Voltur's grip on his hand now is firm and strong as of old, without a trace of the shaky coldness of his dreamworld. 

His laugh is low and rich and for a moment it is almost as though they had never been troubled at all. 

Caught in the euphoria of Voltur’s laugh, Ophel dares to hope.

He dares to hope that Voltur truly has made a full recovery.

The last time he hoped, he was met with a knife in the chest.

He forces his fingers to let go of the man’s hand. 

“One moment,” he tells him, before crouching down to pick up the pieces of armour on the ground. One by one, he deposits them into a small sack tied around his waist. They disappear like they are, and always have been, no bigger than a bunch of coins.

That… should not be possible. Then again, there is much that could be called strange about the elf.

“There. I am ready.”

And he walks out of the tent, waiting for the Duke to follow him.

His Grace the Duke of Volturgard rouses himself and follows Ophel in a manner only very slightly reminiscent of a lost puppy. 

The wilds are dangerous. To march an army into the woods is brave at best and suicide at worst. At first the survivors of the regiments of Volturgard are cautious. The mouth of the cave now is crumbled, scoured, melted, and the men give it a very wide berth. They establish a perimeter in a clearing. They set a camp. They light watch fires. They jump at small noises. The Volturgard Magicians Knightly of His Grace's Third Battalion, identifiable only by the scarlet stripe over their robes, mutter strange abjurations and make the sign of Heaven over their breasts. 

Then they find the wine. 

It's good wine. 

He walks over to where Voltur sits by a campfire, holding out a small, dusty bottle.

“Here, Your Grace,” he calls with a smile, nudging his shoulder. “Look at what your men found.”

War really is a great leveller. He had just had a rather interesting conversation with a shoemaker's daughter. 

His fingers come up around the dusty bottle. It's oddly dark, glossy, with a curious appearance as though it was chipped out of something. 

He tastes it. 

"Oh."

It burns, rich and spiced. 

A strange sort of déjà-vu washes over him for a moment, but he brushes it off.

He sits next to him, greeting the woman with a nod of the head.

“I checked, do not worry. No poison in any of those bottles,” he informs, “other than the good kind.”

There is already a merry sort of blush to Ophel’s cheeks, and the bottle feels lighter than it should. He must have already had his share.

He chuckles. "I shall drink to that."

It really is good wine. 

They settle for a moment into a sort of companionable silence. 

"I have to admit," he says slowly, "-I have not been entirely away from the battlefield in my dukedom. But this is... a tonic, in many ways. I see now why you make this your life."

He thinks on that, a little frown creasing his brow as he reaches for the bottle again.

“I… suppose it is. I do not quite know when it happened, the transition from peace to battle. I think when I met you.”

A swig. He makes a face, the delicate elf, but it is good. He hands it back to Voltur.

“You seem in your element, Fiendslayer.”

"Ha! Perhaps I am, Father. You seem rather lively yourself."

That was His Grace the Duke. And this is the High Priest. 

And she is here. 

She's vaguely heard stories like this, about the glory of the battlefield and seeing the lords and ladies in the flesh on their high horses, but they didn't involve the nobility stripping off their fancy armour and sitting alone on logs where any old townswoman could wander up, possibly slightly tipsy, and tell them, for example, to "Budge up and pour me something if you've got it," which she, in fact, did. 

She's pretty sure this is one of those stories where you die at the end.

...All right, it seems like a life-preserving move here would be to extremely quietly slink away and hope nobody remembers her face. 

He laughs. “I think I like hearing you call me that.”

The young woman catches his eye, and Ophel’s attention shifts before Voltur can respond.

“Hello. Oh, what beautiful hair you have. Voltur, have you offered this lady a drink?”

He reaches out a hand for her to shake. Humans like doing that, shaking hands. It’s their equivalent of three kisses on the cheek.

“Now who might you be?”

ER. 

Is this some kind of curse oh gods-

-She shakes his hand. His skin is so warm, so soft. Is her hand a little bit holy too now?

"-Ah - " she should lie she should absolutely not lie "Joan, Father."

He frowns in a grumpy sort of way. A distinctly grumpy sort of way. Almost pouts. 

From where he sits with Raina and Garrett, he catches sight of his dad with Ophel.

They make eye contact across the distance, and Caragon grins, raising his hand in a thumbs-up.

He doesn’t notice, his back turned to the group. 

“Joan,” he repeats, as if savouring the name. “It is good to meet you. Have you long been a soldier?”

"-Ah - no, Father, I - " was so bored and wanted to be more than just a shoemaker and there's only one way really - "only just joined". 

He coughs. "You have survived, which is the most important skill." He was happy talking to the peasant - it's been so long, he's almost forgotten what the common people are like - but now that she knows who he is and knows who Ophel is - "And do not worry. Dear Father Ophel is not the... judgemental sort of priest." He winks at Ophel. 

He, too, can play this game. It is rather good wine. 

“So this was your first battle. Mine too, in a sense. I concur, you did well.”

What was that?

Ophel doesn’t much remember how the rest of this conversation goes – only that some time later, he finds himself leaning heavily into Voltur’s side as their group reunites, playing some sort of drinking game. His cheeks are flushed, and he holds Voltur’s arm tightly. 

He laughs as Raina accuses Flint of cheating, and he settles his face further into Voltur’s neck. The world sways and spins.

Ophel is warm against him and the world is pleasantly blurred out. He sips more of the wine, lips dark and stained with strange spices. 

"Having fun?" he rumbles, squeezing him gently. He's so light, so thin under his touch. 

“Yes,” he breathes, and the heat of it makes Voltur shiver. “Yes, I believe so.”

He smells like– like sweat, and blood, and by the gods there has never been a more intoxicating scent.

He gives his father a pointed look.