At first, Ophel is nowhere to be found.

Eventually, after asking around – one or two men have seen him – Voltur finds him at last in one of the corner tents. 

The elf is shirtless and alone, with his back to the entrance. He is seated on the ground, hissing as he wraps a bandage around his own shoulder.

Most of his armour, that impossibly red metal, lies arranged neatly on the floor. A similar shade of red already stains the strip of cloth.

"Why do you bandage yourself?" 

It's not what he meant to ask, but the question just comes out - he finds himself speaking freer, these days. 

The elf could heal himself. 

He probably reasons that it's not so important, that he ought to save his strength for others with worse wounds. 

A deep fondness tugs at his heart. 

"Let me."

He turns his head, startled, for a moment caught like a sculpture in profile.

When he sees who has come, Voltur can see the tension leave his muscles, just a little.

“Voltur,” he says his name like a sigh. “I– it is nothing, truly.”

But he doesn’t resist as the fighter’s hands reach for the cloth.

"The wound is not deep. Here."

He will bring wine to the boil and clean around the edges carefully, pack the bandages with sphagnum and tie it tight with strong hands. He's done this many, many times before. 

On the elf's golden skin, the blood almost seems to shimmer. 

His face twists, but he makes no noise. 

Goosebumps rise along his skin where Voltur touches him. With his other arm, he holds his shirt against his torso, almost like a blanket – or a shield. Voltur has not known Ophel to be self-conscious before. It’s as if there’s something he doesn’t want him to see.

“…Thank you,” Ophel says quietly, when it is done. He regards Voltur’s handiwork, wrapped so deftly around his shoulder.

Nobody has ever actually taken care of him in battle before.

He falls quiet.

...That is very, very unlike the elf. 

"What is it?" He swallows. "Would you rather I go?"

Ophel frowns, taken aback by the question. 

“What? No, Voltur. Have I made you feel unwelcome?”

"No. But you - you seem guarded." His eyes are drawn down like magnets towards where the elf covers his bare chest. 

“…Ah.”

He stares at the floor between them. He has felt the heat of dragonfire, and today the flames of its lesser kin, but the burn of the Duke’s eyes is another matter entirely.

Voltur sees right through him. Ophel was never built for deceit.

Slowly, he relaxes his grip on the shirt. It slips down his skin like a waterfall.

His voice is low and dangerous. "Who did this to you?"

He grimaces, pulling the shirt on. The cords hang loose around his neckline, and he tugs at them to conceal his chest again.

Voltur does not remember. Ophel suspected as such.

“It is– truly no matter. A trick of the fairy.”

"Be Heaven my witness, she will die at the end of my blade."

For the first time in months, Ophel reaches out and touches him.

His hand, so warm, squeezes the back of Voltur’s. He looks up with battle-wearied eyes.

”Please. We have won this day. Let us not… Let us not dwell on such things.”

He just nods. He doesn't know what to say. 

"You fought well."

The words sound so hollow - the dull panic is rising in his chest again - 

No. 

"Come. Your wound will mend well. Let us partake of the spoils this day."

Ophel nods, too.

He doesn’t move. Only looks up at Voltur; only holds the back of his hand. There is a strange sort of vulnerability in his eyes.

The elf looks so beautiful, covered in blood.

"...Thank you." He has to say it. "For- well. For all that you have done."

He doesn’t understand.

“I– wanted to thank you. For– taking care of me. Nobody has ever actually…” he trails off, his voice barely more than a whisper.

He stays like that, suspended.

He frowns. "Ever- what?"

He sits down beside Ophel, his weight heavy and warm beside him. 

He breathes out, regaining control of himself.

Ophel turns to Voltur with a smile. “Patched me up. You did well. I should start having you on duty in the medical tent.”

He manages to crack a smile, shaking himself. "It is a matter of practice."

He coughs. 

"I am - glad to have been able to help you in some small way. Since in fact I was not needed earlier." A gentle smile. 

He laughs, rising to his feet. Ophel stands so tall above Voltur in that moment, like a pillar of marble.

He reaches out a hand to help his companion.

“Now what sort of time do you call that?”