“My lord.”

Ophel stays behind, waiting for the heavy doors to shut. He gives Raina a faint smile as she breezes past, sending him a concerned look.

He stays on the other side of the room.

“Did you need something?”

It hits him like a punch to the gut, even now. 

He only sets his teeth. He never liked to show his feelings - he likes it still less now. He has had enough of that for a lifetime. 

"...Have you ever seen battle before?" he says suddenly. It sounds a foolish question - but - skirmish, yes, but a pitched battle between forces -

He furrows his brow.

“I was there, when Volturgard was– attacked, though I assume that is not what you mean. I have never been an army man, no, if that is what you ask.”

"So I thought."

He scratches his chin. 

"...What do you expect?"

He hates it, hates this, the way his voice still sounds so rough and his words mean nothing and- breathe. 

“Loss and bloodshed, I presume. I am no stranger to the fundamentals.”

He does not like to think about this.

“My friend – why do you ask?”

"Because it will come. Very soon. The first in some time that I- well. Your very first. It is not a day men often forget."

His fingers flex, the ducal ring marking his skin. 

"It is not- the sea is not only a large lake. A battle is not only a large skirmish. I- truly, I fear for you."

…

At last, he crosses the room.

He will come to sit across Voltur, close enough to reach out if he needs to.

“I can hold my own. I ask that you worry about yourself.”

A pause.

“How is your back?”

What? His brow furrows. "My back? What do - ah. It is nothing."

“…Respectfully, my lord, I had to skin you alive not even a week ago. You are certain that you are fine?”

"I have suffered worse."

“Well. I suppose you have, indeed.” 

Ophel sits there, trying not to tap his foot. He is acutely aware of the weight of Voltur’s stare upon his skin.

He is being strange. Voltur is being strange. Although – nothing is the same anymore, so perhaps they are all being perfectly normal.

Nothing is the same.

“I will admit, I share similar concerns. If I may speak plainly, you…” He runs his gaze over him, sighing softly. “You have made a recovery worthy of a soldier. But so soon, you have taken so much onto your shoulders. Are you well, Voltur?”

He scrubs one hand down his face. Stands, and goes to Garrett's decanter - even now, after all these years, his first thought is not to call for a servant - and pours for himself and Ophel a measure of dwarvish whisky. 

"After all this time-" he takes a draught - "yes, speak plainly. And I will speak plainly in turn: I often thought, in my dark moments, that if you could stay standing, after - after the choice you made - then I could not well complain. Well I may not be, but - I will endure."

Ophel takes a small, polite sip from the glass, but nothing more than that. He holds it between his fingers like balancing a paperweight.

“These are times of strife. It is easier said than done – but I urge you to do more than endure, Voltur. I stayed standing because I am needed. You are needed also. That is a way to stay alive, but it is no way to live.”

"Mm. So you have said. But I wonder - I think perhaps it might be better to find happiness in this hardship, than be idle and miserable."

He quirks an eyebrow. “…Yes. Of course. I do not believe that contradicts what I am saying, my friend.” 

They are so out of sync–

A breath. “It is no matter; I concur.”

"Mm."

The silence stretches out awkwardly between them, unbearably tight. He clears his throat.

He taps his fingers against the glass.

…

“I am head of the Church, now, in Valynrest.”

"What?"

It's not the most dignified thing to say - not at all appropriate - should he be using the diplomatic forms - no, it's Ophel of all people - 

Oh. Of course. 

"...I am sorry. It is a great loss to the kingdom." Those words are too... Small... For all that has happened. Oh- "What happened to your superiors, I mean to say. How were you told?"

It may be a trick of the light, but Ophel’s eyes shine. Little diamonds in the corners, blinked away in a moment.

“I was contacted by the Most High some time ago. The Church has a– vested interest in keeping the kingdom standing.”

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.

“Voltur.”

He halts. 

- he -

- all his life is strength and lordliness - 

-he doesn't know how to be gentle enough for this elf so delicate you can almost see the gentle curve of his bones like-

Deep breath. 

Slowly, gently, he turns his head. 

Ophel does not look at him.

His voice is guarded.

“Go if you need to. I will not stop you. I do not know what I have done to warrant your ire. But if you want me to win–“ he says too sharply, like ice on his warm tongue, “– then we will need to work together.”

It's like all the wind has been let out of him. 

He sinks back into a chair, still not looking up.

"I am not angry. I am not ever angry with you." 

…

“I do not understand you, my friend.”

A weak laugh. 

"Nor I you. Where shall we start?"

He offers him a pale smile.

“I am Ophel. It is good to meet you.”

That gets a real laugh. 

He hasn't actually laughed in a while. Ophel was there the last time, he thinks. 

"Very well. I am Voltur, Duke of Volturgard. My son is a conquered king and I made a foolish bargain with a fairy." He fights down the urge to giggle. 

His half-hearted smile grows and grows.

“Hello, Voltur. I left my homeland to avoid duelling my brother, and I too made a foolish bargain with a fairy. Perhaps we know the same one?”

"Oh dear," his face is very grave, "it sounds like it might be catching."

-And then a note of confusion -

"I'm sorry - your brother?"

“Yes. I have a brother. It is… a long story.”

He can’t believe he’s never told him that before.

“And three sisters. My mother just gave birth to twins, actually. I visited them some months ago.”

"I had heard that elves rarely had children."

"And... I believe we have time."

He chuckles, and it is like honey. 

“You are correct. My parents are… special enthusiasts.”

They do not really have time, not for anything. That is all the more reason to spend it with one another.

“I came first. Then I came of age, and my parents thought they did so well with me that they wished to try again, or so I am told. Well, they swiftly lost interest after the next two were born – so there I was, a single father at twenty.” He jokes. “It was not so bad. My sister, Flarìth, is a delight. My brother, Astaldel, is quite the opposite – but I am working on that.”

He has never spoken so much of himself to Voltur before, not freely. It– feels good.

His nostrils flare. "That sounds - wildly irresponsible of them. You ought not to have been solely answerable for your brothers' and sisters' welfare. What exactly happened with your brother?"

“It was, Voltur, and that is alright. These are the ways of the elves – to my kindred, I am… jarringly stable. Besides, they are proving themselves good parents now, to the twins.”

He will finally take a second draught.

“My brother, may the gods bless him, is not particularly good at anything. He was a beautiful child, but soon he… twisted. As he grew older, he built some sort of resentment towards me. I admit that I may have committed some failures while raising him, but his urge to prove himself, and to spite me in turn, led him into the arms of a vampire.”

He recounts the rest of the story.

“I was Chosen that day.”

"I should like to visit the cities of the elves," he says, not really thinking, "it seems impossible that they should survive that way - well, many things about them seem impossible." Nobody ever seems to have an elf country as a neighbour, for one thing, and how exactly do you have a city hidden in the forest without farms - "that is to say - when times are kindlier, I should very much like to visit."

He clears his throat. 

"I am - impressed, once again, by your prowess. There are few who would survive an encounter with such a monster, new priesthood from the Dawnfather or not."

“And I should like to take you. They will love you, Voltur. People always do.”

He absorbs this for a moment, exhaling slowly.

“I very nearly did not. I was fortunate, that day. Sometimes I wonder if the creature is still out there, somewhere.”

The sun begins to creep down low over the horizon. Ophel can feel it before he can see it, with a turn of the head towards the window. The day’s end draws near.

He refuses to be swept away by the evening. Not now.

“And you, Voltur. Tell me. You said that it would be better to find happiness in these circumstances than to lay idle. What does happiness look like to you?”

"...It is not a question I have often given much thought." 

In truth - he thinks he has been most happy when he travelled the land, in the army and later with Astryx and Rastaban, when the world was at his feet. 

He is too old and too important a man now.

"I think - I think perhaps it is important that I find out."

Ophel nods, taking in every word.

“When did you last feel it?”

"... That night. We stood by the tree in your garden and-" 

…

“And the time before?”

He shrugs. "I do not - remember Yule very well. But then."

Ophel falls deathly silent.

Oh.

Perhaps he is mistaken. Perhaps he is reading too much into this.

His gut tells him otherwise.

“Me too.” He settles quietly.

He cannot possibly mean what Voltur just for a moment hoped he meant. 

"I am - glad." He tries a smile. 

…

“You will look after yourself, tomorrow, will you not?”

"I always do." The fear for Ophel is creeping back in again. "I have done so all my life. Survival is a matter of habit."

“Good.” 

I cannot lose you again.

”I should retire for the night. If I do not go now, I will sleep through our departure in the morning.” 

Almost a year of this, and it remains no less daunting.

"Sleep well."

He waits until he hears Ophel's footsteps fade away before he lets the tears fall.