The battle is over, the enemy routed.
He's not thrilled about the prospect of even one dragon-spawn wandering about his duchy - one of those monsters might lay waste a village - but there's nothing to be done about it immediately.
He rises, bids his retinue to begin their preparations, and seeks out Ophel.
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.
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.”
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?”
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.”
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.
...
Mind your own business, boy.
...
All right, he has a point.
He turns to Ophel-
And turns back.
He freezes, and slowly turns back.
Ophel's eyes shine in the firelight.
"Yes?"
He grins. “It is your turn.”
Everyone is, in fact, staring at His Grace the Duke expectantly.
He chuckles, the sudden release of tension.
"Ah. Never before have I - " fought to the death with a relative gets Raina and Ophel but is horribly inappropriate - there are elves here - "kissed a stranger."
He laughs and drinks the last drops of his bottle. Most of the group do.
“Playing it safe, Your Grace?”
Caragon coughs and takes a sip when he thinks his dad isn’t looking.
It’s weird, playing this with him. It’s weird doing anything with him, now. Six months ago, he was dead.
He saw that.
Well. He's old enough to remember the days before the Church, when a man like his son has grown to be would have more than a string of jilted lovers - would have left children going hungry and women unmarriable - it is strange how fast things change when the goddess turns Her attention. It's a good thing, but - it's still jarring. It's not a dishonourable thing to be a man like his son... any more.
Anyway.
"I believe," he says with a tight smile, "it is your turn."
He didn’t drink.
Ophel doesn’t know why he finds that so… incomprehensible.
“Very well. Very well.” He straightens, though he still keeps an arm intertwined with Voltur’s. Looking around at the circle, his lips curl into a wicked smile. “Never have I ever…”
Ophel remembers only flashes of the rest of the game. He remembers singing with Raina and dancing with Flint–
And the next thing he knows, it is the dead of night, and he and Voltur are alone together, searching for their tents.
He can’t walk straight. The elf leans practically all of his weight into Voltur, so big, so strong–
“You really have not kissed a stranger?” He manages not to slur, by some divine grace.
"I have not," he says, only a little slurred as he staggers forwards.
Ophel is practically on top of him.
"The world was a different place when I was young. For example-"
He grunts.
"I did not customarily carry elves."
“You are not carrying me. Do not be so dramatic.” He laughs, pressing his face into Voltur’s shoulder for a moment.
His cheeks hurt. It has been a long time since he has smiled so much.
“We can change that. We should– should find you a stranger, right now, Voltur.”
"Ahem." Ophel has apparently not noticed that his feet aren't touching the ground any more.
"What do you mean?"
"Ha. Is it truly so unusual? What is so... kissable... about strangers?" There was definitely more than just wine in that wine.
“I do not know,” he confesses, with a wistful sigh. “It is a rare thing to meet a beautiful stranger. It is– a brief moment, a fleeting spark– the most intimate connection between two worlds, just for a moment, before Fate bids them separate.”
The elf’s poetry subsides as he stretches in Voltur’s arms.
He looks around.
“My tent is not this way.”
-two worlds-
His grip tightens almost imperceptibly - and then he masters himself.
"No," he rumbles, "no it is not". That same mad recklessness has bubbled up in him again, and he shoulders his way into what is technically the command tent.
There is– something going on, something that he is missing.
“Oh,” he breathes, trying to focus on his surroundings. “Is this your tent? I am certain that mine is– mine is not far–”
Voltur’s arms, Voltur’s tent–
“I can–”
"It is not. But I thought you might be more comfortable here." The elf is not as hardy as he is - even the Duke does not sleep on a feather mattress on the battlefield - he lowers him to the bedroll gently.
“Thank you.”
His voice is uncertain. He sinks into the cold fabric, delicate skin all but bruising.
He cannot feel much of it. Voltur is above him, dreamlike, blurred around the edges.
The elf blinks in much the same way a butterfly flaps its wings, trying to bring him, this, into focus—
He's fast, rough, the way Ophel likes to be touched, calloused hands pinning him down and stripping off his clothes, in a moment he looms over the supine priest and the heat radiates from his body as he kisses down his neck-
It’s jarring, the sudden roughness, the sudden tether to this unreal reality, so familiar and foreign—
He freezes, eyes wide.
His pulse thunders under Voltur’s lips.
He's all rough hands and burning presence and muscles straining in the flickering candlelight, in a moment his hands are fisted in fine coppery hair and-
When Voltur lets go of him for just a second– when his hands find their place lower down instead, closing around him–
He panics.
There was a time, not long ago, when this was all he had ever wanted.
Now he lurches back, ripping himself away, crawling– his breaths are so fast too fast—
It's like a sudden slap.
He rocks back on his heels -
- dreaming -
"What?"
He tries to master himself.
He tries.
He can fool himself into thinking that he is breathing more easily now, that his limbs are not so rigid–
“I am– sorry,” he manages in a gasp, eyes welling up with tears. “I am sorry–”
"I- no. Do not apologise. Forgive me. I ought not to have - assumed -"
For elves are fickle, are they not?
He had dismissed those warnings, had thought-
It is not as though he did not watch Astryx flit from thought to thought. And, indeed, man to man.
"I shall withdraw."
The world spins around him. He feels sick.
It has been a long time since he has lost control like this. He– he faintly remembers what to do, maybe, laying there with his weight on his elbows, with his head bowed into his chest– he remembers, he thinks.
“Please,” he manages, pathetic, through swollen lips. “Let me– explain.”
Ophel looks up at him from his place on the ground. He opens and closes his mouth, searching desperately through the fog for the right words, the thing that will make him stay–
“Where are you going to go?”
It comes out choked. The elf’s tears fall, his blue eyes shine like–
mirrors
