It has been a long time since last Ophel kneeled before his husband. He has been away for too long; away in the land of divine things, his absences growing longer and longer. Voltur changes every time – every time a colder man takes his place.

Nothing else will work.

Now he kneels again at the foot of the throne, clasping the king’s hand betwixt his own and bewitching him with eyes that do not belong to the world of men. He kneels again – not for his husband, but for the sake of another man.

“If you had heard how he sang tonight, you would pity the poor boy.” And indeed the pity saturates the queen’s voice like a bee drowned in honey. “You should have heard it. All of his sorrow won’t fit in his chest, it– burns like a fire, his heart is like a bird on a spit.”

Ophel’s breath shakes, and the boughs of trees shake with him.

“Voltur, my light – I entreat you—”

"- To spare them. Yes."

He shifts on his throne. 

"You presume much. Stand up, Ophel, this drama is long since meaningless for us."

He can't stand to see those too-blue eyes any more, and so he looks away, down at the dais that his throne rests upon, up at the indigo evening sky that glows in his windows. 

"You presume I am lacking pity; you presume I am too cold, too distant. You are wrong as you often are. Pity moves me to vengeance, Ophel, it is only cold wisdom that stays my hand, for there are far harsher fates than Blackthorn for traitors even in your own kind's past. How long would you have them spend screaming, if passion is to move me? How long before I find you here again, begging for a swift end to their agonies?"

He sees as soon as he says it that it was the wrong thing to say. The wrong thing, for all that it's true, for all that he's only just finished gently turning away the friends and beloved of Lady Saralynn who bay by the dozens for blood and worse. He strikes out again, desperately. 

"Or ransom them, then, for the archdiocese. Take them on, bind them in magic chains, let them serve together rather than die. Only-"

He knows it's not going to work. 

"Ophel - you know I go among the people sometimes. There is a man, five and seventy - his kin are dead, all save his granddaughter and son-in-law - and your priests may preach against it but we have not the men to outlaw the beating of children, and even if we could - he drinks too much, and has the old man's money for it, and keeps the girl away, the only joy the old man has left in life, and blames him for it, when he has nothing left to give - it is not even among the worst horrors, only the most recent one to pass before my own eyes. Spend gold hand over fist, bid magic itself be spent, the cost of guard enough to make it safe to grant the rebels asylum, if you will - only answer me why they deserve your dear and precious and finite mercies, and not anyone else."

He knows it's not going to work. 

“They all do.”

He does not rise. He clasps the mortal’s hand more firmly, and Voltur could tear his hand away if he truly wanted to, but that would risk breaking the softness of the elf’s rare touch.

“They all deserve our mercy. You are lost in abstracts, you have stopped seeing people as people. There is no justification for taking life when you have a choice– Voltur, husband, look at me.”

No divine command is etched by magic into his voice. It remains a force of willpower to resist. 

“Do you not remember when we first visited their town, when it was but a barbarian settlement? Do you not remember how the people there turned to the light, forgot all about their old ways and their cruelty, and we did not even need raise a single blade against them? We all search desperately for light.”

Ophel presses his lips in supplicating kisses to Voltur’s rings.

“My love – they are young, there is room to learn, to earn their respect, to show them what we are – he loves her. They have promised to run away together if need be – imagine the girl, she is not so much older than our own daughter. Imagine if it were–”

He lets him kiss.

"No. I do not care to imagine it. For it would *not* be her-"

 tilting, sickening, he'd thought it wouldn't be his men either -

"- and if it were I would not withhold justice." He grits his teeth. "If you insist on tormenting me - if, all the gods forbid, it were her -"

(wrenching disorientation)

"- I cannot pretend I would not spare her, and send her for a slave for the Church for ever, rather than slay her as justice would demand. But nor will I pretend that would not be an indulgence, just as I buy her pretty dresses and bright jewels - I do not pretend that I would be doing good. And nor are you. Your coffers only have so much gold, you only have so much magic, and if you spend it here on the traitors then you cannot spend it elsewhere, where it might do more good, and for more deserving folk. I will not stop you indulging yourself to save them, Ophel, if your heart is moved, but I will not pretend it is any nobler than buying rare silks for yourself, instead of food for the poor." 

(The poor in Valynrest do not really starve any more, thanks to his efforts that the rebels would destroy in service of their own sick pride, but he doesn't labour the point.)

(She is gone, and She cannot hear.)

"What will it be then, my Queen?"

The kisses have stopped. 

Ophel’s face clouds in shadow.

“I do what I can, when I can. My attention cannot be everywhere, but I cannot force my attention over cruelty when I see it, be it a stranger or my– own husband,” his voice nearly breaks, “as perpetrator. I fear for your soul, Voltur. I truly do. I did not name you king so that you might become a tyrant.” He delivers the next words quietly. “And I did not return to you your heart so that you might lose it again.”

He looks up at his husband, and his eyes are no longer so round and his tone is no longer so passionate, and the shutters are closing again. 

“I accept that they are not innocent, but the girl does not deserve death for what she did. She means nothing to you, but everything to the boy.” And the elf’s pain speaks for him. “He has the kind of love for her that– you and I once had. He cares not for the logic of kings, or the laws of your kingdom.”

Your kingdom.

“It is only for love that he sings.”

"You do what you can, when you want to. The Druidists you weep for will be the first victims, the solemn fools, if we give their would-be masters quarter. You think of the love you and I have? What do you think it is, to have that sort of love, under Druidic rule? Would you like me to tell you, my Queen, what happens to men who lie with other men, under the Druids? Perhaps in some other time, your mercies and passions are aroused for them; you happen by chance to have met them and heard their cries instead; and some other Voltur's cold reason restrains your passions from vengeance."

He sighs, and seems to become smaller. 

"I cannot even say you are wrong. Elves are sweeter and gentler than my kind. Better it might have been, had your people lasted triumphant to rule over mine in kindly mastery. But those days have gone and shall not return. You may well detest the laws of kings, but they are all that shelter you. And indeed all that shelter them from what would rightly befall them, at the hands of their victims' kin. You did not answer that charge, I note. Shall I then withdraw the kingdom's justice from them, Ophel? Shall I stay my hand and sheathe my sword? Would you prefer my mercy, over my justice?"

…

“It was not so long ago that I vowed to honour your law, husband. But it is the Law that protects us.”

Ophel’s mouth forms a tight line, holding fast through the agonies that would have sickened any other of his kin. The exhaustion dulls his heart.

His people journey through the years slowly. Perhaps Voltur cannot fathom it truly, much though the man seems to consider himself knowledgeable on elven matters. Humans move so fast through their brief lives that they rarely try to understand the meaning of it, of the meaning of anything at all – slowly.

For better and for worse, it is the lot of elvenkind to bear witness.

Long ago, in the days of the war between their peoples and some decades after that, human kings would covet elven brides – the history-singers say either by force or by arrangement. Love was of little consequence. Such unions promised men a watcher that would ensure the survival of generations of their line, bound to children who would soon never know them, until the tombstones of their mortal husbands had worn down smooth. Their stories are black marks on elven history. Oftentimes they died from grief, or of relief when the last of their line fell at last and they could at last be free.

Ophel had told himself that this was different. He was not one of them. 

To him, the memory of Voltur’s tears of joy at their wedding remains as clear as the rain that had fallen upon the land this morning. The black hair on his lovely head lost its colour almost as quickly as the leaves turn in autumn, and his soft eyes soon saw only enemies abound, and Ophel looks at him now sometimes in confusion, without real recognition, searching for the face of the common king that only he remembers truly. 

He is older now than Voltur when they had first met. 

“Mercy and justice are not different things.”

Thus says the Prophet: Why do you bow to a law written by hands that return to the dust? A king’s command is but a passing whisper, but the Law of the Lord is a consuming fire that tries the works of all flesh.

"The Law isn't here. Only me." He says it in what to Ophel's eyes can only be true, deep, bitter disappointment. 

He looks up. "And whatever the Law may be, in the canons of the Church the penalty for diabolism is burning alive."

(It's not cruelty. Some demons can possess people and lie dormant inside them, sometimes for years. You need something that will also kill the demon spirit when it bursts out.)

He sighs. "It is not yet beyond me to see myself through your eyes. Come then, Ophel. What would your judgement be? In truth I doubt your wisdom, but I see the way this is on course to go. I have no wish to become a cautionary tale in your histories for future kings."

“Where there is remorse, where there is love, there is hope. You will do yourself no favours by hardening the hearts of your enemies. The more druid children there are who doubt the ways of their ancestors, just as the boy and the girl have expressed tonight, the stronger your position, my king. It would be unwise to weed out remorse in those you claim you wish to save. We could use this chance to educate them; to use them, even, for what they know of their own people. We have such little understanding of the ways of their tribes, we could use them to find weaknesses in their side – or perhaps even common ground.”

He laces their fingers together; rests his heavy head on his husband’s lap, and prays he will be permitted to stay there. He prays he will get through to him.

“Unless your motivations have changed, that is. Humans were not supposed to carry the kind of burden that you do, my love. It is all too easy for your kind to lose sight of Good. I wish I had not put you upon this throne; I fear so terribly for your soul. You were never the sort of man who could see justice in what you claim you must do. If you raise your blade against the girl tomorrow, Voltur, for as long as she regrets what she did and strives to learn better, then in the eyes of Pelor it will be–

Murder.

You will seal the fate of this war as one you must win by bloodshed alone.

You will never save any of them. You will have conquered lands empty but for the corpses of the people who had once lived there.

The Law is always here. My mistake was to shield you from it.

I will not bear witness to it.

I have passed judgement. The girl does not deserve to die. But you will not listen to me, for all you once trusted me even as we both looked together into the maw of the usurper dragon.”

"You are wrong. Wrong, in so very many ways. Remorse is not enough, not at the scale of what she did; even if she is sincere, she is too dangerous to leave alive, too great a threat to my people. She is an oathbreaker as well as a murderess, she has done enough to condemn her five times over, enough to make it too great a risk, too great a cost, to save her life. If you will only ever take action against the truly base and unrepentant, you will fail, at others' cost. You will make countless innocents pay the price of your mercy, Ophel, because this has nothing to do with justice, it is about you and your feelings."

In truth, he's surprised the Dawnfather hasn't withdrawn His grace already. He's pretty sure that what Ophel is saying is technically blasphemy. There's a reason He almost never Chooses elves.

He sighs, and sinks back in his throne. 

"Or so it seems to a tired old man who once thought to bring a wicked land to God. You are wrong there too, Ophel. I will still listen to you, even now; I trust you as I have trusted no other. Do as you will with her."

His eyes close, and some sculptor’s hands carve lines deep into his face. The victory is hollow.

He is tired.

“When did we become this?”

"When your poetry, and your pride, and my dreams, came into contact with reality."

He stands, and whirls, and departs from the throne room.

The girl's remorse is true, it seems, or else she is very very careful to make it seem so. She serves diligently, as does the boy who loves her. In time they take new names and new lives elsewhere; in time they marry, in church, before the sight of Heaven and before properly ordained priests, and there is no further danger from them. 

The next few times a criminal rises to the King's personal attention, and the Queen intervenes crying mercy, he relents and they are spared and no further harm comes from them either.

It comes to be known, then, that a case which reaches the Queen's ears will be handled with uncommon mercy and sweetness.

It comes to be widely known. 

Godwin is a quiet man, a guardsman. Not very much can be said about him. He hears stories of the past, stories of the King's war on men from across the Sea of Tears who know the names of the true gods, whose vengeance on the unbelievers will be terrible, cloaks of burning fire and drownings in lakes of brimstone; he hears of how the King dares to rebel against the believers of the true path. 

So he goes and joins with the followers of the true gods in the capital and finds his way to the palace, and he is caught there, and pleads mercy, swearing in the name of his gods and his fathers, for it is permissible to deceive the unbelievers in desperate circumstances, to save one's own life from their cruelties. 

He is believed and released into service, in an Aphrodisian temple as it happens, and there is where he can really get to work. 

The Church keeps its slaves in shackles of course, but if their souls are the right shape, it still gives Him great insight into the enemy's inner workings. And no bonds are perfectly tight. There is always a cost, you see, and some opportunity even for Him. 

When it ends, when it all ends, the Archcurate of Aphrodite in Valynrest, a small slender elf of tender years by that people's standard, is dead and worse, as are the family, dead of grief, and a number of the other faithful, and dozens more - specifically, the attendants of a special mass on the true nature of love, written for those born under the Druids, who might have been led astray, as Ophel ordered. It was corrupting the sons of the Old Fathers, you see. 

And it's known what will happen if word of this reaches the king, so while the Kingsguard are distracted in the ashes of the Temple, putting down the monster he summoned, the mob take him away. 

She knows what's going to happen. She swore to Voltur as her king, he takes her counsel, but she cannot in fact countermand him. 

Is it a betrayal, not to stop this? No. She would, all else equal, no matter the cost; but the demon must be stopped first, the dying must be shriven and comforted, the wounded must be healed. She considers killing Godwin in one swift blow before the mob can reach him, but that might be called Murder, and she cannot actually spare a moment away from the battle with the fiend of the pit. 

Good! So they take Godwin from that place and lash him to a cartwheel and break his long bones with hammers, to general rejoicing. 

The gods won't allow Healing to be used for this, but there are ways to keep a man alive for a while anyway. 

The sound of a charging horse is all anyone hears first.

Then the earth begins to rumble, and the Sun glares ever-brighter, and the voices of angels join the chant of a terrible Miracle.

Wings sprout from the archbishop’s back, tearing his flesh apart, and the blood sinks red into the ashes of the temple – and he rises.

The cells of the world around him join the chant. Ears bleed, windows crack. The people run and take cover.

There is a flare like blinding lightning all around the sky. Hands burst forth from fissures in the sky, and a hundred seraphim force their way through into this world.

And like a swarm of bees, they all fly to the demon.  

It is a mercy-killing when Baptist strikes the final blow.

A Mass Heal takes care of those who survived. The guardsman’s bones stitch together in the wrong places, crunching agonisingly. The seraphim form a ring like columns around him as he howls, their protection inviolate.

Afterwards, a winged Apollyon kneels silent in the broken heart of the rubble.

…

Of fucking course. 

Notably, the Queen didn't deign to show up when the fucking barbarian and his vicious criminal friends were raping priestesses and burning holy altars and murdering her own people. Only the worst scum of the earth deserve the Queen's tears, apparently.

They still aren't going to do anything now, of course. They bow down to one knee and hope to escape with their lives. 

He arrives too late, of course. He can't fly on ruby wings or bid the winds carry him.

But he can walk past Ophel where he kneels, unblinking, not looking down or even shielding his eyes from the divine glow. 

He doesn't bother to speak to the Archbishop.

"Cover your eyes, my darling," he says gently to his daughter. 

And to the seraphim:

"I am the rightful king of this land. By Law and in Pelor's holy Name this man is sentenced to death, for witchcraft, rape, murder and treason. Get out of my way."

The angels look at this man. They do not understand his tongue.

He has fallen far from Pelor’s sight.

“Ḽ̷̢̯̬̫̖͈̮̞͕̙̞̈͂̌͗̈́̓̋̈́͝Ȩ̷̧̞̲̼̖̳̘̹̲̩̓͒͒̃̌͗͜͝T̸͎͕̭̱̲͉͉̝̘̹͑́̓̾̓̽̉̚͜ͅ ̸̧̢̬͈͕̭̪̬̞͕͉̰͈̞͓̻͔͕͍̈́̉̌͒̄̈͆̌͂̎̈́̿͒͒̉͒̀͝͠͝͝ͅH̴̡̧̛͓̦͎̦͎̹͍͔̜̫̦̟̰͉̟̤̙̰̗͉̦̝̙͗͑̿̽̔̉̉̏̈́̕̚͝͝I̵̡̨̘̻̼͚̭̱̣̲̟͉̦͚͕̪̬̘̻͈̙̐̆̆͂̃̃̀̀̋͑̐͝ͅͅͅM̷̨̟̺̦̿ ̷̮̤͙̬̥̜͇͍̥̽͐̓̉͗̎͌̑̊̈́̀̓̉̓̊̓͘Ṕ̵̟̤̰͌͆̉͐̿̏͛͋̊̇̉̋Ả̵̢̡̨͇̪͉̭̮͇̠̫̳̹͚̻͉̠̬̞̦͍̰̥͈͉̬̄̄͒̋̌̉̐̓͂̅̔̈́̀̍͊͗̓̾̊̈́͂̑̓̕͘͜͝S̶̡̢̧̛̱̠͕̤̫͙̮̟͈̗͍̲̺͇̰̬̜̝̳͙͉̽͒̽̇̏̈́̃̒͌̍̽̈́͂͛̽̇̌̏͝ͅͅŠ̶̛̞̱̳̍̐̂̾̊̅̐͊͒̋͠.̸̢̦̯͉͔̳̣͔̘̪̣̪͓͈̺̞͚̼͉͔̮̰̦̻̠̤̂̃.”

They stand aside. One of them lifts the princess and shields her view.

Normally, he allows wicked men some time to think and reflect, with a priest. He does what he can to usher them into Heaven's embrace, and shield them from the grasp of the Powers Below in death. 

But in this case, that is a risk to which he will not expose his people. 

He wants to look into Ophel's eyes as he does it. 

But that would, actually, make this murder. 

So he draws Blackthorn and one swift thrust puts the animal down, like a thousand less deserving enemies Ophel never sang a single song for, because the mercy of elves is mawkish sentiment and callous disregard for the lives of anyone less dramatically significant.

He turns, then.

"You are all dismissed from this place." He says clearly to the mob. "Turn and go, and do not return."

He waits for them to leave. These words now are for him, Ophel, the Kingsguard, and the latest victims of Ophel's mercy. 

"I am amazed, and disappointed, that Pelor has not renounced you yet."

The wings are gone, and all that remains of their memory are a pair of red and raw wounds on his back.

He looks not at Voltur, but at what remains of the elf-priest and their rose-coloured robes.

“Then have me arrested, and subject me to the law you think is most righteous.”

There is a neutrality to his voice. The archbishop holds himself to judgement, and his verdict is passed.

"What an idea." His voice is cold, but not shaking.

He casts his gaze around. 

"No. Not the Archcurate. Her." He points, randomly, with a trembling finger, at one of the corpses - young, probably, and it looks like a spill of chestnut hair, but the corpse is otherwise too soaked in blood and ash to say anything else about it. "This is your sentence. Find out who she was, in life, before your folly and your pride killed her. It's not about you for once, do you understand? It's not about your bright shining friends you think are important. For once in your pretty fucking life it's about the boring faceless normal people, MY FUCKING SUBJECTS, that you throw to the wolves to stroke your swollen ego. Wank off over your own fucking self-righteousness in your own fucking time, don't try to be Archbishop while you're doing it, and don't you dare fucking lecture me about it. I'm not going to waste my men's time arresting you, or spend the effort talking round the Hand or your sainted father, to make you do anything, because it's not about you. You want to know my sentence? What I think is righteous? Find out who the fuck she was before you killed her to gratify yourself. Find her family, give yourself in service to them for a year. See if you can ever, ever begin to dream of making it right. And when you CAN'T, when you have to live forever with the hole YOU made in the world, THEN you can come back and lecture me again, if you still have the nerve. Until then, you are no longer welcome at my court. You can come and visit Aistale at Talloran's temple, if you can still look her in the eye."

He turns from Ophel as though the elf has stopped existing, and so he can't see the tears soaking his beard.

"Come here, my dear." His voice is a different man's when he lifts the unresisting little girl from an inhuman grasp, lifts her onto his shoulders, and trudges away to do what little - not enough - he can do to help. 

He is there until the next morning, not having moved or slept; not having taken his eyes off the girl with the chestnut hair.

He has Communed but Pelor did not know her name.

Someone comes and wraps him in a cloak. He does not notice.

She hates herself. For a lot of reasons, but right now mostly because it takes her until the next morning to come back. 

She sits down. Her ribs still hurt where the shrapnel struck her from the Summoning, and she's not sure her left leg will ever be the same again, but she can get herself down onto the floor and look at - what? Dried blood and broken flesh. Why is she even here? What's she going to do? She was always useless at best, like the best she could ever hope to be for anyone else was "not actively hurtful".

Gods, she shouldn't have come. 

She doesn't even glance twice at the figure next to her, huddled in a cloak with two broad bloodstains soaking the back. 

He is vaguely aware of a presence beside him; of a shadow, and a shifting in the rocks.

The curiosity overcomes him. He looks.

She does not seem to take heed of him, and continues on with her task of– something. The surprise registers dimly – he is unused to not being paid attention to, has just commanded attention for as long as he can remember, without even trying. The arrogance of the thought embarrasses him.

But it is strangely a relief, to be bypassed by the eyes of another. There is no expectation there; no chance of disappointment before he can even speak a word. For the first time, he is the voyeur.

“Your leg.”

She doesn't even look around. What's the point? She bunches into herself. 

She would probably have - what, made friends? It's the kind of thing little miss perfect probably did all the time. But Viola doesn't even know. She never really got the chance to see her for who she actually was. 

What would her advice have been?

"Yeah. I was here, when - it happened. Bit of the ceiling landed on my knee." She winces at the memory, some strong man giving her a leather bit to bite down on before he yanked and her world filled with pain and then she could sort of walk again. 

She shakes herself minutely. 

"So who are you here for?"

“All of them.”

It is said simply.

He gestures towards her injuries, before thinking twice and retracting his arm.

“Let me–” He cuts himself off and tries again. “I can help.”

She stares at him, and stares some more after she turns towards him and her injuries melt away. Under the cloak and in the shadow and ash she can only see deep-blue eyes and tanned skin, but something about him seems... off. 

She stretches. Her leg feels better than it used to, and she can straighten her arm all the way again, like she hasn't done since she fell off that wall as a child. 

"...Who are you?"

“There. I hope that is better now. I apologise, you may lose some childhood scars.”

He is quiet for longer than it takes for him to answer.

“It does not matter who I am. By Ceremony of Quest I must concern myself only with the King’s subjects.”

There is some discomfort there, and Viola gets the sense that this person, whoever he is, is not used to evading the truth.

“May I ask you the same question?”

The healing magic is indeed skittering over her skin, fixing hangnails, burning away the pimple on her shoulder blade, there's an unpleasant sensation in her mouth as a tooth straightens slightly. 

She laughs bleakly. "Viola. I... knew her." She gestures wordlessly at the brown stains and broken flesh that used to be - her.

“Who was she?”

His heart is in his mouth.

For some bizarre reason, she laughs at that. Not in any kind of dramatic way, just slightly hysterically and in a way that doesn't reach her eyes. She feels a little bad about it.

"She was-" her voice fails. 

"That feels like an odd question," she settles on. It's true. It's not very safe to talk to fairies or whoever this is, but right now, she can't really bring herself to care. She's not breaking any rules, she doesn't think. "She was, um. We were apprentices together. We... didn't get along. But then things - changed - and we-" she chokes. She's not going to cry in front of the mysterious stranger, she's just going to stare ahead. 

…

Steel yourself, arrogant prince. This is not about you.

“What was her name?”

"Mercy." She says softly. "It's - yeah. Weird name. I never really asked." There's more sorrow in those few words than she knows what to do with - there are a lot of things she never really asked. 

“Mercy?”

His hands clench tight around the fabric of the cloak on his lap, and the colour drains from his face. 

“Did– she– have a family?”

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.”

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. 

Good boy. 

"Come on now," she says, "you knew it was going that way. That's why you've been so upset. You might as well admit it."

His hand does not return the squeeze. Rather, Ophel looks as if he wishes to snatch it away from Voltur’s grip, to back away so that there is no risk of his touch.

“If you will not tell me, somebody else will. Speak. What entreaties?”

"It is no great secret," he grinds out. "There is - a great foreign king, of whom I know little, but with whom I have exchanged gifts and ambassadors. There are those within the Church who share my concerns." Like the Most High, for example. "I thought - I cannot be the only man alive with these concerns. It was time to consult them."

Galora may as well not be in the room.

He had thought the agony had eaten all it could already. There is a star collapsing in his chest and it constricts the air in his lungs.

“Speak to me of your concerns, not to foreign kings.”

He does not sound angry. Does not betray much of the agony, lest he be silenced again by a human deciding that elves are too fragile for real conversations.

“I ask you one more time, Voltur. What exactly did you say?”

"...I have spoken to you of them. Many times. I asked what they had done, in matters of empire. How they had weighed the concerns of the clergy. It was not - personal."

“It becomes personal when you take the concern as your wife and queen, when all the kingdoms of the world know of the instability of Valynrest’s royal family, and when you would take me into bed while betraying my trust to all of Arwis.”

He has stood up now, something changing in his eyes. An absence of hope.

The blue is dull.

“Tell me truly. Tell me as I have feared. Is this– all this– because I was unable to bear you a second child?”

Everything was different after that night when they lost the baby. 

Voltur had behaved perfectly, had said all the right things, but– grief can change people, even unprecedented grief, expectations for a human child subverted– and Ophel had noticed a change in him ever since. The beginnings of the rift began.

He had always tried to tell himself otherwise. 

Nothing else makes sense.