She smiles bitterly. "Yeah. I mean, who's called that nowadays? I looked it up once, it's from this lost play. She- yeah. She did. I didn't really know her family. I... met them once." She goes quiet. 

Mercy.

“I– am sorry, I know that this may be difficult to speak of, and I regret that any pain has befallen you, but I ask you humbly– how might I find them?”

She stares at him in sheer confusion. "I mean - it's not your fault, right? I don't... I don't know why you want to know, but, uh. I was going to look for them too, I suppose. I was going to ask the Collegium." It's too late when she thinks that maybe, after some maniacs just accomplished mass-murder of the faithful, she shouldn't be giving out contact information. 

At first he seems almost to withdraw, but then a little shred of light returns to him. Viola feels an inexplicable surge of fondness, before she remembers that this is a complete stranger.

“Then I pray, let me join you. I am good with a sword and my magic may not be of the kind you craft, but I have seen many an adventure in my time and I will be a steadfast companion.”

She shrugs, kind of helplessly. "As you wish." It's not like she really cares about anything any more. 

They're never closed. 

They're a large, squat, stone building, twisting towering spires of dreaming granite, perched in a depression in the earth in the middle of a big patch of unReal estate in the middle of the city. Technically speaking, at extraordinary cost, the Church of Moradin owns the land surrounding their walls, and grows fruits there that are of some interest to collectors. 

Obviously, to anyone properly instructed in the Dwarffather's teachings, this is because they tend to catch fire a lot. Fruit trees don't burn well, and it's much cheaper than paying to rebuild half the city when the fire spreads, or, worse, putting the wizards and their various associates employees, the source of a fraction of the city's economic product at least seventeen times greater than their fraction of the population (and honestly, the Grimzarkian calculus used to derive those figures has come under substantial criticism), outside the walls, or worst of all - and they wouldn't even know to worry about this if not for certain things learned from the King's adventures in Foreign Parts - just letting the city burn sometimes. 

Anyway, the King is not a complete idiot and not easily moved even by angry wizards, so they do have records of every student, even ones from completely unimportant peasant families that nobody would ever waste time to think about if not for the tyrannical enforcement of law their wise King's guidance. 

Why and on what authority and how do they want to burst in and get this information, by the way?

He drops the ring with the king’s seal onto the archivist’s desk. A glimpse of his eyes gleam, otherworldly, from under the hood of his cloak.

Mercedes "Mercy" Garner, under the king's new system (a sniff of disapproval). Of the village of Crabtree near Walding West, not of any importance as a family, but good churchgoing folk. Incredibly proud of their daughter and her royal scholarship in the big city!

He slips the ring back onto his finger and looks over at Viola, the discomfort in his heart well-contained.

“Let us leave at first light.”

At the eleventh hour of the night, a letter arrives in the King’s private study.

The seal, the parchment, even the scent of it – it takes little guesswork to know the identity of the sender.

Inside, two words are written in flowing script.

Meet me.

He flicks the parchment into the fire, and watches it curl, smoke and burn. 

But he does come. 

The Archbishop’s residence is little used, but it provides some small respite away from home – and a safe meeting place.

They meet outside in the orchard, under the boughs of an apple tree that knew them well. The moon is full, and with it the soft glow from Ophel’s halo dimly lights the way.

The two of them lock eyes, and there is silence at first, as though neither one of them wishes to be the first to draw blood tonight.

“You came.”

He does not look real; does not sound real.

"I did." He doesn't sound frightening. He doesn't sound like the terrible king Ophel fears so much. He's just a tired, sad, ageing man who won one fight too many.

He rests one hand against the bough of that tree, remembering sweeter nights in its branches. 

He sighs. 

"Your sentence is - commuted. I apologise. I was not wise in that moment, I did not stop to think and realise what effect it could have on you. I did not intend to endanger you." Elves literally can't stand to learn harsh truths, he knew that and yet he somehow never really understood it - of course it means they can't be allowed to be in charge of anything really important, how had he ever thought otherwise, and of course it means what he did could almost have been a death sentence. Foolish. He is not equipped for his role, and he would stand aside at once if anyone else were.

(In fact he's considered Aeolyn. The kingdom would be well and wisely ruled for a week before it was conquered by one of the dozen enemies she made before luncheon.)

"Why did you ask me here?"

There is a surge of hope in his chest. That he can return home now, hide away in the forgiveness of his lover’s arms, and this nightmare can be– not over, but dormant, just for a little while.

But the world is not so easy.

“I did not intend to endanger those people. They were killed.”

He swallows; fights the urge to lay his hand over Voltur’s.

“I know who she was. Her name was Mercy. And I have made arrangements already to find her family in the village of Crabtree, near Walding West.”

Weakness feathers his heart.

“I remain prepared to leave at first light, should my king will it.”

"I know you did not mean it." His voice is quiet, and tired, and only a little bitter. "Your intentions were - not bad. Not wise, not just, not fair, but understandable. Forgivable. I... Have already forgiven you, always would. Would shelter you in my arms forever. But Ophel - I cannot shield you from what you have done. Nobody can, not even the Dawnfather Himself. I am sorry."

“I know. Were I one of the Druids, you would long since have kissed my throat with your sword.” 

He shifts from one foot to the other, displaying an agitation rarely seen.

“I am telling you now, Voltur, that I am prepared to leave to fulfil my sentence. I have undergone the Ceremony of Quest. I fear I have been misunderstood; this is not an appeal to your better nature, or to any version of my husband who once actually knew me. This is a goodbye.”

He looks at him strangely. "Of course I wouldn't. You only-" just - make an actual effort. Take real responsibility. You fucked up, badly, you can never undo it, so take it seriously! Why aren't YOU as determined to make sure it never happens again as I am? I do know you, and I love you still...

He doesn't say it. It never comes out right. And he's more and more convinced that Ophel can't take responsibility, that it might destroy him if he ever actually understood. 

Voltur loves him enough to sacrifice himself for him, if that would work. But he's tried, and trying to protect Ophel only hurts them both. And others. 

"I do know you," he settles on. "In fact, I suspect you do not know yourself. I hope you learn."

He bows his old head. "Goodbye."

“We have been married for nearly two of your human decades. You presume to know me. I wish you would ask.

“I am taking responsibility. I killed them. It was me. Not directly, but my actions led to those people– your subjects, yes, but my flock, who had gathered in one of my temples, under the illusion of safety that I had promised them, to listen to a sermon that I had written, to die in the most awful of ways, believing that love would be enough. It isn’t. You taught me that. 

“It is not about me either, I know that. I have never consciously thought of myself, but I cannot help but experience the world outside of myself, I am mortal, flesh and blood, just like you. How can I take responsibility and not make it about me? How can I grow like that? It is a contradiction – you confuse me, Voltur, no matter how hard I try you are not pleased with me, I do not understand what you want from me; you are my home. I feel things, and I must look into myself in order to grow. I am Archpriest, Voltur – I am to be Most High.”

The reveal escapes him before he can even realise he has said it.

“It is my fault. I was blind to my desire to see the best in people. You are blind to the opposite. We must both meet in the middle again. Gods above – I love you. Not only do I love you, I want to be something you will approve of. It is a terribly foolish thing, I feel torn apart in two by my desire to please you, to have you look up me kindly again, to actually fuck me in a way that does not feel like you are obliged to perform your marital duty. I also know of who I am, I know of who I must be, and I am so much more than just your Queen. The Dawnfather and all the saints speak through me, I have voices in my head and I do not even have the space reserved in my own mind for what I think or feel about anything anymore. I am not allowed to have opinions, I am not allowed to be anything but something that serves, and that is a lot in life that I take enthusiastically, I would put my own head upon the altar if the gods willed it of me, I would do the same upon a chopping block if it were your hand guiding the blade, but I am weak, I am flawed, I am a mother and I would fight tooth and nail to make it home to our children, and it feels like I am dying to leave our girl behind while I go on a quest that you decreed, in front of all the Kingsguard, not just to please you, because Voltur, you are king and I revere the very ground you tread upon but you are also just a man. Higher things call my name, and I do all I can not to lose sight of the folk around me, to the point of foolishness, because I do not want to lose the part of me that cares about other people. I submitted myself to the law of the land and I will follow through on my sentence, though Her Holiness might enact rightful fury, a year serving one family, a year lost serving the world, the Church—“

He is heaving.

“You are hurting, you are broken into pieces, you are hunched under the weight of the crown that I foolishly put upon your head, fool that I am for turning the man I love into a king rather than protecting him from all of the woes kingship brings. You have shut me out. You have shut out your wife, your queen, your priest. Let me in. I do not care if you hurt me, I am hurt already, and I demand to be respected enough to make the judgement call myself.”

There are tears in his eyes.

”At least kiss me before I have to go.”

Lord Pelor, You cannot possibly think this is a good idea. 

No. Later. 

The whole world is at stake now. He lurches into action, thoughts sharper.

What needs to happen, here?

Wrong question: what does he need to do now? 

At least: damage control for the case where Ophel does become Most High. 

If he could have what he wants: for Ophel to listen, finally, to see it, to actually use his fine elven mind for Truth and not just Beauty, to listen to him and actually see the logic and accept the harsh reality because it's just going to be true anyway - not the time. 

Clearly, nothing he's done has worked. Not fair on him, but when is life ever fair on him? New strategy. 

- thoughts whirling, he used to love the way Ophel made him feel, like all the world was a dream in rainbow colours, now he fights for clarity -

- Some things are probably best begun now; a jewel glitters on the royal crown and his Court Wizard hears a whisper -

"My Queen." He steps forwards and gathers Ophel into his arms - thin, too thin, lighter even than an elf should be. "All right. All right. You want something from me you consider simple, I want the same, we both seem to be trying and failing. That's all. It is all right. It is not so difficult a challenge as the dragon, surely."

At first, he is frozen in the king’s arms. More rigid than the marble that was used to create him.

But it is not long before he weakens, melting into the embrace like the last snow of winter.

The privilege is scarcely received, so he will make the most of it. Must make the most of it. He hides and he clings and he wraps his arms tight around his husband, burying his face in a broad, warm shoulder, concealing all the shame he feels from the world for just a moment. He stays still, very still, even keeps his breathing shallow for all it tries to leave his body in sighs, lest the slightest disturbance break this moment.

He does not notice the jewel as it gleams.

“Please,” he says, before realising that that is not enough to work with.

“Yes. I– think we would be better for it. Thank you.”