She indeed isn't very happy, about any of this. 

It doesn't seem like a difficult problem to her. The balance between mercy and justice - ways to enforce the law, and what restrains a king's judgements - are the bulk of Pelor's theology. The new candidate for her position is untested in the exact application of those concerns, but he'll have actual advisors here, and ground-level decisions aren't in fact his concern. 

The personal issues, however...

Well, she has a plan. 

He is, as often, lying with his head in a concubine's lap, wondering how he got himself into this mess and how to get himself out of it. 

His Vizier's reasoning had seemed so compelling at the time.

The rediscovery of the Sepulchre of the Sorceress-Queen had established his own relation to that dreaded and nameless horror, mentor/conquerer of Acererak himself, scourge of angels, forbidden and lost legend, whose infamy eclipsed memory etc., etc.

If there were a sorcerer of such power alive today, whole worlds could turn upon their shoulders. Just one or two like her could be deliverance from the long, long ending. 

Sorcery is very rare, a kind of magic passed down through the blood through centuries and only occasionally manifested.

Tracing back from himself to the Queen to the legendary origin of their dynasty in heaven, according to his sages, there were about a thousand of his direct bloodline, and one known sorcerer. 

So, logically, his Vizier had patiently explained to him, if he had three thousand descendants, he should expect three sorcerers. If his many children all had many children of their own, she added, it could be done in a generation. 

He hadn't stopped at the time to ask the as many as several questions he should have asked. 

And - it is mysterious beyond words - all his children have been girls. It is a disaster for the project, for posterity - you can impregnate three women in a day (ask him how he knows), but you can only bear one child at once. 

He's debating now the risks of trying to find or create the sort of daughter who might not mind being sent to the elves, or asking his wizards to do something, and wondering how the hell he's going to handle the fallout. 

It is as he's pondering that the letter arrives, smoking, on the floor of his harem. 

This. This is why you never, ever, ever listen to clerics and wizards. 

He's plucked Ophel up, and carried him to bed, and nestled him in his arms, and said nothing as yet. 

He will later find it ironic that he was none-the-wiser that night.

But none-the-wiser he is now, as he tentatively allows himself to be held.

The silence brews a storm in his chest.

He hesitates. “Are you well?”

He chuckles dryly. "No, of course not. I feel oft as if I live a nightmare from which I can never wake. I feel the need for justice, fairness, to trace out the understanding that will let us set things right, to find the argument you will finally understand. In truth - it is a form of suffering I inflict on myself at this point."

“…How can I help?”

"Give me answers," he grumbles, "they do not have to be good ones - only - admit that it is a difficult task at hand - the thing I cannot stand, is when you say things you know will play on my heartstrings, no matter how sensible it might be to refuse you I cannot bring myself to."

“…I do not intend to. That is just how I am.”

This is not their marital bed. It does not know their forms, does not curve in the right places. The pillows are stiff and cold, and the covers only smell like lavender.

He shifts slightly, muscles growing more tense under Voltur’s touch, though he tries hard to relax. 

“I will give you anything. So I will give you answers if you ask me particular questions. But I fear that my answers will not satisfy you, for all they have not done so before, and that I will not be enough. You are a great king, and I shine with pride for you. I know not why Pelor favours me either.”

"...Would it be better in Pelor's sight simply to abdicate? Are there no truly Good kings? Or should I see to my own kingdom and call my duty done, no matter what devils haunt the world outside? I am no fool, I know you are concerned for my soul. But what can I do better? I will not labour the point, but your path of pity was not the right one either."

There is quiet for a moment as he thinks, but for once it is a peaceful quiet.

And then gently the elf speaks.

“Neither of us are correct. Not alone. We were doing something right before, in that golden age of ours. You brought me towards justice and I brought you to mercy–” the girl’s bloodstained chestnut hair flashes in his mind, and he winces ever-so-slightly–

“– and from its happy middle we ruled. It was not so long ago, and we remain alive and together. As long as there is life in either of us, and the kingdom has not yet toppled, something can be done. We must remember, together, what it was to be the people we once were.”

He moves up in the bed, so that his head rests on the pillow and their eyes can meet. They are tall as one another; the elf is one of the few that has ever met Voltur’s height. Ophel reminds him of this now, and his blue eyes are a comfort rather than an aberration as they meet the grey. 

Voltur has seen Ophel rise to greatness, and enact miracles that have left the whole world trembling at his divine feet. But it has been a long time since the elf has read to him as equal. 

They are equal.

“Who would take the throne if you were to abdicate? Caragon does not wish it; he and Raina lead peaceful lives East from here. Our dear girl is too young, and you cannot truly look me in the eye and tell me you trust a single other person in your court right now to do a better job than you. You would drive yourself mad to witness it.” 

Ophel’s lips quirk in what could be a smile, but it vanishes in the blink of an eye.

“And besides, you would take most of the kingdom with you for the loyalty you inspire in them. You are more than king, my love; you are living legend.”

Carefully, as though Voltur were made from glass, he runs the backs of his long fingers over a sloped cheek. He pulls away only briefly, and the skin left behind feels cold – but the elf quickly kisses his own fingertips before pressing them gently back on his lover’s face.

“I chose you, my love. No other man can ever claim to have the support of the gods themselves. And as much as I grieve for the life you could have led, in peace, in a better world than ours – you were never going to be anything but this. You wear the crown well.

“As your priest… I do not know if you are Good. You need not be. You stand in the heart of it all, fair and balanced, and that is what a king is to be. But your desire to do Good, and to act upon it– that is more than halfway to Goodness itself. But as your wife…”

Voltur feels, then, soft lips against his own. Deep and gentle, withdrawing before the hunger grows into something insatiable, a taste like honey.

Almost breathless, Ophel murmurs, “You are the only Good thing I have truly known.”

He takes a moment, in that blessed span of peace, just to close his eyes, and not to think. He almost sleeps. 

"Perhaps. The exact middle path is rarely the right one - but somewhere in between, I think. 

And then when - for the first time, really, in far too long - when Ophel kisses him - 

- he kisses back. 

He's not happy for Ophel to withdraw. 

He takes him by the jaw suddenly and looks into those too-blue eyes. "I think it has been too long since you knew me truly." And his lips crash back down. 

She steps through the Gate.

"Well now. I'm not sure if I'm too early or too late."

In unison, like a pair of bonded birds, they shoot up and reach for their swords.

“Your Holiness?”

Ophel relaxes first – though behind the chuckle of relief lies disappointment. He leans back into Voltur, glancing between the two of them with uncertainty. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your – sudden – visit?”

With his cheeks a shade like roses, the elf is clearly in a… heightened state. 

He resists the temptation to make Her Holiness wait. She is in their kingdom after all, in their private chambers, she need not even leave the room.

But if she is here unannounced, there must be a reason. Ophel prays it is not another emergency.

Ah, but in her goddess's divine domain. 

She seems to be quite enjoying herself. "Why, I never asked you to stop on my account."

He says something slightly incoherent about her husband not being happy, eyes fixed all the while on Voltur.

"He will like what I tell him to like."

In truth, she does need to play this quite carefully, so she inspects her (flawless) fingernails casually and doesn't think much before she speaks. 

"I suppose, ultimately, I am here for the same reason why the Church exists."

Something isn’t right.

Why is Voltur not saying anything? Why does he not look surprised that the Most High is here?

Through clouds of desire and blood loss and two sleepless nights, some clarity calls to him.

He slowly tears his gaze from his husband and sits up straight.

It takes some time for him to calm his breathing, focus his mind, clear his sight. When his cheeks are no longer so flushed, when his eyes are no longer so glazed over, is when he speaks.

“Your Holiness– what has brought you to my residence at this hour?”

The question is targeted at Voltur too. 

"Necessity." She perches casually on the edge of the bed as though she owns it. "You two already got yourselves into enough of a mess. I thought I'd better not leave you to make it any worse."

…

He addresses his husband, a pit growing in his stomach at the man’s continued silence.

“Say something.”

"See."

"It is no great secret. Upon learning your news, I ordered certain entreaties to be sent to potentially allied princes and people of influence. I am not surprised the Most High heard of it."

"He means he panicked when he thought his ex would be heading the Church and begged for help," she adds helpfully. 

…

He takes Ophel's hand and squeezes gently.