blinks at Voltur for a second, taken aback.

“Do you truly believe I do not know that? What would you have me do, Voltur?”

"Win."

Breathe.

“Is this how you would speak to a friend, Duke of Volturgard?”

"No, High Priest. I would be gentler, to a friend. But you are more than a mere friend."

His patience slips. “What am I, then? What am I to you?”

His mouth opens-

I love you. All along I loved you. You saved me and every day I wish you had not. Be mine. 

-and no sound comes out.

Ophel closes his eyes and inclines his head. His jaw is set.

The glass shakes in his hand.

He fears me.

The realisation creeps up on him, slow, inevitable.

He drains his own glass. Places it down with a clink. 

"I ought to see to the retinue." It comes out as a mumble. 

He goes to leave.