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Society galas in Minrathous are almost always thrown for the express purpose of political maneuvering and shady double-dealing. Atticus has managed to remain on the periphery of Tevinter's Great Game, which has required a certain amount of political maneuvering of his own; it takes work to remain so purposefully neutral and respectable amongst all quarters--though he does find that having all of one's colleagues suspect him of his father's murder helps.

Tonight he is accompanied by his wife, Ophelia, and their teenage son, Octavius. Ophelia is as poised and elegant as the wife of a magister ought to be; Octavius can't quite wrest his eyes away from the canapés, but that's to be expected of a boy his age.

Atticus pays him little attention. He's here to bear witness to some exquisite bit of political subterfuge executed by the Artemaeus family, and to provide a bit of subtle back-up if required.

As can be generally assumed, Benedict is bored out of his mind. Even being fawned over endlessly by his many potential matches gets tedious, and he has rather unceremoniously broken away from one such conversation, turning around and waving her off mid-sentence so he can go acquire more wine.
It's now that he catches sight of his soon-to-be mentor, and strolls over to him, languidly swishing the wine in his goblet and offering a lazy smile. He's tipsy and not especially concerned about showing it.
"Evening," he greets, his eyes flitting over the magister's family, "have you come to watch the slaughter?" By this of course he means his parents' constant posturing, asserting themselves as the region's dominant family, not that anyone really doubts it.

Having noted Benedict's approach, Atticus turns away from him and goes about refilling his goblet of wine. This wouldn't be perceived as a slight; he's been introduced to his future protégé already (enough to know that fortifying his flagging patience with alcohol is prerequisite for dealing with him).

It's his wife who greets Benedict first, granting him a clear smile that manages to be genuine without quite reaching her eyes. "I didn't realize this was going to be that kind of party. I hope we aren't distracting you from your guests." Her eyes travel past Benedict to the slighted young woman who fumes at the back of his head, looking a hair's breadth away from throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the gala.

"I'll dance with her," Octavius hopefully volunteers.

"You will not," Atticus counters. While his son scowls, the magister turns back to greet his latest apprentice properly, inclining his head in a nod. "Good evening, Benedict."

"It's always that kind of party," Benedict replies with a derisive laugh, taking a sip from his wine and looking around. "I don't need distraction, I need them to stop talking to me."
With his free hand he pushes his hair back, lovingly coiffed and shiny as polished onyx. "Good luck with that," he says to Octavius, pointedly taking in his clothing and grooming choices, though he doesn't comment. ...verbally, anyway.

Under Benedict's vivisecting stare, Tavi self-consciously straightens his robes. His parents wouldn't have let him into the gala without ensuring his look was on pointe; still, he can barely be more than thirteen or fourteen, and his life in Qarinus has insulated him from much of what society in Minrathous has to offer. Namely, viper-like company like Benedict's.

Graceful, Ophelia rests a hand against her son's shoulder. Her gaze on Benedict grows crystalline and cold, but her smile doesn't fade. Still, one might suggest not provoking her temper; she will be the lady of the house when Benedict has occasion to visit Qarinus with his new mentor.

Atticus's eyes are well beyond the exchange, instead following Calpurnia as she makes her poised, shark-like progress through the room. She has a target in her sights; Atticus just can't discern who it is yet. "I wasn't clear," he begins in a deceptively mild tone of voice, "who our hosts were this evening."

"I gave you the invitation," Ophelia notes quietly. "Didn't you read it?"

In response, Atticus drains a liberal amount of wine from his goblet. Clearly not.

If Benedict notices Ophelia's stare, he doesn't show it beyond smiling blithely back at her-- he's probably too buzzed to notice even the minute social cues he'd normally see and ignore anyway.
"Magister Pavus," he replies easily, "trying to wiggle his way back into favor now that Dorian's gone turncoat." Swish swish goes his wine. "I hear it's not the only thing he's tried to turn, if you catch my meaning."

Atticus barely disguises the look of distaste on his face--not that he brooks any moral objection to Magister Pavus' choice to do what he will with his wayward son, but to leverage blood magic to do so put a foul taste in his mouth. He briefly considers the extent to which he'd be willing to interfere with Octavius' life to prevent him from engaging in similar behavior, and decide very little. Drawing undue attention to the aberration only enhances the scandal.

And blood magic is, for his own reasons, an unacceptable avenue to pursue.

"I believe I do, Master Aremaeus," Ophelia replies genially and takes a small sip from her wine.

The party continues on for some time; Ophelia makes the rounds to those of her colleagues and acquaintances who are present, with Tavi tagging along beside her putting his best foot forward so as to not shame his mother, or his ever distant, somewhat frightening father. Atticus joins them for a time, then withdraws to one of the ornamental bookshelves lining the walls of the main gala hall. The titles are all the trite nonsense you'd expect to find at an event like this.

At some point, he determines that if he doesn't speak more than a few sentences to Benedict this whole evening, he'll end up slighting the boy and inviting irksome scandal into his life. So he approaches Benedict again, at whatever cluster of people he's joined, and waits until an appropriate moment to speak to him.

"I understand you're to be joining our household before the end of the season."

Benedict is at a point where he's unlikely to perceive any slights subtler than a slap in the face. When Atticus finds him again, he's in a group of young men around his own age, propped languidly against a pillar and maintaining relative silence while they discuss and dissect the female partygoers.
When addressed from his other side, Benedict seems almost glad for the distraction, and turns toward Atticus with a smile that pretends to be polite but is in fact mostly drunk and ingratiating.
"You understand right," he all but slurs, lifting his glass as though in a toast, "I hope your staff is prepared to meet my mother's standards."

"I hope your staff is prepared to meet my mother's standards."

This stupid boy could beggar all of Orlais with his near-sighted capacity for self-indulgence. Atticus can barely stomach it, and so decides not to. For the moment.

"Our staff? ...Oh," he begins, his thin eyebrows climbing quite high on his forehead. He does a good job of performing 'mild, chagrined shock' even though no part of him feels it. "Oh, I thought you had been informed about the living arrangements of my apprentices." His eyebrows draw together into a deep furrow and he shakes his head, murmuring another, troubled, 'oh dear' under his breath.

It takes the boy a moment to recognize the tonal shift, and his smile drifts away, his expression becoming slightly wary. "...what?"

The look Atticus gives Benedict is the closest approximation that he can conjure to pitying. "Our staff don't service the apprentices' barracks." Yes, barracks--you heard that right, Benedict. Dormitory living--you, and perhaps twelve other snivelling spoilt wretches just like you, washing your own clothes, making your own beds, perhaps even boiling your own water for a cup of tea. Here it is, the edge of civilization--you've reached it.

He goes on with an idle gesture of his wine glass. "I think you will enjoy the apprentices' lodge. It's charmingly rustic, complete with a view of the lake. The bath house is but a short walk down hill."

He takes a fortifying sip of his wine.

Benedict's smile falters further, and it's totally gone when he fixes Atticus with an incredulous, affronted stare.
"You're joking," he replies, an edge of panic in his voice, and then casts his eyes about for wherever his parents are sinking their talons at the moment. He'll find them, they'll fix it.

Feigning confusion, Atticus replies quietly with, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Before Benedict can sputter additional protests at him, Atticus makes his apologies and abandons his latest protégé to his despair, joining Ophelia on one of the many elaborate balconies overlooking the city of Minrathous. She gives him a suspicious look that he patently ignores, instead collecting a new glass of wine from a passing tray.

[ Beleth does not particularly want to meet with Benedict in his gross cell, so he gets to have a field trip to the garden, accompanied by some Templar or another. I don't know which one. Maybe it's Ser Gareth, who's been a bit grumpy since he found out there is now two mages with his name running around here.

In any case, there are two chairs and a little side table with a tea set awaiting him, with Beleth sitting in one of the chairs. She gestures to the chair, a polite smile on her face. ]

Benedict Artemaeus, correct? Would you like some tea?

[Ser Gareth is a grumpy gus. He's been getting disrespected all over lately, and today is no exception, because Benedict is about as respectful as a wet cat. At least he's learned not to talk much as he's herded from the dungeon to the garden, a place he's really come to dread now that it seems to represent being given brief and unpleasant doses of freedom just long enough to remind him that he can't have it.

He slumps into the chair across from her, the Templar's hand on his shoulder to keep him there. It's not a secret that he's rude to elves, and nobody needs this going south.]

Correct, [he says drearily, and gives a slumping shrug to her question. Tea. What a stupid thing to want, nowadays.]

[ She's heard...a number of unpleasant things about Benedict. And they're probably all completely true. But with him just sitting in front of her, looking depressingly...resigned. It's hard not to feel bad for him--particularly in light of what she's learned from Atticus and Petrana. ]

It's nice to finally meet you. I am Beleth Ashara, Scoutmaster of the Inquisition.

[ She gives him a polite nod, then gestures to Ser Gareth, and then the tea. Nothing happens. She gestures again, a little more intensely, with a pointed look. Eventually, the ever downtrodden Ser Gareth moves to reluctantly poor the tea for them, giving Beleth a withering look. She'd be worried about him talking to his superiors, if she didn't fucking hate the Seekers.

So, she hands the cup of tea off to Benedict, completely ignoring Ser Gareth and the looks he was giving her. ]

You know, you came up in conversation when we were questioning your mentor. He's a bit of an ass, isn't he?

[Benedict has lost weight since his arrival, and is unusually sensitive to the chill in the air. He holds his arms defensively around himself, staring dully at the elf, barely glancing to the Templar and then the tea.]

Is it magebane, [he asks, deadpan.] I've had it already today. [Sometimes they don't pay attention, and he gets it twice, and spends the day almost too sluggish to move.]

What? [ She furrows her brows, and quickly shakes her head. ] No, it's just mint, with some elfroot. [ She takes a sip of her own tea, like that would do anything to her, if it was magebane. ]

...Are you cold? Do you want a...coat, or a sweater...?

[ This isn't going as expected. She was supposed to have a meaningful chat, and now she's just fretting over him. But. This is really sad. ]

[He looks down at it disinterestedly, but picks up the tea and inhales the steam nonetheless. It's good to smell something nice, even if it's just water.]

Yes. [Might as well be honest, no beating around the bush here. It's rare enough that his requests are heeded, if someone is asking a direct question he might as well take the opportunity.]

[ Well, she can't fault him for honesty. The only tricky part is that she can't send Ser Gareth off for a coat or sweater, and leave her alone with Benedict--even if he looks pathetic enough at this point that she's pretty sure he's not much of a threat. So, instead, she pulls out her crystal, muttering into it, than stashing it away again.

Having accomplished that, she turns to Benedict, and smiles. ]

So, I've heard that you've been speaking to one of my scouts, Kithan Gandir. I hope that he's been treating you well?

[ And Kostos, but she's not going to bother asking how that went. She can only imagine. ]

[Watching the crystal with narrowed eyes, Benedict seems perplexed by it. Completely ignoring Beleth's question, he nods toward it.]

What's that?

[ Beleth blinks, looking a little surprised, but obligingly draws out the crystal again, holding it up for him to see. ]

It's a sending crystal. You can use it to speak to others who also have crystals--for example, I just asked one of my scouts to fetch you something warm. They're very useful. A stash of them had been found deep within Skyhold, I'm told...?

[Benedict is incredulous, vaguely interested, but he has larger concerns.]

That sounds fake, [he decides, perhaps just to be contrary.]

[ Beleth blinks at him, then shrugs, unconcerned. ]

Well, you're welcome to believe whatever you want.

[ It's not like he's going to be getting one anytime soon anyway, so. Whether or not he believes it doesn't exactly affect anything.

In the meantime, a scout--some scout or another, maybe there's a Scout Gareth to complete the trifecta--comes up to Beleth with a sweater, and leaves. She promptly hands it over Benedict. It's no fashion statement, but it's sturdy and fairly comfortable, and most importantly: warm. ]

Let me know if that fits.

[That suits him fine. Benedict watches her dully until the scout appears, wrinkles his nose at the sweater, and then puts it on anyway. This is a far removal from how he'd react to something so garish at home, but... well, he's far removed from home.]

It fits, [he says defeatedly.]

[ He doesn't seem to happy, but--Well. There's not a whole lot she can do. Not like she can get away with importing a high-fashion Tevinter coat (if she even wanted to. Which. She didn't). ]

I'm glad. So, Benedict. Tell me about where you're from, in Tevinter.

[ He's dodged--or more accurately, ignored--all her questions so far. Maybe he'll be more interested in talking if it's just about him. Or about his home. ]

[He wouldn't want it anyway, not if he's just going to go back in the cell. What a waste that would be.]

Minrathous, [he says dully. After a pause, he glances at her for several moments then pointedly away, subtly rolling his eyes.] You wouldn't do well there.

[ Beleth raises an eyebrow calmly. So here is the attitude that drove everyone else up the wall. Not that she would have stuck him in a dungeon, drugged and underfed and cold, for it. Unless it was worse, before all of that. ]

I dare say that you're correct. There's a reason my people don't venture far north. Is that where you were staying, before you...came south?

[It was... about the same, really. Perhaps worse because he had more spirit and less fear.]

Minrathous? Yes. My family lives there. [He talks to the table.]

[ He's not making it easy, is he. Beleth would probably just send him off at this point, if it didn't make her feel so guilty to do so. Maybe she should have just gone and conducted this in the dungeon, after all. ]

Your family? Tell me about them. Do you have any siblings? Do you usually live with your mother and father?

[ This part, at least, could be vaguely useful. ]

[Her efforts are transparent, and it's pathetic. Benedict lifts his cold stare to meet Beleth's eyes, making no effort to mask his loathing.]

I have no siblings. I lived with my mother and father, before I was put under your keep and left there.

[ Beleth meets his stare calmly, a polite smile on her face. That guilt she'd felt at sending him back to the dungeon evaporates, and Beleth suddenly understands why few have any issue with his treatment. Turning her eyes from him, she gestures to Ser Gareth, who is probably relieved she's finally reached the end of her patience. ]

Well, far be it from me to keep you here. Let me know if you need any more sweaters or blankets, or if anyone has unduly mistreated you.

[ She takes a moment to finish her tea, sets it down, and then back to Benedict, with that same smile. ]

You're dismissed.

[ Still, she supposes, he hasn't done anything wrong, besides be obnoxious. And if that were a crime in and of itself, she'd have half the Gallows put away. ]

Wait,

[The fear washes back in the moment Beleth dismisses him. Back down into the darkness, the cold, the smell;]

I can...

[What can he do? He's stalling and they both know it.]

....I can answer more questions.

[ And just like that, the guilt sinks back in, settling in her gut. Ugh. Ughhh. Is she being ridiculous? Heartless? Too sensitive? Why can't he just be smugly confident like Atticus, so she doesn't have to feel so bad. ]

Ah--Alright, if you'd like to, certainly.

[ She places her hands together, thinking a few moments. He didn't seem fond of the personal questions, so-- ]

As you noted, I've never been to Minrathous before. Tell me about it. How big is it?

Huge.

[He answers quickly, rashly, his enthusiasm genuine if only because cooperating means he gets to stay outside a little longer.]

Spires and shops and-- and color everywhere, flags and things. Very clean. It's kept clean. Around our estate anyway.

[ This is terrible. He's so eager to avoid going back, but she'll have to do it eventually. He can't just live in the garden--probably. Petra might take issue with that. ]

Is there a lot of nature in the city? Trees, flowers, things like that. Kirkwall barely has any, it's so dreary. I don't know how people stand it.

[ Part of her wants to ask about the situation of the elves there, if there are alienages--or if there are even enough free elves for that. But she doubts she wants to hear the answer, and she knows she doesn't want to hear it from him. ]

No, I mean-- some, not like the wilderness.

[That's probably a given, but continuing to talk is important at the moment.]

Gardens. We have a big garden, with a swan pond and flowers and things. I haven't ever been to the public ones.

[ She opens her mouth to talk about how lovely that sounds, how she would love Kirkwall to have such a public garden--and then promptly closes it again. ]

--That garden, with the swan pond...is your family's? No one else uses it?

...Is that normal in Minrathous?

[ What the FUCK. ]

[He looks at her strangely.]

Yes, it's ours. People can't just wander onto the estate.

[ Now they can both be baffled, at least. ]

...What do you do, with all that space that's just for you? Do you grow things, or have animals--besides swans.

[ Do they eat the swans? Swans are a lot of hassle for not a lot of meat, but maybe it's a Minrathous delicacy? ]

[Of course a Dalish wouldn't know. Bene's eyes flit over the markings on Beleth's face as though confirming it to himself; some elves would know how things work, but clearly not the savage ones.]

The gardeners take care of it. And grow flowers and things. [All decorative, farming is for the poors.]

It's for walking around. And looking at.

[ Decorative gardens aren't beyond Beleth's understanding, she's seen plenty by now. But they were all open to the public, for taking walks with your friends, picnics, people watching. The idea that she's having trouble wrapping her head around, is why someone would make one of those, and then forbid anyone but their family from enjoying it.

She doesn't miss the way he looks at her face, though it's hard to tell if it's her tattoos, or maybe her eyes, or maybe he just thinks that she looks nice. Or ugly.
The look on his face isn't particularly positive. ]

Well, I suppose...it might be nice to have a private place to take your friends? So you can enjoy the scenery, and each other's company, without having to worry about other people ruining the moment...?

[ She's trying to understand, here. ]

I joined the Northern Powers project. Just so that you're aware.

[a heavy sigh.]

Of course you did.

Presumably we can coordinate to avoid any identity confusion.

Besides which, I can hardly keep an eye on you if I'm not around.

You.... make a reasonable point.

That happens from time to time.

If I asked you what really happened between you and those Templars, would you tell me?

[A brief message in a spidery but well-practiced hand has found its way into the hands of everyone in the newly-rechristened Hostile Powers project. None of this newfangled magical book business.]

In light of recent events abroad, their ongoing implications, and the necessary narrowing of our focus as a project, your input is requested at a project-wide conference that will be held via crystal at eight o'clock Tuesday evening.

Please let me know if you are unable to listen in. Minutes will be made available to those who cannot.

--Enchanter Vandelin, Assistant Project Leader

I would speak with you, if you have a moment.

Would you?

....about what?

Tevinter.

[more soberly,] ...all right.

I intend... I intend to attempt to retake my seat.

Really?

Yes. It seems... Pertinent.

So... what is it you want from me?

Discretion. Your family knows of me and where I am and you know of the attempt on my life. I would not ask more from you.

I haven't heard from my family since we left Minrathous. [It comes out defensive, even if he doesn't mean it that way.]

...my discretion is yours.

[At least until something comes along to fuck it up, but no need to count dragons before they hatch.]

[ Hanzo says nothing for a long moment, before - ]

You'd be welcome, if you would like.

[ To help, as part of the family... Whatever he wants. Awkwardly. ]

I've got my own plans.

[One can almost hear the hair toss, the prickliness in his voice, so quick to rise despite having no real reason to be angry.]

As you say. [ Hanzo's not about to argue. ] I wished only to inform you.

Whatever sort of life it is that Atticus Vedici enjoys at remote Skyhold, it's doubtful news of it has journeyed back to Kirkwall. The specifics of it hardly matter, in any case; he has been provided a looser leash, but a cage is still a cage, and it is not freedom. The chains of policy and procedure still bind him, and not for the first time since he was subjected to the base indignity of a phylactery, Atticus has come to view his gamble with bitterness.

Thus, in dreams, he subverts his imprisonment, and spins nightmares for his jailers like silk.

But that dark impulse is not what brings him to the outskirts of Benedict's sleeping mind. As he lingers amid nebulous shape and shadow and observes the boy in his dreams, he devotes only some passing thought to his motivations. Is it curiosity alone? Boredom? Sentimentality?

(With Atticus? Who fucking knows.)

He picked a good time to visit, or possibly the worst time, depending. The setting is Benedict's childhood bedroom, with a gentle storm rolling outside and a very un-childlike scene transpiring on the bed: Benedict's hands are tied together and to the bedpost with colorful ribbons while someone lies between his legs, administering cheerfully to his nether region with their mouth.
Their face changes intermittently, sometimes an elf, sometimes not, but always a man, and Benedict moans softly and writhes with all the unabashed enjoyment of someone who is likely feeling the results on more than just the imaginary plane.

The carnal tableau is as uninteresting to Atticus here as it would have been in the physical world, save to inspire the same, dull sort of distaste in him that he has always felt when confronted with any overt display of sexuality. Like blood magic, it is self-indulgent to the point of mindless excess--though, unlike blood magic, it at least provides the ancillary benefit of balancing the humors.

He doesn't interrupt Benedict--not directly. Instead, he crosses the room absently towards one of the shuttered windows and yanks back the curtains. In dreams, the act amplifies the sudden flash of lightning and ensuing clap of thunder that follows; the rain picks up in earnest, lashing itself against the glass with fury enough to leave suspicious, claw-like scratches rather than rivulets of water.

"You always were a tedious disappointment."

The lightning startles him as intended, and everything changes very quickly, but not dramatically. Looking around, Benedict gasps deeply when his gaze lands on Atticus-- it's a face he hasn't seen in some time, and which has never been welcome. Abruptly he becomes aware that the person below his waist is Octavius, whose attentions he now desperately wishes would cease. Tugging at the ribbons, he finds that they've become rusty chains, which pinch his wrists familiarly, calling to mind what he was forced to wear in Kirkwall's dungeon.

"Oh no," he whimpers, glancing frantically from Octavius to Atticus, "no no no--"

Octavius' face is--unexpected. Atticus stares back at his son, whose startled expression must be a mirror of Benedict's own; it's intolerable, watching him debase himself like this, even knowing that his presence at all is the work of Benedict's imagining.

It is undoubtedly a projection of his own will that has Octavius remove himself from the bed with more dignity and composure than the boy likely possesses in life. Atticus wills him to dress himself with his back turned, then turns an incising stare on Benedict where he remains pathetically chained. He raises his eyebrows, unsympathetic. "No?" he repeats, slowly approaching the bedside, and if behind him the rain hurls itself with even more terrifying intensity against the glass, Atticus doesn't bother to temper it. The howl of the wind sounds more like a pained moan.

He leans in and seizes hold of the chain still attached to the bed frame. "This is a cage of your own making. Why protest against it now?"

(He's speaking to himself more than he realizes--Benedict is just an effective lightning rod.)

In theory, Benedict could will all of this back to how it was; but one of them is a somniari, and the other is not. He's at the mercy of the stronger influence, and thus he remains naked and chained, now without Octavius or anything distracting him from the monster in the room.
Needless to say, any enjoyment he was feeling-- or showing-- has effectively vanished.

"I did what I had to," he frantically insists, giving a fruitless tug at his bonds, "I couldn't spend my life in a cell!"

[ When Benedict — at some point, presumably — wakes, he'll find that he's received a terribly mysterious written invitation to meet with the dwarven owner of an extensive private library. A stranger (terrible, mysterious) may already be waiting.

Benedict doesn't have to actually accept the invitation. Not intentionally. Should he ignore or otherwise attempt to circumvent its summons, a chain of coincidences (terrible, mysterious, you get it by now) and suspiciously well-timed accidents will load the dice to get him there roughly on time.

The invitation is beautifully calligraphed, and requests that Benedict’s inestimable expertise be lent to reviewing the accuracy of translated diary pages, said to have been written by a Tevene scholar known for his studies of dragons. This is true: The diary pages are almost certainly authentic. They are also almost certainly lewd fanfiction about dragon furries.

It’s quite a nice library, though the collection is focused exclusively upon bizarre erotica. Their host will "accidentally" lock them in for an hour, but not before providing wine and cheese.

OOC Note: Val is played by Cee. Feel free to play out a thread, handwave things, or ignore it entirely, but check with each other first! ❤ ]

[ Hours after Benedict had come to him Hanzo has him still, but the time has been spent idly. The other man had been weak from the dragons, broken from the ache, and all Hanzo could do was pick him up and lift him into his bed, waiting. Over time his eyes had slipped closed, Kenji and Tomo hovering as a kind of guard as he dozed.

Waking now is slow and uneasy and Hanzo has to stop himself moving too much. Benedict is in his arms how, his own wrapped around him as he keeps him right against his chest, fingers brushing idly where they lay. He’d be embarrassed if he cared enough, but he’s had his share of drunken nights and. Well. Benedict might be more embarrassed.

Huffing a soft noise against his neck, Hanzo waits. ]

[It's been the sleep of the exhausted and miserable, longer than a nap has any right to be, yet something direly needed. The sun is nearly down when his eyes finally open again, an ache in the core of his body causing him to curl inward-- and then he notices the arm around him.
It's nothing to panic over, not yet; he rolls onto his back with a sleepy sigh and is only a little perplexed to see Hanzo there.]

[ It’s easy to feel as Benedict comes to, the shift of his body as he wakes up and realises where he is. For a long moment Hanzo just waits to see what he’s going to do, to see if he’s going to flee or make himself comfortable, hovering just a little before he breathes out. He’s sure Benedict can feel some of the tension relaxing from the body behind him as Hanzo holds him just a little tighter.

He’s too tired for an argument right now. ]

Don’t move too much. It will hurt.

[Trying to lift his head is all the proof that Bene needs, and he lays it back again with a wince, pressing a hand over his abdomen. Being held thus is strange, but it's nice, especially when one is feeling as weak as he is, and another long sigh is indication enough that he has no intention of going anywhere.]

When did I fall asleep, [he murmurs, not entirely bothered by whatever the answer is.]

[ That is acceptable as far as Hanzo is concerned. He holds onto Benedict because he sees no reason to let go - the embrace is nice and he’s dozy, half-asleep and prepared in case the other man decides to run. It’s odd, considering, to feel this comfortable, but he simply hums against him before he replies. ]

Not long after. The effect of the dragons can be exhausting. [ Hanzo does have some regrets. He knows Benedict wished to be hurt, but in his anger... ] It will take time.

Mm.

[Hanzo's arm over him puts pressure where he wishes it wouldn't, so Benedict puts his hand over it, gently guiding it upward to lay over his sternum instead of his middle.]

My mother wrote to me at last, [he murmurs, perhaps on the edge of explaining his strange outburst.]

[ He doesn't force his arm to stay where it is; Hanzo allows Benedict to move him, holding him gently in the new position, fingers splayed just so. ]

I knew something happened. [ He remembers Benedict's mother. ] You do not have to tell me.

I don't know if they've returned to our home. [Strangely, it doesn't sound like he much cares.] Things are hard in Minrathous.

[A long pause, and then,] they've sold my... [it sounds stupid for a grown man to say 'nanny'] ...the woman who raised me.

Yes. I have heard some things, but... [ Hanzo frowns, careful, fingers still moving before -

ah. He can appreciate that, at least; he saw less and less of his father and more of servants as he grew older. ]

Do you blame yourself?

No.

[Here arises a series of complicated feelings, accompanied by thoughts he'd simply rather not have. Resting his hand loosely over his mouth, Benedict scowls at the ceiling and contemplates for several moments before answering.]

I think... [haltingly,] ...Mother is angry with me.

Good. The blame is not yours.

[ Hanzo reaches up, absently, covering Benedict's hand with his own lightly. ]

Mothers are often irritated with their children. I remember mine being much the same.

[Benedict has to think on it for a moment. He can't recall his mother ever being openly angry with him, just as he can't recall her ever being openly pleased with him-- fond of him, interested in him at all. To be treated like an associate who has displeased her is the logical explanation, but that only makes things harder.]

...I don't know why. [He knits his brow unhappily.] I don't know what I can do about it.

[ He sighs, softly. It's one of those things he imagines someone from outside of Tevinter cannot understand. ]

What would you like to do about it?

[Another period of silence, Benedict lying still and attentive to the ceiling, his lips pursed in uncomfortable contemplation.]

...I... have to get her back.

Then find her. I will buy her and free her and she will be back.

There's a knock at the door. On the other side of it, Colin looks damp and red-eyed, as if he has been crying.

Hardly looking much better himself, Benedict opens the door. He's clothed in a fancy robe, his own eyes red, but whether it's from weeping or the scented smoke wafting out of the room is anyone's guess.
He doesn't say anything yet, just staring at Colin knowingly.

Colin's first instinct is to lean in for a hug, but in doing so, his head moves a little, enough to brush a kiss against Benedict's cheekbone. Why? He doesn't think he could bear another clutching embrace with a hard cry. He's drained and numb. He needs to feel something else now. Anything else.

The motion takes Benedict somewhat by surprise, but perhaps only because his mental faculties aren't running at full capacity. He catches Colin, stumbling a step back, and pulls him inside, where the smoke is thick and hazy over the lavish decorations.

The telltale hookah rests on the floor, one hose attached, and Bene is careful not to knock it over as he guides Colin toward the bed.

The smoke is a peculiar comfort, relaxing him despite the nature of what is happening. Colin sits down hard on the edge of the bed and pulls Benedict down into a kiss, deep and passionate as he has imagined. Warm and slick, tongues and lips seeking and devouring, while his knees open and he begins to lean back, pulling Benedict down with him.

Being taller than Colin means Benedict doesn't quite fit in a sensible way over on top of him, but he uses it as an excuse to slide downward, sinking onto his knees on the floor as his hands untuck the other man's shirt and slide beneath the fabric.

He's not disrobing him yet, not entirely, but looks up into his face with shimmering, smoke-clouded eyes. He's ready when Colin is.

Just the touch of hands under his shirt sends a thrill through Colin, but underneath, he is nervous. Benedict is waiting patiently for him to give him a sign to proceed, which tells him he was a good choice for this. After a second, Colin sits up and reaches for the hookah, drawing a deep breath from it. Setting it aside, he reaches for the hem of his own shirt and draws it up over his head to cast it on the floor. Lying back, he gives Benedict a nod of consent, watching him through his eyelashes.

A little smirk crosses Benedict's face when Colin partakes of the hookah, and rather than have him put it all the way back down, he takes a puff from it first: this results in a stream of smoke pouring from his nose and mouth as he undoes the fly of Colin's trousers, tugging at the waist to loosen them somewhat and free his intended target.

Then there's a warm hand gripping it, and a tongue sliding up its length, taking his time.

There's a deep tension, fingers digging into Benedict's hair, pulling more than a little, but Colin breathes. Slow. Careful. And he never stops watching, taking in Benedict's features, the color of his hair, the attentiveness he shows. Gradually, the tension eases, and his knees draw up to bracket Benedict's head. It feels good. It feels better than good. The hands in Benedict's hair go from pulling to gently scratching his scalp, encouraging him as much as he can. For whatever reason, he can't make noises even now, in private and with no risk of any jailers walking in on them. The only sound is his breath growing quicker and heavier.

Until, at least, his head drops back, and a pitched sigh escapes him. It finally feels like this is real, and he's having sex like a normal person.

For what it's all worth, Benedict does seem to be enjoying himself, and taking pleasure in the act on its own; perhaps he's not good at many things, but, well, here's one.
Mother might not be too proud, but she doesn't have to know.

Sensing that he's yielding the right results, he smiles faintly, stopping for a moment to gather a spare handkerchief from his dresser, which he holds in his free hand in preparation for Colin to finish.
...he just isn't able to have the sheets washed as often as he'd like. Times are hard.

He can feel that he's about to finish, but seeing Benedict prepare for it causes a sudden spike of doubt that verges on panic. He finds himself tugging Benedict's hair to pry him away from his task.

"Stop," he gasps, sitting up and trying to pull Benedict into a kiss.

The protest seems to come from far away, and Benedict is slow as he leaves off what he's doing. He blinks at Colin in mild confusion, but meets the kiss readily enough, rising from his knees to crawl a little ways forward onto the bed for balance.

Colin takes the chance to lift Benedict's shirt over his head and cast it aside. He leans away to rummage through his trouser pockets on the floor before pulling something out of them. He kisses Benedict again while a hand slips into the other man's trousers, slick with something, and begins to stroke him firmly.

It's one of those things where-- cruel as it may be to admit it, Benedict really didn't think Colin had it in him. But he clearly does, to a near alarming point, and Bene makes a little sound of surprise at the feeling of Colin's hand down his pants.
Not that he's protesting, he just hadn't expected anything so forthright.

The sound changes to something like a sigh, his hips tensing and drawing nearer to the man above him.

The motions are fierce, and Colin nearly goes further with it until that little sound of surprise sinks in, and suddenly he jerks away. His hands flatten against the bed and he looks appalled, eyes wide.

"Is that...was that all right? Did you, do you want that?"

Because as bad as it would be to be victimized again, the worst thing he can think of would be to become the victimizer.

Benedict is just as shocked as Colin is, and stares up at him with sudden silent horror, afraid that he saw something, or... that he himself did something??

"What?" he asks, his voice a little higher than usual. "...yes??"

After a frozen, trembling moment, Colin finds himself pressing Benedict into the mattress, pulling his pants down and casting them aside. He goes back to stroking him, while offering an open bottle of oil to him.

"Hold out your hand," he says, eyes focused intently on Benedict's face. Keep looking at his face. Keep track of who he is. "Please."

Still a little lost, but nonetheless here for it, Benedict does as requested and holds out his hand. In the meantime, he glances over Colin, quirking a little smile back up at his face as he does: whatever the case, he seems like he's still doing all right.

Colin tips the bottle of oil into Benedict's hand, just a little before he's putting it back down. There's a second's hesitation, as he is torn between what he wants and what he fears. His hand leaves Benedict and flattens against the bed, giving himself support so he can straddle the other man.

"I want--" His voice catches, and he swallows and tries again. "I want you to finger me."

As the oil touches Benedict's hand, he begins to spread it around over his fingers, as one does, in a motion that's more automatic than intentional. He pauses when Colin speaks, and although he looks slightly surprised by the request, he nods silently, glancing him over and then beginning to blush.
This is farther than he's ever gone. "I, ah..." he begins, and murmurs, "...will you tell me how?"

[ Benedict isn't going to Nevarra. Oviously. He isn't going anywhere for some time. And the days everyone is away from the Gallows, leaving the courtyards and dining halls quiet and empty for the few people staying behind, probably won't feel more or less lonely to Benedict than any other day. And he might not even know what day it is or when the holiday is occurring.

But in case Bastien, like, dies, or something, and never comes back to Kirkwall, and leaves him giftless forever, he's doing it before they leave. So. ]

Hello.

[ There's a book under his arm. It isn't wrapped or anything. ]

[Benedict is lying on the floor when Bastien arrives, staring at the ceiling, though he angles his head to observe the visitor. He looks a little out of it, like he’s been focusing hard and was interrupted.]

Hello.

[He’s still cautiously interested, at least.]

[ That's something. Bastien smiles a faint smile—one with a little pity in it, but not too much pity. The first rule of betraying nearly everyone Bastien knows to help a country invading his homeland is at least be good at it. ]

Most of us will be gone for Satinalia. So I have your gift early.

[ He turns the book out from where it's tucked, displaying the cover: Tales of the Destruction of Thedas, by Brother Genitivi. (It's much thicker and much more detailed than twelve codex entries, of course.) ]

Cheerful, light reading.

A gift?

[Benedict sits up, perplexed, trying not to be excited.]

I can’t have—

[He pauses.]

It’s Satinalia?

Nearly.

[ He takes a guess where that line of questioning is headed. ]

It is not a prank. [ He flips it open to display the pages, which aren’t glued together or blank or anything of the sort. ] Someone put your name in for our gift exchange, and I spoke with the leaders—

[ One leader. ]

—and you can have a book. If you do not vandalize it or try to bludgeon anyone with it, I will see if we can trade it for another in a few weeks.

Really??

[His excitement is palpable, his eyes suddenly brimming as he gets to his feet and rushes to the bars. There has never been a more grateful face.]

I can? It’s not a trick? Really?

[If Bastien gets too close, he risks being kissed.]

[ As much as Bastien loves unwashed Tevinter prisoners, he’s not wild about mages, leashed somehow or not. He keeps his distance. But he holds the book out close enough to be reached, and if Benedict goes for it he won’t even do the teasing jerk out of reach thing. Not once. That’s practically a second gift. ]

I am trusting you, [ he says, which is more of a warning than a compliment, ] to not make me look like an idiot for arguing this was a good idea.

[Taking the book, Benedict shakes his head quickly, already almost too enthralled by being allowed such an object to assure Bastien he won’t be an idiot.]

Thank you, [he says after a moment, turning toward him with the book held to his chest.]

I just— thank you.

Benedict,

I've been forbidden, in no uncertain terms, from seeing you. This letter is goodbye, since Flint won't let me say goodbye in person.

If you keep resting and do everything the healers tell you to do, you shouldn't be long recovering. When you go back to your cell, make sure you stay close to your brazier and take deep breaths of warm air. I'm sorry this is our lot now. I hope you make another friend soon so that you can still have a visitor, but I think you'll be fine. You're capable of everything you need to be. This might even be good for you, having me out of the way.

I know I promised I would tell you when you would see me next, but that's not possible right now. I'm sorry.

Be strong and don't give up.

Colin

The staff is a limb, and an afterthought.

It was a precious liability to bring it along their flight North. Too near a sign of what they are. Abandoned back in camp, it might have slowed pursuit — at least a little. Can imagine: She'd never leave without it,

And she didn't, did she? Only that it was all a lot of work for what's been sitting wrapped in the rags from the haycart for going on weeks. There's been no reason to remove them. No one really needs a staff in peace.

The summer sun pools into lines of earth and hedge, swallowed up save for the sudden gleam of something sharper. Planted criss-cross in a row of the garden, Alais carefully strips the stave of its wrapping, reveals the hard geometry of onyx-polished lines.

Unmistakably expensive work, and all the more unmistakably Tevene.

Edited (too many adjectives) 2020-07-11 06:28 (UTC)

She'll feel eyes on her before she hears anything, because Benedict goes stock-still when he sees it. He's behind Alais, wheelbarrow full of mulch in front of him, it's squeaking wheel falling silent when he connects the dots.

The question in his mind: what is a Tevene staff-- and mage?-- doing in the garden where he works, and should he run before she notices him.

For a moment it’s a stupid little test of wills — or whatever you call the opposite. Alais sits stock in place, aware of his presence, and just as clearly hesitating to turn.

The pads of her fingers dig in sharp, pricked not to blood (what an awful idea that would be), but the imprint of shape. She turns,

Feels a bit stupid for it: Flushed cheeks, and the ragged shape of a gardener; and who else did she expect to find in a garden, anyway?

“Did you need the path …?”

As though she can’t think of any better reason to stare.

The path is clear, and that is clearly not the case.
And Benedict is a shit liar.

He shakes his head, and, with the girl now turned towards him, he at least can see that she isn't angry or about to slit her wrist and hex him to death.

"...where'd you get that?" He nods toward the staff.

And there it is —

Not the question, but the tongue behind it. What the Minrathousian upper crust is doing with a wheelbarrow in Kirkwall seems, you know, more relevant. Alais doesn't have a face composed for careful diplomacy; at the moment, she best resembles an owl presented with a particularly confusing rat. Head tipped one way, then the other,

"I brought it," Is stalling, really. "Are you...?"

What exactly.

He doesn't trust her owlish curiosity for an instant-- not with the way things have been, not how he left things with his home country.

"A gardener," he answers evasively, catching the lilt of her dialect as well. Not an Altus, at least, or at least not one he knows. There are always cousins and bastards that don't fit the mold but have their uses.

"Ohhhkay," To the tune of: I guess, alright. "Call me a shepherd."

As if this were some game of poor disguises. She waggles the staff — just a little, just the tip —

"Behold my crook."

He frowns. After a short pause, sighing through his nose, he relents.

"Minrathous," is all he says.

It's late evening, the time when normal folk would be bedding down for the night (and thus not a time that most of Riftwatch is actually sleeping because they're a bunch of nocturnal weirdos). Wherever Benedict happens upon her, he'll find that Athessa is rather intently staring at one particular stone in the wall, turning her head as if...listening.

Benedict is, like a normal well-adjusted person, actually heading to bed, but he nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Athessa just standing there and facing the wall where he wasn't expecting her.

"What are you doing!" he hisses, clasping a hand to his chest, "you scared the shit out of me, Athessa!"

"Sh-sh-shu-shush shush," she shushes, waving at him first side to side, then in a beckoning motion. She leans closer to the wall, close enough to touch her ear to its rough surface. "Listen."

Bene has seen Athessa when she's high, and this... this isn't quite High Athessa. This is a different beast, and he fears it intrinsically, but he also isn't going to tell it no. He gingerly leans closer to the wall, as instructed.

She's hearing it, is he hearing it too? Athessa listens for a few seconds, then looks at Benedict expectantly.

"Hear that? It's like uh—" She taps a rhythm on her palm with the fingers of her other hand, tum-tum, tum-tum, tum tum. "Like that."

His face already a mask of horror and bewilderment, Benedict shakes his head at her. He listens for a few seconds longer, and then something seems to click.

"Don't get used to this," he mutters, and steps closer to her, pressing the palm of his hand against her heart.
"Make the noise for me again."

All the fretting has melted away into something like irritation, but only because he knows how completely he was about to buy that there was a monster in the wall, and sometimes a guy just gets tired of himself.

Incredulity, confusion, dumbfoundedness, all great words to describe Athessa's feelings about Bene's hand over her heart. Does he know he's practically touching her boob? She looks at him, at his hand, at him, his hand. But she slowly brings her own hands up to clap the rhythm softly. Tum-tum, tum-tum.

"What're you—?"

He knows, and is enjoying it about as much as she is.

"It's your own heart," he announces, lowering his hand with an unspoken 'you dumbfuck', "what did you do?"

From her perspective, it feels like Bene's hand is on her long enough to fuse there, and when he drops it she's pulled with it, if only slightly. Enough to shuffle a foot forward so as not to stumble. It's also enough, it seems, to hit the reset button on her train of thought, the heartbeat within the wall all but forgotten. When she blinks, it's fluttery, like her eyes are trying to fall into a deep sleep while her body has yet to receive that memo.

"What did I do when?"

"What did you-- take," he manages, but has already given up on the last word at the sight of her fluttering eyelids.

"I think it's time for bed." He places both hands on her shoulders, squinting into her face. "I'm taking you to your room."

"Ben," she says, which sounds close enough to bed to make sense to her. "Ben, Ben, I have to tell you."

She covers one of his hands on her shoulder with one of her own. "No matter how pretty your hair is, I'm just not your type."

"Ya think?" he snaps, and turns, looping his arm in hers to try conveying her toward the stairway.
"You're not sick, are you?" The question is half concern, half dread: if she vomits on him he's going to demand reparations.

Athessa laughs, and if he hadn't looped his arm with hers there's a good chance she would have just sagged down onto the floor beneath them.

"Pssshhhh, could a sick person do this?"

She does nothing.

Benedict glances her over suspiciously. "Do what?"

"Backflips. Am I not doing them?"

She is not, but she does start to precariously lean backwards.

He tightens his grip on her arm when she starts to lean.
"No, they look great," he replies in a deadpan, "come on, can you walk up the stairs?"

"Tch, of course I can," She says, but makes no progress to prove it. "I don't. Sleep good."

"I have a feeling you will tonight," he mutters, tugging her up the stairs as best he can.
"Did you eat or drink something? To help you sleep?"

If he gets accused of poisoning Athessa, he's not getting out of it alive.

"Isaac," is her explanation as he tugs and she ragdolls. "He gave me s'mth. No more'n a week," This, in a poor but recognizable impersonation, "and nooooooo drinking."

"Mm," is the sound Bene makes when he purses his lips, eyeing her uncertainly. He has a call to make right now, perhaps quite literally: he's not supposed to have a sending crystal, but he doesn't know what he's dealing with right now, and if Athessa suddenly projectile vomits and sends them both down the stairs to their deaths, he'll be blamed for it.

This is what he gets, for making friends.

So, gingerly, he feels at her neck for where the crystal hangs, and draws the pendant up towards his mouth while they slowly shuffle up the stairs.

"Isaac?"

Supposedly.

[ who tf is it he's busy ]

Athessa says you gave her something to help her sleep, but now she's listening to walls and stumbling around like an insane person.

Edited 2020-08-19 17:50 (UTC)

[ rude who r u callin insane ]

This place is trying really hard to be alive and you're just stepping on it.

[ sssigh ]

Get her to lie down. Tomorrow, tell her to stop taking it.

It won't hurt her?

[This is the main concern, but it's a good thing Isaac is being so blasé or Benedict would be more worried.]

--come on, pick up your feet.

Isaac made me hold a toxic toad once.

[mumbling,] you're a toxic toad.

[ imitating mumbling, ] you're a toxic baby.

I could drop you.

I could kill you.

And then fall down the stairs anyway-- pick up your feet--!!

Pick up yours.

ATHESSA,

[sounds of light scuffling, likely as he tries to both catch his own balance and make sure she keeps hers.]

[ they'll probably figure it out ]

WALNUT.

[ more scuffling ]

Don't you know how t'properly carry a body?

I've never had to!

[scuffle, then a pause as they catch their breath.]

...all right, one more.

One more what?

[defeatedly,] flight.

[ Uuuugh. ]

I need a nap. I'm gonna take a nap right here.

No--

no,

[ some incoherent whining about not being allowed to nap right here ]

Maybe I should carry you up the stairs.

[He's getting so frustrated that his voice cracks when he says:] Athessa PLEASE, COME ON.

Why are you being so meeeean to meeeee?

[ because it's totally mean to have someone try to make sure you sleep in your own bed instead of the hallway, right ]

When they have finally, finally ascended the staircase and Benedict has wrestled Athessa to her room, he elbows the door open, picks his way through the various kittens winding against his legs, and deposits her on her bed.

He's worked up quite a sweat, and stands there looking at Athessa like he might just smother her with a pillow now that she's here.

"Sleep," he commands, pointing at her.

Athessa sprawls on the bed, and might've just passed out were it not for that command. She blinks at his pointing hand, then reaches to grab it. Not his finger, but his hand or wrist, whichever she can get a hold on to pull him onto the bed with her.

"No--"

If he weren't trying so hard to keep from treading on a cat, Benedict might actually manage to keep his footing; but he is, so he doesn't. He topples across Athessa, catching himself on the opposite side of the bed with his hips resting over her stomach.

Taking a moment to get his bearings, he looks crossly over his shoulder at her.
"I'm not sleeping here," he remarks.

"Here," is all she says, patting the mattress next to her. Of course he's not going to sleep here, draped across her like that. Though he will have to move Ser Percival off of the pillow if he expects to use it.

He moves off her and over to the spot indicated, situating himself such that he can hang out here and keep an eye on her until she goes to sleep.
One idle hand moves to pet Ser Percival, because it's physically impossible and also illegal to have a cat in one's reach and not pet them.

For a few seconds after he situates himself, she keeps patting the mattress. But then she stops and wriggles a bit to find that perfect, comfortable spot and mumbles some explanation of the cat situation, incoherently waving towards the floor at Clever Lunete and Myria (or whoever that one is).

"S'Percival," she says, booping the named kitten's nose and getting playfully swatted at in return.

"Go to sleep," Bene says again, pawing halfheartedly at Athessa's face as if to make her eyes close. Stop fooling around!!

Mistake! Athessa gets hold of Bene's arm again, this time to hug his arm as if it's a teddy bear, pressing his palm against her cheek with a contented Hmm.

"You're the worst," Bene whines, but nonetheless allows this, doing his very best not to smile.

"I don't mean to be."

It's not any more coherent than what she's said before, but it's smaller, quieter, and a lot less silly.

That abruptly changes the mood. Benedict focuses on her, thoughtful, his hand on Percival stilling.

Then, rather than try to verbally reassure her in this state, he gently pulls his gripped hand free and scootches closer to wrap his arm around her instead. He rests his chin on the top of her head, feeling a bit like an idiot but, at the same time, knowing this is the right thing to do.

There's a familiar arrangement of limbs here that plays on her subconscious as she curls up against him. Face to his chest (hers), arms draped bonelessly around him (tracing the tattoo on her back), it's not close enough to do anything but tease out sensory memory.

She mumbles something else, but it's lost in his shirt and spoken in broken Elven anyway.

Athessa's bed is certifiably more comfortable than the one Bene sleeps in down in the public dorm, and there's a kitten purring next to his head, and it's warm with Athessa burrowing into him.
He's only been in a position like this a few times, but usually it was before or after something more happened, and it's strangely peaceful that the chances of it being complicated by such a thing are approximately zero.

He lets his eyes close, just for a second. Just until she falls asleep, he tells himself.

She, of course, doesn't remember falling asleep, or being dragged to her room, or Benedict diagnosing the drumming within the walls as her own silly heartbeat.

So she's a bit surprised when she wakes up cuddling with someone, and even more surprised by who it is.

"Wha—?"

At least they're both fully clothed, or this would've been about a million times more awkward.
Starting awake when Athessa speaks, Benedict blinks at her, then looks around, almost as surprised as she is. Then he sits up, pushing his hair back out of his face, and stretches out one long arm.

"Shit," he grunts.

Luckily when she rolls away from him and rubs the sleep from her eyes, her tone is more confused than accusatory. And yeah, it's good they've both got clothes on.

"What're you doin' in my room?"

Retreating off the other side, Bene stands up and rolls his head around on his neck to crack it.
"You were high as the void last night," he replies, "I brought you up here because you were talking to the wall."

That's easily enough explained, but: "...then, uh, you dragged me onto the bed with you. And I guess I fell asleep."

That does sound like something she'd do.

"I'm gonna kill Isaac."

Bene smirks.
"We talked to him too."

Athessa groans and scrubs at her whole face, not just her eyes. "Did I say anything embarrassing?"

"Um..." Bene considers, then ticks things off on his fingers.
"That the building was trying to be alive but we were stepping on it, something about a toxic toad, and then you tried to take a nap on the first landing and threw a fit when I wouldn't let you."

Phew. That, she can live with.

"Oh, well that's not too bad, then. Eugh, my mouth is so dry." With about as much grace as a ragdoll, Athessa clamors off the bed and to the pitcher of water on the table.

But there aren't any cups, so she has to squint around for those, first.

He could mention how cuddly she got, the little things she said when he was holding her, but perhaps that's best forgotten by both of them. He shakes his head with a smirk.

"Well I have to go to work," he says, a bit awkwardly, "tell Isaac hello for me, when you go kill him."

"Benedict sends his regards," she jokes, finally finding a cup and blowing into it to clean out any dust or cat hair or spiders. You know, normal things to find in a cup.

"Thanks for...you know. Lookin' out for me I guess."

The acknowledgment is strangely more awkward than the action itself. Benedict shrugs, smiles faintly, and has no idea what else to do.

"It's nothing," he says, dismissing it with a wave of his hand, "don't worry about it."

She pours and downs a cup of water, then pours another. Cotton-mouth is no joke.

"Okay then," she says, raising the second drink. "I guess I won't."

He makes an immature face at her, amusement in his eyes, and takes his leave. FINE

Benedict could be anywhere, so long as it’s somewhere settled, sitting or working, with the air of someone who intends not to move right away.

And while he’s there, Bastien appears briefly in his line of sight, points at him with a simultaneous finger-snap, ah-ha, and walks away.

Several minutes later, though he’s back with an armful of paper, neatly stacked and separated by blank broadsheets. “I keep forgetting,” he says without preamble, “because of—you know. The war.”

Bastien's initial greeting-- if that's what it was-- does nothing but puzzle Benedict, but it's quickly out of his mind when he goes back to his book; thus the much greater shock when Bastien returns with something he thought he'd never see again.

With a quiet intake of breath, Bene takes the paper, looking it over to find that it is, in fact, what he thinks it is.
"...you saved them," he breathes.

Bastien smiles, and he doesn’t say of course as if it were a given, because it wasn’t. Obviously it wasn’t.

“I like them,” he says, helping himself to a seat alongside Benedict without waiting for an invitation. Recently-imprisoned Tevinter nobles aren’t real nobles. “I could not help looking. Some of them were a little damp on the edges, so I hung them up—and I put that one there in my press for a little bit to try to dry it flat, but look, it didn’t quite work.”

Crinkled and stained isn't a problem when he'd thought they were gone for good. With a faint smile, Benedict runs his thumb along the wrinkled edge of one.

"Thank you," he says, to the papers, then actually looks up at Bastien. "...I mean it. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Bastien says, with matched I mean it weight, and lingers for a moment longer before standing up. Not quite leaving, but willing to. "If you have time later, maybe you could come help me with the dining hall. The extra one. I am trying to brighten it up—some art would not hurt, I think. But I don't actually know anything about... anything. So you could tell me what you think."

With a gradually-growing smile, Benedict nods. "That's-- yes. I'd like that." He's never done anything artistic on a large scale, but it may as well be time to try.

“Wonderful.”

He’s say to call him, but that would be rude, given the impossibility.

“You are working for the Ambassador now, ouais? I am up there all the time to trade papers back and forth—if I see you on a day when you have time, you can let me know. Or just come find me.”

"Yes," Bene confirms, his face lighting up as Bastien continues.

"Yes. Good. I will."

They're having lunch together and Colin has been distracted the entire time. Usually a good listener (at least in one-on-one conversation), he finds himself zoning out while Benedict is talking at one point until there's a lull and he realizes he's expected to reply to someone. He blinks owlishly.

"Um. Sorry?" he asks with a wince. "Sorry," he adds in apology for the out-zoning.

"...and I don't know... how to navigate that?" Benedict repeats, realizing in the moment that he may have to go back a little farther, depending on how long Colin hasn't been paying attention.

Taking a deep breath and sighing it out through his nose, Bene looks a little frustrated, but not angry. "What's the matter?" He was speaking.

"Sorry," Colin says again with a deeper wince. "Really, I'm so sorry. I am. What did you need to navigate?"

He says this as if Bene's problems are, by default, more serious than his own. And that's usually what dictates their conversations, whether it's Colin persistently focusing on Bene, or Bene persistently focusing on Bene.

Edited 2020-08-28 04:19 (UTC)

"Nothing, never mind," Bene says with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand.

"You went off somewhere. Am I that boring?"

"No." Another wince. "Sorry. Really. I'm so sorry. Um. I just, Lexie, Lexie's going to Antiva and it's the right thing but I sort of wish she wouldn't anyway?"

"Oh."

This changes Bene's demeanor somewhat, and he tilts his head to look more closely at Colin. "...she is?"

Colin nods, looking glum. "Yes. I mean, not for good, just for a month or two. Trying to sort out her head about Byerly."

An immediate scoff. "Byerly," Bene groans: it's the name that's already plaguing his own personal distress. "What's even to sort out?"

He pauses.

"Well. Not that Loki's..." He trails off, and glances furtively at Colin.

"Don't tell her I said that."

A soft chuckle.

"I won't. I agree. They make each other miserable. I've never seen them come away from each other happy. It's...hard to see it. How he'd rather be miserable his whole life than be with her for a single second. She deserves better than that."

"I think he'd just rather be miserable, period," Benedict says, in a bit of a sulk, but he seems to catch himself in it and looks briefly uncertain.

"...she does deserve better, doesn't she. Better than either, but what can you do."

"She's doing pretty well with Loki these days." Colin shrugs. "I never saw the appeal, but she's happy. Still. You're right. Byerly loves misery more than he'll ever love anyone."

There's a little bitterness in his voice.

"And he wants to be sure everyone else is miserable with him," Bene mutters, but rolls his eyes and lets that be the end of it.

"It's just, I don't know. He's the worst kind of person in Minrathous, which..." He laughs weakly, "...which I know because I wanted to be just like him. But maybe he's changed."

"He's a martyr. In a pretty terrible way. I can't...I can't do that kind of friendship. I can't go to someone begging for them to keep being my friend because they've decided they are too hurt by my problems. I don't make friends easily, but I can't...I can't do that."

This is a bit surprising to hear, and Bene looks askance at Colin, pausing with a fork half lifted to his mouth (because they're eating and we just didn't mention it before now, GO TEAM).

"When did that happen?"

"I talked about that. Um. Though we were..." He makes a motion of smoking a joint. "Anyway. When I told him I tried to kill myself, he got really angry and said he'd never forgive anyone who tried to hurt me, not even me. That's why we're not friends anymore."

"Oh." That's right, he did know this.

Furrowing his brow, Benedict thinks on the information, at least glad he's sober for it this time. He opens his mouth and closes it several times, then shakes his head.

"I guess I've got no room to talk," he mutters, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and looking down at his bowl.
"I don't know how I'd have reacted. But." He glances up furtively. "I'm glad you're still here."

"We weren't really friends when it happened," Colin says with a shrug. "We hadn't even slept together. And you're...different, now."

This yields something of a thousand-yard stare from Bene, who takes another bite and chews it while looking off into the distance.

"Am I?" he asks faintly, worried.

Colin never likes seeing that stare. His brow furrows a little.

"You're more thoughtful," he says. "I mean, you're still you, but a better version. Before, you wouldn't have stopped talking about yourself to ask me what's wrong." He hesitates. "I mean, sometimes...but you're more aware. And you seem to find it important to keep getting better. That's what makes someone a good person, is wanting to keep getting better. It can...feel? Sometimes? Like our friendship is a bit one-sided, but I think that's my fault. I don't really talk about things. I just make people make me talk about things, and that's...not good."

Even as Colin talks, Bene slowly lowers his face into his hands. It's not a despairing gesture like it can be; between the comparisons of now and then, and the fact that Colin is still reassuring him, he's suddenly overwhelmed by shame.

"Maker," he groans, "the way I've treated people."

It's very, very hard to argue with that. Benedict has sometimes been terrible. There's a reason they weren't friends until recently. But seeing the struggle, seeing the slow trudge toward change, has been heartbreakingly beautiful, even healing. Colin reaches out for Bene's hand, only to halt and change his mind, afraid it is too much affection.

"Most people like you don't get to this point," he says quietly. "I mean, rich people, nobles, all get taught somehow that the world owes them everything, and because they benefit from that way of thinking and acting, they don't change. You're changing. Not because you benefit from it, but because you care about how you affect other people. That's something."

"It's something," Bene mutters, lowering his hands to look down at his bowl with a grimace instead.

"How does someone even begin to make that right?" He picks up his fork again and stirs the remnants around, his appetite gone.
"Even if I had a sending crystal, or wrote notes, or... no one would want to hear it. And I think they'd be right."

Edited 2020-08-28 20:52 (UTC)

"The only way you're going to make anything up to anyone is actions, not words. Anyone can say words. But being genuinely thoughtful? Making a real effort not because you're expecting absolution, but because that's the right thing to do. 'Cause trying to get peoples' forgiveness is still self-serving. That's why people wouldn't want to hear it."

Taking in Colin's words, Benedict nods silently, his head making a slow descent towards the table until his forehead is resting on it. His shiny black hair curtains his face perfectly.

Awwwwwww. Completely unable to resist, Colin reaches out to brush his fingers through those shiny locks.

"It could be worse. You were really unhappy before, weren't you?"

"It's going to take so lonnng," comes a whine from beneath the hair.

"I know." Just petting his hair now. "Maybe don't look at the whole road. Look at the next step."

Still looking miserable, Bene finally lifts his head enough that he can rest his chin on the table instead, folding himself over completely with his arms crossed at his middle.

"What's the next step?" he mumbles, "licking Byerly's boots?"

“Definitely not,” Colin says quickly. “Just do a good job because it needs doing. Eventually he’ll come around.”

Though he rolls his eyes, Benedict nods again (which is difficult to do with one's chin on a table) and simply lays his head down, because now he's here and it seems like the thing to do.

"Anyway." He pushes his bowl away, so he's not staring at it. "Are you still going to live in Alexandrie's house while she's away?"

“Um. I don’t live with her, she lives in her husband’s house. She just offered to lend me the flat she had with her sister because I, um. Was. Having difficulty living in the Gallows because it used to be a Circle.”

A somewhat embarrassed widening of his eyes.

"Oh. ...yeah."

Finally lifting his head, Benedict purses his lips sympathetically.

"I don't blame you." At least his worst experiences have taken place underground, out of sight; it makes the memories of them all the darker, but at least he doesn't have to be reminded constantly.

A one-shoulder shrug.

"Lots of Circle mages manage to live here."

Inclining his head slightly, Bene gives Colin a look that's difficult to interpret.

"Then I mean," he says conversationally, "you could always come back."

There's a beat before Colin looks back at him. Is Bene saying he wants to spend more time together? ...At night?

There are two things he does not want to do: get false hope, and end up locking himself in a closet again. Not that living in Lexie's flat has cured his numerous issues, but at least when he freaks out, he has an entire apartment and not just a closet.

"Well. I don't have to spend every night in the flat. Or go home as soon as I finish work."

Even if he hadn't meant it that way before, it's possible Bene does now. He smiles sheepishly, a bit of additional color rising in his cheeks.

"I mean, my arrangement is hardly conducive to..." He waves his hand, "visiting, unless you want Marcoulf listening to everything we say. But there's, there's places around the Gallows."

"Lots of empty rooms." Now Colin is starting to blush as well. Is this a terrible idea? Yes. Is it going to get him hurt? Almost definitely. Will he do it anyway? Probably.

"That's true."

Maker, how'd they get here? ...how long has it been?

"I mean, I-- have to go back to work, but." He glances furtively at Colin. Meet later?

It has been a long time, and that might be part of why Colin is nodding his head with a smile.

"I get off at six," he says. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he's blushing harder. "Um. So, um. Meet you at your place, and we can...go somewhere."

Nodding and stupid-smiling in return, Bene gets to his feet. "Six," he agrees, and turns to go back toward the stairs, with one little glance behind him at Colin as if to make sure he's still there.

HEHEHEHEH

When Colin knocks on Benedict's door, he's shivering a little. He hasn't decided yet if this is the worst idea he's ever had, or if it's acceptable for him to just have what he can while he can have it without thinking it through at all.

He's lucky Bene is the one to answer it, though he's quick on the draw to make sure nobody else gets there first.
Rather than letting Colin in, Benedict slips out with him with a sheepish grin.
"No need to bother anyone."

Edited 2020-08-29 02:48 (UTC)

A nervous chuckle. "There's, um. The next room. Or there's a few rooms upstairs."

"Upstairs," Bene decides quickly, dragging him away. The next room is too close. Marcoulf hears everything

A less nervous chuckle as Colin lets himself be dragged, though he digs his heels in after a few steps.

"We want blankets and pillows?" he suggests.

"Oh." Bene pauses too.

"...maybe Athessa will let us borrow some."

"You don't have any?"

"...well they're,"

He gestures uselessly down the stairs that they just climbed.

"...I...fine." Colin doesn't want to go all the way back either.

Bene hunches his shoulders.

"...can you, um." He motions to his sending crystal. He's not going to steal it, which is handy because this way he gets to make Colin do the embarrassing part.

Faintly worried about this, Colin takes the crystal from around his neck and passes it to him.

"Nooo," Bene whines, holding up his hands to block it, and makes a pleading look.

"Athessa. Um. Can we borrow some pillows and blankets?"

????

"Uh...sure? Don't you have your own?"

"Ah. Technically, but mine are in Hightown and Ben doesn't want to go back downstairs."

Quietly, "snitch."

A long pause.

"If you're gonna fuck on them you better wash them before you put 'em back."

"We--" pointed eye contact with Bene "--will wash them. Thank you so much."

He shuts off the feed and strides down to Athessa's room without even asking if Bene wants to help him (he knows the answer is no, and he really doesn't mind doing it). When he returns, he is loaded with bedding and nods for Bene to open the door to an empty room.

Bene rolls his eyes, but doesn't protest, just trailing after Colin and eventually doing as he asks by opening the door.

Poking his head in first, he then sticks in his left hand to shine the light from the shard around, making sure no one else is in there. When he's satisfied by its emptiness, he slips through and lets the door swing open for Colin.

There is technically a bed, but no mattress on it, so Colin lays everything out on the floor. By the time it's all set up, he's smiling again. He looks up at Bene through his eyelashes, a deliberately come-hither look.

It's bare bones, but at the same time, more comfortable than some of the surfaces Bene has slept on. He lowers himself onto it with a grin, cocking his head to one side as he sits near Colin, supporting himself on one arm and resting his free one on one propped-up leg.

And then, suddenly, he doesn't know what to say. It's been a while.

It has been a while. Colin stretches out beside Bene and hesitates, unsure where to begin. He's had fantasies, certainly, but faced with the real thing?

His hand reaches out on its own, tucks a strand of hair behind Bene's ear, and the natural thing to do after that is move in for a kiss--tentative, nervous, as he hasn't been with anyone since the last time he was with this man, and was never truly with anyone before that.

Bene takes the opportunity to sink backwards as he meets the kiss, maneuvering himself onto his back and resting on one elbow as he holds the back of Colin's head with the other hand.

It's a difficult position to hold, so he eventually lies all the way back, snatching a pillow to put it under his head and tugging on the front of Colin's shirt, inviting him forward.

Colin straddles Bene easily and kisses him again, deeply this time, planting one hand on either side of his head. Eventually he has to come up for air, at which point he sits up and unties his belt. Tunic and undertunic come off in a single motion and are cast aside before he bends back down to kiss him again, fingertips sliding under Bene's shirt to find bare skin.

As Colin moves to remove his top clothing, Bene begins to do the same, unlacing his tunic in the front and untying his belt. Then, he lies back again, arms up, waiting with a smile for Colin to do the honors, if he wants.

Bene's shirt winds up torn off in a flash so Colin can touch, kiss, explore. Which he does, somewhat at his own leisure, which is only leisurely for so long because it has been some time. Eventually his fingers wind up at Benedict's hips, nudging his trousers downward.

"Do you..." He clears his throat and looks shy. "Do you, um. Want to try the...thing we've neither of us tried?"

Bene can't be too surprised, because on some level, he may have been hoping for this. Still, he has to think about it a moment, then nods.

"You or me?" he asks, the smile drifting off in favor of a more serious, uncertain expression.

Colin doesn't know what Bene does to himself in the semi-privacy of his own room, but he knows what he himself does. And he definitely doesn't want to deal with Bene in too much pain. They'll really need to work up to that.

You or me what? he almost says. Um. I guess you could fuck me if I can see you, would be a more useful alternative, but it makes him cringe internally just to think it. While he's accepted there's just some level of awkwardness to expect from sex, he doesn't want to flat-out ruin the mood.

Then he thinks of a way and regains a little of that smile, leaning in.

"Take me," he murmurs against Bene's ear.

If asked, Bene would say there hasn't been a lot of time for this sort of thing, and the mood doesn't arise very often these days. This is a lightning strike of a moment, when he has both the drive of desire and the privacy to act on it, and it won't go to waste.

I'll try, is his first instinct, but for the same reasons as Colin, he bites it back. "All right," he says instead, "switch with me then."

Excited and nervous both, Colin rolls onto his back and gets comfortable, squishing a pillow into place beneath his head and removing a vial from the belt he discarded earlier.

"Here," he says, pressing it into Bene's hand.

They did something like this before, and Bene remembers from then what he's supposed to do. First fingers, while his non-lubricated hand works Colin from the front, ensuring his arousal before anything more intense happens.
Then, when the time seems right, Bene applies the oil to himself and leans over him.

"Ready?" he whispers.

It is different when it's someone else, and every now and then, Colin coaxes Bene to lean down toward him so he can see him, touch his hair, remember who this is. That keeps it from getting too...familiar.

At the question, he nods and takes a deep breath. "Yes," he says as he exhales. "Go slow."

And he does, at that. It's as new for him as it is for Colin, and mid-thrust it occurs to him how angry his parents would be right now, for this to be his first time putting his dick in anyone, and it's a male southern Circle mage.

Good thing they're not here.

It's...different. It barely even hurts. Mostly, it feels incredibly intimate, though all Colin has previously known of this particular act has been agony and shame. Now and again he has to get Bene to pause so he can shift his hips, but when he's in as far as he can go, he drops his head back and just tries to relax.

"Doing all right?" he asks a little distantly.

Better than all right, it feels amazing, but it doesn't seem like the time or place to revel in it. If nothing else, it's hard to go slow.

Bene nods, panting faintly as he maintains his pace. "You?"

Colin nods, making another adjustment of his hips. Whatever happens, he definitely seems to be happy about it, as the next thrust causes a loud gasp. All the bad thoughts and memories he'd been straining to hold at bay go flying entirely out the window as he lands squarely in the moment.

"...Oh," he says as if enlightened. So that's what all the fuss is about. "You can go faster now."

His legs wrap around Benedict's waist and he braces himself.

With their combined relative inexperience, it doesn't take long. Bene just needed the go-ahead, and after a long and somewhat agonizing wait, it doesn't take him long at all to reach climax.
He holds onto Colin all the while, gripping his member and pumping it in time with his own thrusting, even after he's shuddered and collapsed onto him.

It doesn't take Colin too much longer than Bene, soon wrapping all four limbs about him and arching his back. Then he goes slack, breathing hard and burying his fingers in Benedict's hair, lifting his head up so he can kiss him.

"Good?" he pants.

With his head on Colin's chest, Benedict nods, his eyes falling closed as the tingling warmth washes through his body.
Maker, he needed that.

Colin grins, feeling oddly elated.

"All right," he says, shifting beneath him, "you're heavy."

With a low-effort pout, Benedict rolls off him and onto his back, his arms splaying in either direction.

"Was that all right?" he asks hoarsely.

"It was!" Colin flips onto his front so he can rest on his elbows and look at Benedict. "It was fun. We'll keep practicing, though, yeah?"

Bene nods sleepily, and before he can say more, he yawns. Making the executive decision to scoot closer, he rests his head against Colin's shoulder.

With a chuckle, Colin adjusts so Bene can rest comfortably, pulling one of the blankets up to cover them both. It's pretty early to go to sleep, but the intimacy of the moment feels nice. Probably especially so for Bene, after he went so long with hardly any touch at all. So he draws him close for a cuddle and just enjoys the moment.

[The day after this thread.]

There's a knock on Benedict's door after work is done for the day. Colin's there with an earthenware pitcher beaded with condensation. He gives a faint smile.

"Want to sit in the garden a bit?"

The door is already partially ajar, but Benedict is on his bed inside, relaxing and reading something in the small amount of time he has after work and before dinner.
He angles his head to see Colin, nods in the midst of a yawning stretch, and unfolds himself from the mattress to follow after him.

"Nice day?" he murmurs, a bit sleepily-- he obviously hasn't even been outside yet.

"Yeah!" He adjusts his grip on the pitcher. "I've got iced mint tea. Sort of a perfect day for it. How's your day been?"

Colin's enthusiasm is almost alarming, but it's cute, in a way that Bene can still appreciate despite how tired he is.

"Mint," he repeats with a little smile, "and-- long. Y'know. Painting. ...Byerly."

"Painting Byerly?"

A sudden chuckle, which comes out as a clean 'HEHEH'-- "no. Just the two things that consume my waking hours."

"Ah." Colin would rather not talk about Byerly, so he goes for the other one. "About when do you think it'll be done?"

Edited 2020-09-14 07:01 (UTC)

"Probably in like."

Bene falls silent for a while, staring forward in contemplation.

"A year."

"It's really special, though. What you're doing. And I'm sure you'll get volunteers to help."

"Maybe. It's fine if they don't." He shrugs one shoulder, tossing his hair in a familiar, dismissive motion.

"I'll keep going until it's done."

It's refreshing to see Benedict with drive, and a passion project.

"I believe it." He opens the door to the garden and lets Bene through first.

"I'm glad someone does."

Words spoken in a bit of a sulk, but good-naturedly enough, and he smiles as he steps out into the dwindling sunlight.

"I keep forgetting it's summer," he remarks, "it's so cold in that stone tower."

"We need to get you out more." Colin finds a spot to sit down and set out two cups. "Even if it's just having tea in the garden."

He pours both cups full. "I'm not keen on the oppression, but at least being a mage keeps my drinks the right temperature."

"Mm."

At this, Bene's spirits seem to dampen slightly, though he tries not to show it as he picks up his cup, sniffs its contents, and takes a drink.

Being a mage. Yes, something he also is, yet with which he can't currently identify.

Colin looks sheepish on seeing Bene's reaction. He should have been more sensitive. They were just having a lovely time. He's got to change the subject very quickly.

"So, um. About what we did. Again. Is that...something we're doing now?"

A slightly coy look.

It actually takes Bene a minute to realize what he's talking about, but then he gets it, only after choking slightly on his tea.

"Oh. Um. It," he stammers, clearing his throat, "...like now?" Colin they're in public

"Not now now, just in general."

Clearing his throat again, Bene nods. It's almost harder to answer.

"I guess?" He sets his drink down so he won't kill himself on it right away. "...if you want?"

He looks so uncomfortable. Did Colin do something wrong.

"I mean, I want it, but only if you want it."

"I think so." Having to put this sort of thing into words is not Bene's forte.

"I mean, I-- I like when things are, you know. Spontaneous." He looks at his fidgeting hands. "The way it's been. That's fine."

"So no putting it on a calendar," Colin teases lightly. After a moment, he speaks very, very gently. "Did I say something wrong?"

"What? No." Finally, Benedict smiles slightly, as if to reassure him.

"What we do, it's not-- I'm not used to it being--" He waves his hand vaguely, trying to find the words, "...I wasn't supposed to, really. It didn't matter as long as we kept it quiet, but that's just it, talking about it meant you'd already fucked up. I'm-- I was-- supposed to get married. If a girl or her parents find out you'd... you know, it reflects badly on your family."

It's not such a consideration anymore, but these things don't just unstick themselves from someone's brain.

Colin smiles in response, although the concept of two men together being such a scandal is foreign to him. No one in the Circle cared. If you found someone you connected with, you were considered lucky, although you had to keep it secret or you would be separated, regardless of gender.

"Do you have any attraction to women?" he asks curiously. "At all?"

A weak laugh, a shrug.

"I try not to think about it."

"That's fair." Though that probably means no, Colin isn't about to press it. He sips his tea. "Even if you did, that's no guarantee you'd wind up happily with one. You have freedom now."

"Oh, I knew I wouldn't be happy. It was just something I'd have to do."
He chews the inside of his cheek.
"But... people have extramarital affairs all the time. It's an open secret. Marriage isn't for love, it's for children and uniting estates. If I had a wife she'd probably have her own lovers, and I wouldn't give a shit as long as they didn't get her pregnant."

He sips his tea.

"It's the getting someone pregnant part I never looked forward to."

"That sounds miserable," Colin says sympathetically. "Being forced to have children. Did you not want to lie with a woman, or did you just not want children?"

Bene wrinkles his nose.
"...either?"

He shrugs at Colin. "What would I do with a child? I don't know how to care for one, how to love one. I'd probably just give it over to a nanny like my parents did. Leave them to their own devices."

He swirls the tea around in its glass, looking down at the leaf residue.

"There'd be no point in that. Especially not now."

"I haven't thought of children in years. In the Circle, if you get someone pregnant, they take the child and give it to the Chantry and separate the parents. It's just never going to be in my future. And I don't mind that."

"Yeah."

A worse fate, decidedly-- at least if one wants their children, and doesn't see them as a means to an end. It doesn't seem like the time to keep complaining, at any rate, so Benedict sips from his glass again in silence.

Frankly, Colin wouldn't trade places, given the opportunity. Not that he hates kids, but a forced life of manufacturing them sounds like a nightmare. Time to steer things back to having a nice time.

"So besides not having to have children, what in the South is better than it is in Tevinter?"

"I don't know. Truth be told, the food is largely terrible, it stinks of fish and dogs, it's cold and rainy and the sea is grey, and the politics are fucking impenetrable."

He swirls his glass again. "...but I guess you lot are here, so that's an improvement."

A smile blooms across Colin's face. Aw. That was a Moment.

And it's gone. He clears his throat and glances away.

"So if we're...doing things, now, I just want to say pretty quickly, if I start panicking or something, you can take my crystal and call for Athessa. And chances are, that's going to happen. Not your fault, just..."

He clears his throat again.

"Anyway."

"Oh."

That took a turn, but isn't something easily-- or willingly-- dismissed.

"All right." He blinks at Colin, as if awaiting elaboration.

Well it was one of the two purposes Colin had for initiating this conversation, the other one being just hanging out. And since things had gotten a smidge more contemplative, he figured he could slip it in here. But now Bene is looking at him like there's more to it than call Athessa. He finishes taking a drink of tea and looks back, wide-eyed as he swallows.

"Um. Oh. She'd probably come by. She knows what to do, if you're not comfortable with dealing with it."

"What would I be ... dealing with?" Bene asks, not entirely sure what Colin panicking would even look like.

"Um..." This was a conversation that needed to happen, and Colin neglected to ask Lexie what he looked like when he freaked out. "Well, if I tell you to stop, that's definitely a sign? You'd just want to stop and ask if I'm all right. If I don't answer, especially if I look scared, then that's definitely a sign."

"Oh."
He smirks, as though finding the very notion absurd. "If you told me to stop I'd stop, that goes without saying. And nobody wants to fuck someone who's not really there."
He sips from his tea again.

Colin actually looks a little surprised by this. And more than a little embarrassed. He glances away briefly.

"Um. I don't really...know what goes without saying."

"Well. Now you do."

Bene shrugs one shoulder. "...and I mean. Just between us, I'm not always certain what to do anyway."

It's one of those moments where Colin really wants to kiss him and can't because it was weird the first time he did that and they're still not together. So he smiles instead, and melts a little, though only he knows about the latter.

"Thank you. I'm just...scared of...I don't know what. Memories. And I guess I'm scared it's going to happen and you won't think I'm attractive anymore. Last time, I wound up crying in her arms, it was a mess, but I don't want to spend my whole life not trying just 'cause I'm scared of that happening."

"That makes sense," Bene says as he nurses his tea, draining the last of it and setting the cup down. "Just... I wouldn't worry. It's about fun, and if you're not having fun, it's not worth doing."

He still seems quietly confused by the notion that it would ever be anything else.

He knows it's about fun for Bene, certainly. He's not sure if he could, or should, try to explain how very much more it is for him: reclaiming himself, his body, his capability for pleasure. It seems like a lot of pressure to put on him, and it wouldn't really do any good for either of them. He thinks to himself, it's probably good that they're not in a relationship, or this might put strain on it. As it is, Colin can have other partners and a variety of experiences, if he can find any.

"Thank you," he repeats instead. "Honestly. Fun is exactly what I need. Um. Speaking of, I was thinking of a lotus for the tattoo we talked about."

Edited 2020-09-18 05:29 (UTC)

"A lotus?" Bene says, tilting his head, "why's that?"
He doesn't disagree with the decision, but it bears explanation.

"It's a symbol of rebirth." A gleam of a smile. "Particularly the dawn lotus, I think."

"Huh." He thinks on it a moment, then nods. Approved.

"That's nice."

"You like to make things very ornate. I think that would work really well for that. I have..."

He pulls a couple of pages from his pocket of examples of Antivan art and passes them to Bene. It's not unlike the style Bene is using in the mess hall.

Taking the pages, Bene looks them over, absorbs what he sees, nods. "I think I could do this," he confirms, leafing through them.

[ Byerly's voice sounds cheery. ]

My dear fellow! Do you enjoy working as my assistant? Should I allow you to continue?

[This is definitely a trap.]

...yes?

Why?

[Going to his desk, beginning to sort through what he needs for the moment,]

Because the work is interesting and I don't hate you?

[The latter reason is, of course, conditional.]

...and I haven't fucked anything up, at least that I'm aware of.

Edited 2020-09-21 19:46 (UTC)

Really. Nothing at all? You can't think of a single thing?

[A pause, a sigh, a Look.]

Is this about the party?

Ah, that little sigh. Does that sigh indicate that you think you did nothing wrong?

What did I do wrong, then.

[He straightens, expression dark.]

I thought, being friends with at least Athessa, you might have a good time. When, instead, you acted like you were being tortured and went out of your way to be rude to everyone present, I realized my error.

[He raises his hands in exasperation.]

It was a fucking birthday party. I'm not exactly drowning in friends, Byerly. Sorry it wasn't a fancy soirée.

Edited 2020-09-21 20:04 (UTC)

[ A slow nod, and then a pleasant smile. ]

Yes, I think I will fire you.

Why?

Because, my dear fellow, you're either stupid or malicious. The former makes you fatally ill-suited to this division, and the latter fatally ill-suited to Riftwatch.

[The resentment begins to trickle into panic. Malicious?]

I don't...

[His voice catches as his mind races away, but he corrals it back long enough to finish the sentence. Even then, his words shake.]

I don't understand.

[ Casually, with the air of continuing: ]

It could also just be common disrespect, I suppose. Regardless. [ Then: ] What don't you understand, dear fellow?

Disrespect?

[The word is hissed, incredulous, but he continues to quiver with unease.]

You made it abundantly clear how you wanted to be addressed-- but I-- [back to the topic at hand,]

--I'm not stupid. I invited you to a birthday party and you acted like an arsehole, and this is my fault?

Not stupid - so, malicious.

No.

[Indignation returns, as if in a wave, and then ebbs away completely. It's Byerly, so the fight was lost when it began.]

...we were getting along. You and I. ...I thought.

[He looks past him, eyes distant and weary.]

I thought you'd get along with them too.

[Perhaps stupid is the word after all.]

[ His brows come together in blatant incredulity. ]

My dear boy. Even aside from the fact that I am your superior, you invited me to that party; that meant that you were responsible for me in some way. That is how such things work. And I was plainly miserable there. Or - beg your pardon - acting like an arsehole.

[ His imitation of Benedict's accent is sort of mean in how spot-on it is. ]

And the fact that I am your superior just magnifies the fact that you failed in your social duties. Now, if you were in Forces, that might be one thing. But this is Diplomacy. Social acumen is qualification number one.

[ Besides which - ]

And you treated me like shit, and you thought we were getting along? Maker preserve me.

[All the fight gone out of him, Benedict lets the words wash over him, absorbs them; a bereavement rises in him, with the twin revelations that Byerly is right and that, now that all the pieces have been revealed, he's been playing an entirely different game.]

I don't... [he begins quietly, but shakes his head, closing his eyes. What he was about to say isn't necessary in the moment, and would ultimately only worsen what's to come. Talking to Byerly is a mindfuck at the best of times, but that may not be his problem anymore.]

Please don't do this. [Quiet and contrite, drained of energy.]

[ By stares a moment, then lets out an incredulous breath. ]

Andraste's name, did you have no idea what you were doing? Did you think there would be no consequences?

It was supposed to be fun, [comes the grim, completely devoid-of-fun reply,] you--

[Given the opportunity, perhaps now's the time to bring back what he was about to say.]

I don't know how to talk to you. I wouldn't...

[He fights with the words for a moment, then shakes his head and cautiously meets Byerly's gaze.]

You didn't like when I was polite. I can't speak to you like an equal, because we're. ...not. [He shrugs dully-- no reason to not acknowledge their power difference, as Byerly already pointed it out.]

I thought it was what you wanted. Being spoken to that way.

[ And By, misinterpreting - ]

I'm as well-bred as you. I know I am but a rough Southern barbarian, but that does not make me your social inferior.

[ And - ]

I wanted friendly rudeness, not that.

[Benedict looks back at him, like he's grown a second head.]

You're my superior. In Riftwatch.

[ Uh. Oh, right. That. ]

So your solution was to treat me like shit on your shoe? [ Then, with a burst of irritated breath - ] You're not fired.

[Hands raised in exasperation once again, though they lower abruptly-- then come back up, then lower again--]

I thought that's what you wanted. I didn't, like. [He wrinkles his nose.] ...mean it.

[Some of the tension has left his shoulders, but not all of it. He knows better than to ask if this was some kind of horrible joke, because he won't like the answer either way, and they're not out of the woods yet.

He pushes his hair back out of his face.]

[ A shake of his head. ]

There's a difference between rudeness and treating me like that. [ Maker, he'd been miserable at that party. Ambushed, unhappy, on-edge, and very alone. ] And a difference between rudeness in this office and out there, as well.

[ And, echoing Bastien's question: ]

What do they teach you in Minrathous?

I'm sorry. [Spoken quietly, and with sincerity.

He feels like he's run a marathon, but there's a length of it left.]

Mostly how to shut up while Mother is talking, [he sighs with visible defeat, knowing how pathetic it is, knowing what's likely said of him if or when the topic arises out of his earshot.]

I've never organized a gathering before. She controlled everything, in case I accidentally mixed with the wrong people.

[ A moment, and then a grunt. By looks away, and fiddles with his pen, before he says: ]

She did use you quite badly, didn't she?

[Caution is key; either Byerly is taking him seriously, or is going to use this to tear him down further.]

More, I think, than I could have imagined.

Children never can imagine just what a parent is capable of.

[ A flick of his fingers. ]

You need to develop these skills.

[Ain't that the truth. Bene nods seriously.]

I've-- [he begins, and stops with a self-conscious laugh. He's still coming down from the panic, still a little afraid of what he can and can't say, even if he knows rationally what Byerly wants.]

--I've tried to hold my own. Once or twice. ...it doesn't always end up this badly, but.

[Otherwise it gets him slapped by both sides of a couple within minutes of each other, so not exactly an improvement.]

Do tell.

Well,

[He gingerly goes to sit on the edge of his desk, only now remembering that he's holding things from it, and sets them down.]

There was that party, at Alexandrie's. Where the wine was poisoned, and the visiting diplomat died.
[Whom he had personally been escorting, as the chamberlain, but that's neither here nor there.]

I don't think that went well for anyone.

[He closes his eyes for a moment, shuddering at the memory-- it's the reason he'll no longer drink wine that he didn't see someone open.]

And... Alexandrie [there's a pattern here] used me to make Loki jealous, at some ball or another. I danced with her, it worked, somehow it ended with both of them slapping me. ...I probably said something I shouldn't have.

[Lexie has a flair for the dramatic, but Benedict hasn't exactly been known for his tactful repartée.

He falls silent a moment as he tries to think of more, but shakes his head.]

I thought I'd be good at that sort of game, because my mother plays them all day. You'd think some of the talent would've rubbed off, but. [It obviously didn't.]

[ Hold on. By's eyes narrow very slightly. ]

How did she use you to make him jealous.

[Slightly on the defensive,]

...had me dance with her. Where he could see.

[ Ah. ]

While pretending he did not exist, I presume?

[Benedict nods, and sighs in that way of his: the 'I Know I'm An Idiot' sigh, without saying as much outright.]

I admit I had a vested interest in breaking them up.

Mm.

[ By seems distracted. ]

Why?

Call it a childhood crush.

[He watches Byerly's face with a tinge of curiosity.]

[ That just gets a distasteful wrinkle of the nose. ]

Awful.

Childhood crushes?

[The faintest, gentlest, most careful of ribbing. Something changed in Byerly's face, and his mind is on something else: that much is clear.]

That childhood crush.

Ah.

[He twists his mouth to one side.]

...yes.

I got over it, I think around the time he stabbed me in the hand.

Why in the Maker's name did he do that?

[ Said more with irritation than shock. Because, yeah, typical. ]

[Benedict thinks back, his eyes going distant again. Then, he shakes his head.]

I don't remember.

[That in itself is somewhat troubling, but he shrugs.]

It didn't strike me as that unusual, even at the time. Or unearned, I suppose.

[Hadn't he... yes, he had debased himself right after. A different time, a different him.]

Things can just be like that, among the Altus.

Is Tevinter high society actually even more odious than Orlesian high society? I didn't think it was possible.

Possibly. It's... different.

[He crosses his ankle over his knee, bending forward slightly to weigh in his mind how best to phrase it.]

The Game is all behind masks and closed doors, isn't it? Secrets upon secrets, she said this and he said that and maybe it's all a lie.

Tevinter society is, at.. at least as I've experienced it, rather more upfront. You may get stabbed in the heart, but you'll see who's doing it and know why, even if the reason is idiotic.

[He shrugs helplessly.]

Loki has more freedom to be reckless because he's a second son and his actions reflect less on his father's name, though I doubt anyone was happy he married an Orlesian. Dorian Pavus was excised entirely before he could truly compromise his family's status.

It happens to the best of us.

[ An arched eyebrow. ]

And you? No siblings, right?

[Bene meets his eyes and shakes his head.

No siblings.]

Such pressure, then.

[A frank nod.]

But no freedom.

I thought--

[He almost disagrees, but shakes his head.]

--freedom isn't what I thought it was, in the end.

What did you think it was?

The opposite of slavery, living your life unbound by rules or responsibilities. I thought I was free for a long time. My enclosure was designed to give me that impression.

Well, there is something to being unbound by rules.

Is anyone truly unbound by them, though? Any respectable person, at least.

[He folds his hands between his knees.]

I'm under more restrictions now than I've ever been, but I still feel freer than when I was at home.

Oh, if you're asking that question, you've never been to a real party.

[He opens his mouth as if to protest, but stops, closing it with the faintest of smirks instead.]

Maybe not.

The kids were mostly shut in a side room with a few hookahs and a keg of wine to keep us entertained. Too fucked up to remember our own names, let alone who we'd touched that night.

[He's only slightly embarrassed by this.]

That's what I would've called a real party.

Ugh.

[ He seems genuinely offended. ]

Pathetic. You're all decadent blood mages up there, and that's the best you can manage.

[A slightly self-conscious grin; decadent blood mages indeed.]

I've never seen better.

[That might be a challenge, or a request.]

[after this]

Once they've chosen an empty room and made a comfortable pillow-and-blanket nest, Colin settles into a comfortable position on the floor.

"Come on," he says, patting his thigh.

Might as well use the hookah room, what with it being all decked out with pillows and something of a haven already.
Benedict looks over his shoulder at the door, then back at Colin, clearly a bit nervous as he fiddles with the hem of his tunic.

"Do I like... lay across?" he asks, possibly just stalling.

"Yes." To make sure things are comfortable, Colin arranges some pillows to hold the weight of Bene's upper body, then one in his lap so he can sit crosslegged.

How did he end up here? Why does this feel somehow worse than being locked in a dungeon?
Chalk it up to it being with Colin, whose opinion he values above most, and the fact that he, like a dumbshit, chose to debase himself in this manner.

Gingerly, he does as he's instructed, getting comfortable with his chin resting on his crossed arms.
"Dignified," he mutters, to no one in particular.

Colin has never spanked anyone, so he's nervous himself. His hands shake a little as he pulls Bene's trousers down to bare his ass, though the shaking is really only perceptible to him.

"Since you're an adult," he says, "just...choose a word and I'll stop if you say it."

For some reason this is unexpected, and Bene gives a shudder of surprise, taking a moment to collect himself before he can answer.

"Um," he thinks, his mind blanking, "Flint."

"That will do it."

Colin's hand rubs gently over the skin of Bene's ass. "Ready?"

A small uneasy grunt serves as his answer. Ready as he's going to be.

He's not sure which of them has been stalling more. Might as well just start.

The first smack is experimental--just enough to sting and redden the flesh. Colin flexes his hand, considering the level of pain based on the sting in his own hand, and decides it can be a little harder. The more times he strikes, the more the sting in his hand becomes a sort of constant tingle, like eating spicy food. He glances at Bene now and then to see how he's doing.

Bene isn't sure what he expected, but this is rather worse-- it does actually hurt, especially when Colin hits the same spot twice, and though he's determined to keep still and prove his mettle, it becomes more difficult as they proceed.

One of the times he notices Colin checking on him, he mumbles a grudging "ow."

He's fine. He's not a wimp.

With the pillow on his lap, it's hard to determine whether this is sexy or not. Once Colin feels like his hand is going to be raw if he doesn't stop, he stops.

"All right," he says, pulling Bene's pants back up. "After this, my parents gave me a hug and a kiss, but that seems a bit patronizing for a grown man. How are you feeling?"

However quick it may have been, it seems to last forever on the receiving end, and though he manages not to vocalize much, Bene's restraint has come at a cost.

"Fine," he says obstinately, but his voice quavers and he has to work hard not to sniff loudly.
Perhaps a hug and a kiss wouldn't go amiss, but he won't be the one to say it.

Edgard strides in hoping to take a quick smoke and stops when he sees it’s occupied.

“Oh.” Edgard stands staring at the two of them. “Hello. Benedict, Maman” Nodding to each of them in turn.

“How are you?”

It would have been less bad, perhaps, if Colin hadn't been running his fingers through Bene's hand.

Or if he hadn't been saying, "Don't worry, I'll make you feel good," just as Edgard walked in.

As it is, he turns his eyes to Edgard and thanks the Maker he doesn't believe in that they weren't naked yet. At the same time, he swipes an arm in the general direction of the door.

"GET OUT!"

Edited 2020-10-08 20:30 (UTC)

Benedict's shout comes at the same time as Colin's, though his "GET THE FUCK OUT" is a little higher-pitched and deeply horrified.
He rolls quickly off of Colin's lap and then winces.

Edited 2020-10-08 20:32 (UTC)

Edgard throws up his hands in defense against the barrage of yelling, but then points to the hookah.

“Can I just—“ He steps forward toward it. “One puff?”

He smiles wickedly at them.

Colin gets up and storms toward him, preparing to just shove him out of the room.

"OUT."

Still on the floor, Bene raises his eyebrows as things go in a rather unexpected direction.
Content to play the damsel, he doesn't intervene.

Edgard laughs at Sunbeam’s Maman’s ferocity.

“Are you going to fight me then?”

He bends his head down to meet his eyes in challenge.

“Go on. I’m getting my smoke.” And steps past him.

And I'm getting laid! Colin wants to say, but Bene would probably faint. Instead, he takes a joint from his belt and moves to block Edgard again.

"You can have this," he hisses, holding the joint just out of reach, "if you leave. There's no elfroot in the hookah so that's pointless anyway."

"It's not even lit, you stupid bastard!" Benedict snips from the floor, very much trying to arrange himself so as to minimize his discomfort.
"I should never have let you touch it anyway, you're so fucking filthy I'm surprised it hasn't molded."

Someone's having a bad time.

Edgard swipes the joint and turns his clearly hurt eyes on Benedict for a long moment.

He leaves without a word.

Colin shuts the door behind Edgard and takes a deep, deep breath in through his nose before huffing it out and looking down at Bene.

"Go apologize for what you said."

This is met with incredulity, Bene's face still hot from how this entire thing has transpired.

"What? Why?"

"Look, I can't stand Edgard, and he definitely owes us an apology, but you crossed a line."

He gestures toward the door, already bummed that he's probably not getting laid after all.

"You wanted consequences? This is consequences."

For a moment, Benedict just stares up at him in sullen disbelief, looking every bit the child he insists he isn't. But, because he isn't a child, he is able to reason that he'd rather not sign up for a round two-- would Colin do that? maybe it's best not to find out-- and it might be best to cut his losses on this one.

But he's not going to be happy about it.

He gets up, casts a sulky glare at Colin as he passes him, and goes out, letting the door slam shut behind him. Fine.

"Edgard," he calls grudgingly, since the man can't have gone too far, just up or down the stairs.

Edgard is down the stairs a floor. He stops, but doesn’t turn around or look up.

“Yes?”

It's probably better if he doesn't.

Benedict fights with himself for a good ten seconds before he mutters, "sorry. For saying that."
He doesn't sound too sorry.

Edgard pauses in response.

“No, you’re not.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But, I am sorry for barging in and messing with you.” He sounds pretty genuine.

Edgard still doesn’t move or look at him. He takes insults pretty hard.

"Just--"

With an exasperated sigh, Benedict pushes his hair back out of his face. Fine, maybe he feels a little bad, but just a little.

"...maybe just don't tell anyone about it," he mumbles, lowering his voice considerably.

Edgard scrunches up his face in confusion.

“Why?” He turns around and looks up now. “I won’t.” He reassures him. “But, why?”

Benedict looks incredulous.

"...because--"

His face begins to flush, at least as much as it can for one of his complexion.

"--well because it's. Private." Did he just show his hand by accident?

Privacy is a bit of a foreign concept to Edgard. His face remains scrunched up.

“Alright.” He says. “Just nothing wrong with it, that’s all.”

There's a sense they're talking past each other. Benedict cants his head uncertainly, narrowing his eyes at Edgard like he can't quite pin what he wants to say.
Maybe he's misunderstood.

"...why did you call Colin 'Maman'?" If Edgard thinks they were just fooling around, there's nothing to worry about.

Edgard’s eyebrows raise. He senses he’s missed something and doesn’t break eye contact.

“He’s Sunbeam’s Maman.” He says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

This is genuinely surprising, and Benedict almost does a double-take. He opens his mouth and closes it again.

"All right," he concedes, and sounds rather relieved. Then he starts to turn back, his mind shifting gears entirely.

...and then he turns toward Edgard again.

"You know," he says, with more confusion than malice, "...if you're that sensitive about it, why don't you just clean yourself more?"

Edited 2020-10-08 23:36 (UTC)

“I am natural.” He insists. “But, I was more upset that you had regrets.” He shrugs.

“I just—don’t seem to be fitting in very well.” He waves his hand like he’s swatting the thought away and turns to go.

"...oh."

At that, Benedict actually seems to feel a shred of remorse.

"Well it's-- I was just--" He fights with the words for a moment, then sighs. "...I panicked. I said it just to hurt you. So you'd leave."

It hasn't been one of his prouder days, on the whole.

Edgard nods and grins a little.

"Excuses acceptées" He says in Orlesian. "Be nice to Maman."

And heads down the stairs.

Well that wasn't so hard.

Benedict watches after him for a moment, then turns around to go back up the stairs, trying to be as poised about it as possible for someone whose ass hurts.

He'll see Colin standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and a smile on his face. He gestures into the room with his head.

"I lit the hookah," he says. "You earned it."

Seeming a little smaller as he comes in, Bene ducks his head slightly to rub the back of his neck, as if he's afraid to look Colin in the eye just now. Going forward into the room, he flops stomach-down onto a couple of pillows.

"Did I really?" he asks, and he's not being coy: it sounds like he actually means it.

Colin closes the door and sits down by him. "Of course. This isn't all just punishment for doing bad things. It's also rewarding for doing good things. And you took the spanking without com--without whining, then gave a sincere apology to Edgard."

He takes a hose and passes it to Bene.

Accepting the hose with one hand, Benedict takes the opportunity to finally rub his backside with the other, wincing.

"It wasn't that bad," he half-lies, but his sheepish smile betrays him. "...the way you were looking at me after he left, I was afraid I'd come back to a second round."

Colin shows him his still-red palm.

"Not sure if that would've been a good idea," he says, "but I'm glad I didn't have to decide."

He takes a hose with his left hand and takes a long, slow drag.

"You really want this?" he asks, smoke puffing from his mouth.

"Poor thing," Bene mocks, and takes a long pull, sinking down further onto the cushions as he exhales.

"I mean. ...yes and no." His cheek mushes into the pillow as he talks, lounging splayed across the pile like a lazy cat.

"I didn't like it, it hurt. But I also sort of..." He blushes, "...thought about how upset you'd be, if I didn't do what you said. Not that you have to hit anyone for that, but."

He shifts position again, clearly struggling to get comfortable.

"...I mean, it's a bit hard to forget about."

Colin looks suddenly somber. He takes another drag before lying down on his side so he can look at Bene.

"I'd want a lot of rules," he says. "For me. I'm scared I'd hurt you and you'd not say anything because you'd think you deserved it."

Puff. "What kind of rules?"

"Well we need to have a code of conduct. Set rules for us both defining what sort of thing is and isn't something that can be punished this way. If we could just...make it so I can't...do it the wrong way."

Though he can't even fathom Colin doing anything wrong along those lines, Bene just shrugs with a little nod, watching him, his mouth on the hose.

Colin sees that reaction, studies it a moment, then sighs.

"I'm being stupid again, aren't I?"

Bene lifts his head. "What? ...no, I just don't know what kind of rules you mean."

"Oh." Colin blinks. "Maybe like...being rude. That's something you want me to spank you for. But if you just make me angry, I can't spank you then, not just because I'm angry at you."

"Oh." He takes another pull from the hose and blows it out gently, thinking. It's an increasingly awkward conversation, and part of him wants to pull back on it-- this isn't something normal people talk about, right?-- but then, he has done nothing but prove recently that he hasn't reached Normal yet.

"That makes sense," he says mildly, watching Colin as he follows this train of thought.

That look of discomfort gives Colin pause. Stepping back into their confessions, he tries to think of what he's afraid of.

I'm afraid he won't know the difference between this and abuse. I'm afraid he'll be abused in the future.

A deep breath.

"All right. Forget that. There's only going to be one rule: if anything I do makes you feel the way your mother made you feel, you use that word. You don't have to explain, you don't even have to understand why you feel that way. Deal?"

That seems simple enough. Benedict nods, smiling faintly-- the mere idea that Colin could remind him of his mother is... well, that's why he and Colin are close in the first place.

"Deal."

Something eases in Colin's chest, and he's not sure how to describe it. It's the kind of ease he feels around Athessa or Lexie, a security, yet a small, fluttering fear rises up in response. He scoots closer to cuddle with Bene, though their positions are very awkward. The cuddliness is partly a result of the elfroot, but that feeling is deeper. Something has changed, and it's been long in coming, a reversal of something that kept him from trusting--

Oh. It's trust.

It's why he got someone to come in to create a new wardrobe for Bene. It's why he was so determined to find something on the long-term effects of magebane. It's why he has made both himself and Bene uncomfortable by...not smothering, but something like it. He didn't trust Bene to manage his own affairs, get his own life on track, adapt to his new situation. He wasn't willing to stand back and watch him either sink or swim on his own power. He can't even think of a time other than now when Bene asked for his help.

"I'm sorry," he whispers without giving context.

The pause is enough time for Benedict to start sinking into his thoughts, and he's off somewhere else entirely when Colin speaks again.

"Mm?" He grunts pleasantly through the smoky haze, glancing Colin's way.

"For thinking you needed me. You don't. I think I needed you more." Still oddly touchy-feely from the elfroot, he finds himself tracing the slope of Bene's shoulder with his fingers. "Now we don't need each other. I don't have to always be strong for you, you don't always have to...whatever it was. I think we can just be ourselves around each other and stop being afraid of all the things we talked about. Just...be friends. I won't interfere in any way you don't ask me for. You're more than capable of sorting things out for yourself, and asking for help when you need it. And not necessarily from me."

Benedict's smile broadens, and perhaps it's just the elfroot or the overall feeling of contentment that has sunk in, but he raises his hand to pat Colin gently on the face, much like Athessa would.

"You think too much," he muses fondly. Not that he himself doesn't think too much half the time, but it's not right now, and that's the judgment that matters.

That gets a huge grin and a fit of giggling that turns into chortling. Maybe he does need Benedict after all, to tell him when to quit worrying about this shit.

[Shortly after this hooliganism— maybe Benedict is running an errand for the Diplomacy office; maybe he's working in the dining hall on his mural project; maybe he's minding his own damn business. Regardless, a moment ago there was no stormy presence in his atmosphere and now there is.]

A moment if you please, Artemaeus.

[Pausing midstep, with a folio tucked in his arms, Benedict reminds himself to keep breathing as he turns to look at Flint.]

Ser?

[He closes. Though they are in the open and he is nearly a hand shorter than Benedict, the man has a seemingly supernatural skill for looming.]

Why are you here?

I'm--

[His mind blanks, his mouth moving without forming any words. He fiddles with the folio in his hands.]

I'm bringing Byerly-- this,

[This might not be what Flint was asking.]

In Riftwatch. [Is a curt, impatient interruption the moment it becomes clear that Benedict's answer is going to fumble the point.] What are your expectations?

I want him to fail.

[He grips the folio to himself like a shield.]

Corypheus.

You and half of Thedas. What are you doing to make that happen?

I'm--

[Is anything he says going to be enough? Historically, no, but he has to make the effort anyway.]

--I'm working for Byerly. Scribing, doing supplemental research for dealings with Riftwatch contacts.

[He tries to keep his back straight and his expression stiff, but the fear in him no doubt continues to be palpable.
Perhaps just for insurance, he adds:]

Everything I do goes through him. There's a lot of it, but I'm glad to do it.

[He listens, the point of his attention driving spike narrow. Once he's finished, there is torturous pause in which Flint measures him for a moment more before--]

I'm going to say this once, so I advise you listen.

[He takes a step closer.]

I don't doubt that you want Corypheus to fail. And I know that as long as you have someone like the Scoutmaster or Rutyer standing within arm's reach, that you're perfectly capable of making the decision we'd prefer you to. But it's clear to me that when left to your own devices, you'd rather roll over than risk making any decision where you might own the consequences. That's why you're dangerous. That's why we don't trust you out of our sight.

If you can't even tell another member of Riftwatch that you'd rather she not run you through a gauntlet, then why the fuck should you ever be relied upon for anything more than fetching and carrying? You're not a child. Stop acting like one. Take some responsibility for yourself.

[Resisting the urge to step back, Benedict just slouches a bit instead-- he's very good at being tall and commanding attention when the time is right, but in moments like this, when all he wants to do is sink into the floor, it's hard not to allow a little bend in his spine and a stoop in his knees.]

I told her several times that I didn't want it, ser, [he says, taking care to speak up, but not too much.

It wasn't enough, and that much is clear; but if the lesson here is to not roll over every time he's confronted, despite how badly he wants to in this case, he's doing his best.]

I'm sure the next time you fall in with Venatori, they'll consider your protests similarly. [Is clipped right back - not loud or heated, but firm like a heavy stone. The absolute end of patience.] Figure out how to make yourself heard. This is the last hour I waste on you.

[It's enough to make one's stomach tie into knots. Certain that even if he tried to speak right now, nothing would come out, Benedict simply gives a tight nod, hoping it's not completely obvious how close he is to falling apart.]

Edited 2020-10-17 04:06 (UTC)

[Whether it's obvious or not is irrelevant; their business is concluded. With a last razor sharp look and sway from the tails of that exceedingly dark coat, Flint cuts away - disappearing as suddenly as he'd arrived, leaving Benedict to do either as pleased or compelled.]

Anyroad, lad, you're free of me now. Don't celebrate too hard; you'll hurt the three feelings I have left.

Wait.

...no.

Uh, yes. I'll not bother you for training, though if you'd like to train with the rest of manky Forces crew, you're welcome to it.

Is this because of Commander Flint?

Wh- oh, him. Yeah, he told me to lay off you.

[Scoffing,] of course.

I want to do it. I want to learn, but I need to be shown what to do before I'm told to do it. If I'm attacked out of nowhere... I'll panic.

[A thoughtful noise.] Hadn't thought of that. Ain't a good teacher for a lad like you, when it comes down it it.

If you really care, have a look at general training for Forces. See what basics are like, and we'll go from there, yeah?

[Hopefully he won't show up on a day with someone bleeding while Jone tries to throw a banana down Barrow's throat.]

[Tentatively,] ...all right.

[groannn.]

What's the matter now?

Nothing, you just. Seemed gung-ho, and I don’t want anyone speaking for me.

I'm from Ferelden, lad. The world's been ending since I was fourteen. I'm good at giving up on important old rubbish.

Pretty sure somebody spoke for you, though I couldn't tell you who.

Well. I'm doing it now. And I'll see you at training.

For the record, if Athessa were trying to attack Benedict (but not kill him), she would wait until they were smoking together and just tap his junk or something. Or she'd find him while he's working for Byerly and get him in a headlock, or kick his legs out from under him or, or, or.

But Ben doesn't know that.

"Hey, hang on a sec!" Is what she hollers across the courtyard, jogging towards him.

Still waiting for such an attack to occur, Benedict freezes when Athessa calls out to him, watching her approach in trepidation. She doesn't seem too aggressive, at least, but... it's not always easy to tell, with her.

She does have something of a scowl on her face by the time she reaches him. It's no fault of his, really.

"I gotta fuckin have words with you, mate."

"What?"

He takes a step back, creating a little distance, but at least not completely running away.

She catches his arm to steer him along on another walk-and-talk, as she is wont to do, and fishes a hand-written list out of her pocket.

"What the fuck is brocade and where am I supposed to get it?" She asks, letting go of his arm and offering him the list. But she also gives him a once-over and frowns. "Why are you jumpier than usual? Are people actually attacking you?"

Tangibly relaxing, Benedict reaches for the list to look it over.

"No," he admits, "not yet, but Maker knows what people will do. Brocade is a fabric, you can buy it in Hightown. There's one man in particular, he's got a stall with a lot of higher-end textiles."

As the former chamberlain, he's got his sources.

"Ugh, Hightown," she groans. Anyone selling anything higher-end is gonna give her gaff, she just knows it. "You're doing decorating for the party, right? What do we need brocade for?"

He looks down at her loftily.

"I want it to look nice."

She rolls her eyes.

"Fine, you can come with me to get this stuff, then. They're letting you off the island now, right?"

He perks up a little, but pauses mid-step.

"I-- yes," he admits, with an air of realization. "I'll have to get magebane from Colin."
Not that he likes that idea, but he appreciates it more when it means he gets to go shopping in Hightown.

Athessa makes a face — which Bene will recognize as a general purpose yucky face with regards to the magebane — then shrugs.

"Okay, well. Get some and meet me at the ferry, so long as Byerly doesn't have you ironing his socks or whatever."

And just to be a pill, she thumps his shoulder with her fist. Not hard, nowhere near enough to even hurt, much less move him. A friendly little nudge before she heads off on her way.

He snorts. "All righ-- hey!"

He pouts and grips his shoulder, because it's the principle of the thing, but then he smiles again when she walks away.

It's a few hours later that he shows up at the docks with a basket, wearing one of his new outfits and clearly ready to take the town by storm.

Edited 2020-10-20 22:58 (UTC)

A few hours? Good gods, Benedict, did you iron all the man's socks??

No, Athessa wasn't waiting that whole time. She has other things to do, none of which involve changing her outfit or anything. Her outfit du jour consists of the same dark shirt, same brown trousers, same belt, and a pair of strappy sandals from earlier.

"Took ya long enough," she says as he approaches.

"Some of us have jobs," Bene replies with a toss of his head, looking a little rattled for some reason or another-- it's been a bit of a day-- but he's ready to get to work, based on how he scans the boats to see which one they're taking.

"All of us have jobs. That's...why we're all here." Like, congrats on getting on our level, Ben.

"Yes, well some have ones that we can't just up and leave in the middle of the day!" He says, throwing his hands up with a little roll of his eyes.
"Are we going or not?"

Athessa gestures to the ferry. "After you, Serrah Walnut."

Once they're on the ferry and underway, Athessa pulls out the list again, reading over it.

"I don't even know what half of these things are."

"Then it's a good thing I'm here."

Benedict leans over to look at the list as well, furrowing his brow.

"Oh, this shouldn't take long."

That's the only reason you're here is what she almost says, but opts for just jabbing her finger at one of the items. "Proski-yuto? What is that? Another fancy fabric?"

"It's a sausage, you ignoramus," Benedict scoffs, "Antivan, specifically. But we can do better than that."

She gives him a flat look.

"You really wanna start name-calling while I can push you overboard?" Then she shakes her head at his suggestion of better meat. "If Colin wants the proskiyuto sausage then we should get the kind he asked for."

"No," Bene says quickly, cagily; there's a story there, but he's not eager to volunteer it.

"Fine then. Be boring. Boring like Colin."

It doesn't really matter that there's a story there, because Athessa is too busy noting how thin the ice under Benedict's feet is at that comment.

"Oh, you're right," She folds up the list and puts it back in her pocket. It's safe from getting wet, that way, and now both of her hands are free in case she needs to smack this boy. "If being boring like Colin is what gets you off I definitely don't wanna be that."

Seemingly oblivious of any wrongdoing, Bene is immediately scandalized by Athessa's retort.
"What gets me off is none of your business," he says haughtily, but seems, immediately after, to become aware of how he sounds.

"...you soporati dogfucker," he adds, a smirk twitching onto his face.

If this were a video game, there would be a pressure gauge hovering somewhere near Athessa, showing a number that increases the closer she gets to dunking the Vint. And, when he introduces their little inside joke, the number stops rising, even falls a few points when she smirks back.

"You're the one who brought up who has more interesting sausage."

The ferry gets to the dock at about that moment, and the number drops even further, back into safe territory — but not before she shoves him a little, playfully.

"You better watch it with that boring talk, though," she warns, but keeps her tone light. She wants him to heed her, not cower like a kicked puppy. "Or I really will have to kick your ass."

He grins back at her, perfectly at ease.

He remains thus until they're up on the dock and Athessa offers that warning, which elicits a little scoff.
"Maker, I was joking," he says with a roll of his eyes, "he would've laughed."

"I know he would. I know exactly how it'd sound, too."

To prove it, she does an impression of Colin's self-conscious laugh. She's heard it often enough, when she points out something he does that even he doesn't realize, but before she has a chance to clarify the good things about it. Athessa even ducks her head the way Colin would, and feigns the flicker of a smile.

Giving an undignified bark of laughter, Benedict quickly covers his mouth and glances around, perhaps afraid someone will see him enjoying himself too much and decide he can't come back on the mainland again.

"...all right, where're we going," he swerves, leaning over her to try and see where she put the list, "I can take you to the best fabric stall."

It isn't meant to be funny, Benedict. She gives him a peevish look and places a hand on his chest to curb his looming.

"You'd better be prepared to take us to the second- or maybe third-best fabric stall," she says, and produces the list again. "We're on a budget."

Missing the look but responding to the hand, he nods.

"Fine," he agrees without too much fuss, "as long as what we get doesn't look like the second or third best."

"I'll leave that up to you, then. They're more likely to haggle with you anyway."

She may not know where the fabric stalls he wants to go to are, but she knows where Hightown is, so she starts walking that-a-way.

Strolling along beside her, Benedict remains in high spirits, and seems to enjoy talking to and haggling with the merchants. He actually, perhaps surprisingly, appears to know a lot about different fabrics, how this one will react to that treatment or how that one will catch this kind of light-- in the end, the deals they get are solid ones, as he demonstrates someone who can't be fleeced, at least in this department.

As they move on to the next item, he looks pleased as punch, carrying two bolts of their chosen fabric, one in each arm.

Athessa glances sidelong at him, appraising how he seems now compared to...every other time she sees him.

"You sure know a lot about cloth," she says, sounding kind of impressed. But only kind of. "And negotiating."

She doesn't think she has to point out that she would've had to haggle the merchant down from an even bigger markup if Benedict weren't here. Though it comes at the price of people assuming she's his servant.

"My father's a textile merchant," Bene admits, with as much of a shrug as he can manage while holding his cargo, "he took me to auctions sometimes, just to show me what he did. They were boring and loud, and I knew it wouldn't be my future as long as Mother had a say in it, but.

I picked up a few things, I guess."

"Is it something you like, or just something you know?"

What does he even like? Other than expensive things and sucking cock.

He has to think about it.

"I like it," he decides, "I liked being chamberlain, and it was a lot of that."

She doesn't hesitate to flash more gaps in her education, but it isn't an intentional attempt to give him silent permission to not be perfect or anything.

She just doesn't care to pretend to be smarter than she is.

"What does a chamberlain do, anyway?"

"Well, for Riftwatch, it was all about preparing rooms for notable guests. Making sure they were comfortable, had everything they needed, that sort of thing. I decorated the rooms to reflect the importance of the visitors."

He seems a little wistful.

Athessa looks at him again, assessing whether or not he's lying. Not about the job description, but about liking it. It doesn't seem like he realizes how servile the position sounds.

A little test, just in case: "What about guests who aren't important?"

"I mean..." He doesn't seem to realize it's a test, but perhaps that's for the better.
"Important just means they were invited by Riftwatch. People's personal guests usually stay nearby, or with them in their rooms, or," he waves his hand dismissively. "It's not like someone would be visiting and I'd hear 'oh yeah, put him in the shit room'. They were all nice."

"So it was just about making visitors comfortable? Like...decorating their rooms."

"Yeah. Making sure all the food they wanted was prepared, that sort of thing."

"And you enjoyed that."

A beat.

"What did you like about it?"

"Getting it right. Making everything perfect." He shrugs again, a bit gloomily. It's not like it's still his job.

"We need paper lanterns," he reminds her, nodding toward a nearby stall that specializes in them.

"What color?" Is the only paper lantern-related question she has to ask before musing:

"Being Chamberlain sounds an awful lot like being a servant with a fancy title."

"Gold," he answers immediately, and then scoffs, smirking at her.

"In my experience, servants carry out the orders made by their employers." He inspects a couple of show pieces, and holds one up to choose it.

"It's like the difference between the architect and the construction workers."

The scoff gets a raised eyebrow, and if she weren't just speaking her mind honestly she might be contrary out of spite when she points at a different gold lantern. "I like that one better."

"Why that one?" Bene asks, looking between them, "this one is the same hue as the embroidery. Look."
He unravels a bit of the fabric to hold it next to the lantern and show her.

"They're the same color," she says, offhand. "I just like the style better."

He snorts with slight amusement, but also confusion. "They're not the same color." But he holds the second lantern against it as well, just to see.

"It's not bad, but I think the harder edges will look better with the rounded arches of the hall. Visual interest, and all that."

She looks at the lanterns side by side, deliberating for a long moment.

"They are the same color. And the curvy lines of this one will match the rounded arches."

How much of this is contrarianism? How much is actual opinion? Who knows!

"They are not the same color," Benedict insists, with a touch of impatience, "and I'm the one in charge of the decorating, so I think it's my decision."

See what happens when he tries to be diplomatic? See??

"Fine, you're in charge and it's your decision," Athessa rolls her eyes.

"But they are the same color."

"Maker's breath they're not the same color!" Benedict answers, tense but cheerful, and hands over the down payment so the merchant can begin taking a proper order. He's focused on that until they've got it settled, then turns toward Athessa again with a smile that seems to say 'are we done!'

"Anything else?"

"I dunno, you're the one in charge of decorating."

She holds up her empty hands, because at some point the list ended up in his pocket. How'd that happen?

He gives her the stinkeye for a moment, but then, with control of the situation back in his own hands, he perks up and withdraws the list.
"Candles," he chirps, and beckons for her to follow.

See, this is fun!

"Oh boy, candles." She says, deadpan, and follows after with her hands in her pockets. "Not like we don't have tons of those already."

It's nice that he's having fun, anyway. One might think that Athessa was the one who got dragged along on this shopping trip.

"Not the nice scented ones," Bene replies pleasantly, and off they go to another stall.

This goes on for a while: once they get the candles, they need ribbon for the candlesticks and other accoutrements, flowers, feathers, all ordered in detail and set to be delivered to the Gallows the day before the event. The fabric is given over to an artisan to be made into drapings, and it's evening by the time they've finished.

Checking off the last of the list, Benedict smiles down at Athessa, clearly having had the time of his life.
"Ready to head back?"

And by the end of it all, Athessa doesn't feel like she's learned anything at all about party planning. Which is fine, honestly. She's not planning on throwing any parties.

"Sure," she says, and shrugs. Looking at him with the same appraisal she did earlier, she tilts her head and says: "It's weird. I don't think I've ever seen you...like this."

"Like what?"
He's prepared for it to be a barb of some kind, but is in a good enough mood to let that particularly anxiety slide as they board the ferry.

"Happy."

"Oh."

The word catches him off-guard, and he blinks at her, then out at the bay.

"...I guess I am." He smirks faintly, uncertainly. Then, with a sheepish shrug, "...thanks for bringing me out."

"Sure."

It's a distracted syllable, still buried under her scrutiny, being examined and pulled apart and reexamined. Unable to really quantify it, she looks out over the bay as well.

"Aw, fuck," she groans, realizing something. Something terrible.

"What?"

The disgruntled look on her face isn't motion sickness.

"We're friends, aren't we."

He almost smiles, but that would ruin the moment.
"Ew."

He nudges her with his elbow.

"Gross, don't touch me," she says, and nudges him back.

"What, like this?" He leans against her.

She plants her palm over his face and pushes him away. "Staaawp! I hate that you're tall, of all things, too!"

The height difference and the force with which she pushes him away results in sudden tragedy, which seems to him like it happens in slow-motion: he's laughing, trying to get his footing back, but is tall enough that his center of gravity is able to surpass the railing of the ferry, bringing the rest of him with it.

What results is a wild flailing, a yelp of horror, and a heavy splash.

He emerges again a moment later, scrambling for the base of the railing like a wet cat, his expertly coiffed hair drenched and matted to his head in a black sheet.

Edited 2020-10-28 06:01 (UTC)

She makes a pointless grab after him and leans over the railing, staring until he resurfaces. And then she just can't help it. The laugh forces its way out of her, puffing her cheeks out and making the first hint of amusement sound more or less like pffthbt.

Then she's downright cackling, clinging to the rail to keep herself upright. The sight of his hair alone, stuck to his face like a weird mask, is enough to make the day of shopping worthwhile.

Without the upper body strength to hoist himself up, Bene requires the help of the ferryman to drag him up by one skinny arm and deposit him, shivering, on the deck, where he grips his arms and gives Athessa a wounded, pitiful look.

"It's not funny," he mumbles, but not loudly enough to be admonishing her directly. He's cold.

"It is, though!" She wheezes, the sole of her sandal slipping on the wet deck and sending her thudding onto her bottom. It doesn't do much to cease her giggles.

"Y-Your h-h-hahaha-hair!"

He scowls at Athessa, but now that she's down here too and laughing as hard as she is, it's a bit difficult not to smile at least a little.
Self-consciously, he pushes his hair back out of his face and returns to shivering, his previously perfectly warm jacket now nothing but a contributor to the damp cold.

"You're an arsehole," he mutters, the curve of his lip suggesting, okay, maybe it's a little funny.

"And you're a tit," she snorts, but the guffawing is unsteadily tapering off.

Colin is waiting in the hallway when Bene gets off work, looking glum.

Looking a little surprised to see him, Benedict saunters over and angles his head to peer better at Colin's face.

"Hullo," he greets carefully.

His eyes turn upward toward Benedict.

"Can we talk?"

Well this seems serious. Benedict nods, bracing for what he instinctively assumes will either be a scolding or bad news of some kind.

He gestures for Bene to follow him. They wind up in the hookah room because it is safe and familiar, and he sits on one of the cushions and folds in on himself.

"Um. Remember how someone pushed Athessa down the stairs last year?"

This yields a bewildered expression.

"Uh. No?"

That seems like something he'd remember.

Not incredibly surprising. The event was before even Colin knew her, and he only learned of it on the network when Kostos tried to find out who did it.

"Well. Probably while you were downstairs." A gentle way of saying when you were locked up. "There was no one near her at the time, but she was pushed down the stairs. Not tripped. Someone used magic to push her down the stairs. She saw a bit of their shadow, I think, but that was all. She broke her arm and never knew who did it. She and Kostos tried to figure it out, but never came up with anyone."

Just talking about it, he's starting to get angry again. He can feel his chest tightening, the rush coming back to his ears.

Folding his own skinny legs up to his chest, Benedict listens with a furrowed brow, looking more and more incredulous as the story develops. There's a twinge of frustration at the notion that he wouldn't-- couldn't have known about it, missed out on almost a full year, and he can't help but wonder what else he missed.

"I've been..." a deep breath, though it doesn't seem to settle him much, "worried, because anyone who'd do that to her would do it to someone else. Then she got a confession out of nowhere."

One hand clenches into a fist.

"Leander."

Benedict's expression is almost blank, the barest of dry smirks twitching at the corner of his mouth. Of course. Of course it was fucking Leander.

"You're joking," he says in a deadpan, feeling a familiar swell of outrage, one that he has long since learned to tamp down in favor of not making a fuss.

"He told her?"

"He told her," Colin says through clenched teeth, starting to shake. "He did it because Kostos tripped one of his friends down the stairs and he thought he'd show him what it was like."

This elicits an eyeroll; Kostos being involved isn't doing the story any favors.

"Petty piece of shit," he mutters, and sighs. "Well, I'm glad Athessa's all right."

It is a bit validating to know that his own experience, which he's downplayed in his mind since Leander theoretically made peace, may yet have been as nasty as he thought.

When Bene says that, something in Colin snaps. He picks up a pillow and starts beating the floor savagely with it, as if it's a truncheon and the floor is Leander's face. When that proves not-quite-satisfying, he places fingernails in the seam and tries to rip it open. Fortunately, thread isn't in the business of just snapping. Unfortunately, he drops the pillow and claws at the one thing he knows will respond the way he wants it to--his own face.

With a start, Benedict lurches forward to first take the pillow away (poor thing), then gently puts his hands on Colin's wrists to pull his fingers from his face.

"Colin! Colin, stop," he breathes, abruptly Very Concerned, "it's fine. She's fine."

Benedict will feel resistance as Colin fights him at first, the rushing in his head drowning out much of Benedict's voice. Fists clench as he remembers nails clawing into soil in an empty space where a house used to be.

He hadn't had a spell like this in months until Satinalia. They used to happen often. As he slowly recognizes what's happening, he reaches out to wrap his arms tightly around Benedict, clinging to him like a mooring.

Edited 2020-11-15 22:00 (UTC)

This is spooky.

Holding him close, Bene has to take a moment to calm himself down as well, fully unused to either this behavior from Colin or filling the role of Emotional Support.

"It's all right," he says gently, not knowing what else to do.

It is all right. Athessa's all right. He keeps Bene in a crushing embrace as his breathing and heart rate slowly approach normal.

"It's 9:46," he mutters. This isn't a flashback, but he doesn't think it's strictly about current events, either. It feels dark and cold, it feels like the Circle when you didn't know who was your enemy. This place was just starting to feel safe.

After a while, he is relaxed against Bene, feeling tired and foggy.

"Thank you," he sighs.

Remaining silent until Colin speaks again, Bene just holds him until the 'thank you'-- then he nods into Colin's hair.
"Of course," he murmurs, and loosens his grip a little so he can look into his face.

"Should I light it...?" He asks, nodding his head toward the hookah, "you might feel better."

Colin nods mutely, not yet prepared to try to explain himself.

Benedict does so, using his fingers to light it as he always did before the magebane-- it's liberating, and never doesn't give him a flicker of joy when he's able to conjure in this way.

Once everything is set up, and the smoke coming smoothly through the hose, Benedict finishes testing it and offers it over to Colin, resting back on his elbows to watch him with an expression of concern.

Smoke inhaled, and soon Colin is lying back against the cushions and feeling a bit more himself. He even offers a little smile when he finally notices Bene's nervousness.

"Sorry," he says quietly. "Sometimes happens when I get upset."

He raises a hand to his face to feel for the tracks his nails left and see if anything needs healing.

"So it would seem." Maker's breath, Colin.

"You're really angry with him, then."

He nods a bit.

"And scared. I've already..."

The stifling feeling starts trying to come back, so he takes another pull of smoke.

"Already lost everyone I can afford to lose."

Bene arches his eyebrows.

"For all the shit he talks, I think he knows what he could expect to lose by killing anyone," he reasons, gesturing lightly as he makes his point, "I don't think he'll kill anyone. Not on purpose, at least. He's a rude bastard, but he's not a total idiot."

It takes one to know one, after all.

“He doesn’t have to intend to kill someone. If she’s broken her neck instead of her arm, it wouldn’t matter what he intended.”

"I know."

Bene falls silent for a moment, reaching for the hose as he contemplates the situation. He doesn't want to allow Leander any leeway, not after the run-ins they've had; but he doesn't want Colin to be upset, either.

"...but she didn't," he admits, "and people know about it now. I don't think he'll be allowed a chance to push someone else."

Colin releases the hose as Bene takes it.

"I know. I just, um."

He doesn't continue. He has no idea how to vocalize his feelings right now, and at the moment, he really doesn't want to hassle with the self-scrutiny for it. It all feels too close.

"I wanted you to know. He's got a way of making you think you're the one unfairly judging him, but he's dangerous."

Edited 2020-11-16 04:08 (UTC)

Taking a pull, Benedict watches Colin quietly. Then, breathing out with a wince, he hands it back.

"I know." His lips purse as he reflects on the interactions he's had with Leander.

"I've tried to just... make myself stop caring what he thinks, or does. I have too much at stake to worry about pleasing him."

That's a familiar sentiment. Colin tries to piece it together again.

"You don't want to please him, you want to pacify him. So you're safe."

"Yeah." He purses his lips, tapping the nozzle against them.

"...I want him to leave me alone. ...I want him to leave all of us alone."

"You can't do that by pleasing him." He adjusts himself so one shoulder can press against Bene's. "Though the good news is I don't think he finds us especially interesting, nor is it in his best interests to just be violent now that he's known to have attacked two people unprovoked. One of whom is a division head."

"He attacked a division head? When?"

This must have been in the Dungeon Times.

"I'm not entirely clear on when, but I think it was long enough ago that Byerly wasn't a division head yet."

"Byerly?"

That's going to be a conversation, whether anyone likes it or not.

A nod, though Colin doesn't feel qualified to impart any more information about it.

"Just be careful. But don't be scared, either. I don't really think he'd admit to this if he was planning to keep pushing people down the stairs."

"I know." Puff.

"I'm not scared. And I try to be careful."

He hands the hose back, settling in with his fingers clasped over his chest.

"Just..." He chews his lower lip. "Makes you think. That's all."

Colin takes the hose but doesn't puff right away, staring up at the ceiling and weighing how high he already is.

He's scared. But he's always scared. He has come to realize that he truly can't tell the difference between a real threat and an imagined one, but that hasn't eliminated the need to try. So he tries to work it out by looking at the facts. It's not the most reliable system--he'd told himself all sorts of things so he could ignore the warning signs with Lutair. He finally pops the hose in his mouth and inhales deeply.

"Makes me think too much," he admits with a sigh of smoke. "You know how when you were a kid, you knew there were dangers in the world, but you reckoned the world as a whole wasn't out to get you?"

The analogy might strike a nerve with most people, but for someone whose early life was very insulated from anything even close to uncomfortable, Benedict finds it coming up a bit short.
He glances toward Colin, not necessarily agreeing, but still listening.

Colin meets his eyes and realizes he's missed his mark.

"Never mind. Let's talk about something else."

"No, it's--"

Colin was clearly trying to make a point, and this won't be the first time Benedict's overall obliviousness has interfered.

"--go on."

There's a pause as he switches to another tack.

"When I was a kid, my sisters and I were taught not to wander off with any strangers because we lived in a port city and they might be slavers. Just as an example. But we believed if we followed that rule and looked out for each other, we'd be safe."

Bene's eyes dart away, then back to Colin. Then he nods. No need to dwell on the differences there.

"Then you get older, follow all the rules, and they're not keeping you safe. Worse, sometimes you find it's a choice between being kind to someone who might need it while risking your safety, or being safe but cruel. Wanting to give someone like Leander a chance, inviting him into your home, acknowledging you'd jumped to conclusions. Thinking instead of fear, you could have peace and possibly a new friend."

Seeing where this is starting to go, Bene rolls over and folds his arms, resting the lower half of his face in them as he silently watches Colin.

It's not terrible reasoning. One might say Colin did the same thing with him, after all.

"I can't just...forgive him for what he's done to people I care about. At the same time, if I don't, who will?"

"But why would that be your job?"

Benedict narrows his eyes.

"Unless I'm mistaken, I don't think he cares enough about you for that to be any kind of deciding factor. He'll be the same whether you've forgiven him or not."

"But would I be the same?" Colin looks over at Benedict. "Why should I forgive some people and not others?"

"Well," Bene murmurs, his gaze turning inward as he considers.

"...because some people worked for your forgiveness?" He looks to him with pensive caution. "And actually care a lot what you think of them?"

Whoof, this is hard to say aloud.

"If you forgive anyone no matter what, is your forgiveness even worth anything? Like." Self-consciously, he tucks a strand of hair behind one ear.

"Doesn't that just make you a doormat? Why would anyone bother trying to make it better if they knew it didn't matter either way?"

Edited 2020-11-26 00:41 (UTC)

They're good points. Very good points. His gaze falls away as he stews on it.

"I didn't think about it like that," he sighs. "That's not really forgiveness, is it? It's just giving more and more ground so you won't have to have an argument. And my friends aren't ground I can give. I just. Didn't like the feeling when I wanted to go find him and beat the shit out of him."

"I guess that means you have to find him and beat the shit out of him," Bene says with a little smirk, but holds up his hand quickly so Colin doesn't think he's serious.

"...you're too good for this. Giving ground to people who don't deserve it. That's a thing cowards do, and that's not who you are."

A thing cowards like himself do is at least lightly implied-- after all, caving to the demands of someone incapable of showing affection was what landed him in so much trouble in the first place. Perhaps he's learned better since then, but only time can tell such a thing.

A little smile tugs at his lips. He's not sure if he agrees with Benedict's assessment, but it's sweet.

"You don't think I'm a coward?" he asks, sounding touched but unconvinced. "I can't think of a time I did something brave when I didn't have to."

"At least you did it." Bene shrugs, rolling his eyes.

"There's a coward in here, but it isn't you."

That gets a pause from Colin as he tries to sort out what to say to that.

"It's important to know your own weaknesses," he says slowly, "but calling myself names like that makes me think I can never be anything else. I don't know how it is for you."

Frowning, Benedict recognizes the truth in Colin's reply, but isn't reassured by it.

He grabs a pillow off to the side and pulls it toward himself so he can mush his face into it, the universal gesture of Ugggh.

"I don't know," he mumbles into it, "I can't know. I can say whatever I want until something happens to prove it, one way or the other."

"Well." Colin thinks for a moment. "You went to Byerly and asked for a better job. That's brave."

"Maybe." Spoken into the pillow.

"But I mean really brave. Life and death brave."

"The sort of thing where you're risking your life for something bigger than yourself?"

A pause. Then, "yeah."

Colin bobs his head in sympathy. "Yeah. That's...I mean, I ran far as I could from the war with the Templars because I didn't think I could do that. Then I was put basically on the front line at the Battle of Ghislain a couple of years ago, and it was...not my choice. I was terrified at first. Then all your primal instincts kick in and you just wreak as much havoc as possible. That's sort of the trick. The only way not to be scared is to decide you’re going to be the scariest thing on the battlefield. Or elsewhere.”

Edited 2020-11-28 09:26 (UTC)

A little smirk into the pillow, and Bene's face resurfaces, his chin resting atop it.

"I was scared the entire time at Ghislain. And then I got stabbed. And almost died in a fire."

Sometimes one's instincts are right.

"...at least I was there, I guess."

"Wait, why were you there? Weren't you in Diplomacy at the time?"

Perhaps Colin can be forgiven for forgetting this detail, given the shape everyone was in while returning home.

"They needed all the hands they could get."

He frowns.

"I was in a unit of mages who were supplementing the infantry with magic. Doing hexes and all that. We got overrun."

At this moment, he realizes this is the first time he's actually spoken to anyone about what happened that day; several people know he was stabbed, but no one knows the details.

"...I fucked up my barrier, the swordsman was too close. He ran me through." After thinking on it a moment, he rolls over to tug up the hem of his tunic, revealing the scar over his belly.

"A white-haired elf saved me. Dragged me off the field. ...I forget her name."

Feels bad.

It takes Colin a moment, because his mind is racing to why that sounds familiar, and then he, too, feels bad that it took him this long.

"Was it Inessa?"

With a start of recognition, Bene nods at him.

"She had the mabari with her."

"Garahel." Colin gives a wistful smile. "Inessa and I were apprentices together. She was always like that, wanting to save everyone. It made sense when she got recruited into the Wardens."

"That's good. I think."

With the anxiety passed, Benedict picks up the hose again and takes a pull from it, remembering its presence and purpose.

"...anyway, I'm better at conjuring barriers again. I couldn't for a while, after that. It was like my body forgot how."

When Colin has a moment to peek into Byerly's office to check up on Benedict, he does. He probably feels as fried as Colin does, at a guess.

"You all right?" he asks tentatively.

Looking up from over a cup of coffee, Benedict looks a little surprised to see him, and shrugs a shoulder.

"Could be worse," he muses, "could've betrayed everyone again."

"Shows us you wouldn't go there even in your darkest dreams," Colin points out with a little smile. "Though in one of those dreams you ran off. I'd've gone after you if I hadn't known it was a dream."

It takes a moment for Bene to answer, as he combs through his memory for the incident in question; and when he arrives, his smile to Colin turns sheepish.

"I made sure you wouldn't follow. You couldn't anyway." He pushes his hair back out of his face with a wince.

"...and then I killed Jone."

That gets a longer pause from Colin.

"I see," he says neutrally, chiefly because he has no idea what to do with that information. "What does she think of this?"

The serious expression gives way to a smile of uncertain amusement.

"...she wants to teach me to do it better."

"...I knew I liked her." A soft laugh and a shake of his head. "She's something."

Fingernails tap idly against the door frame. "Did, did Edgard, this morning...?" He winces slightly.

"Seemed kind of fucked up over it, to be honest," Benedict admits with a wince, "we haven't really talked about it yet."

Colin nods. Since Benedict is technically at work, this might not be the best place to get into it.

"Want to do something tonight?" he asks. "Maybe go into town, take in how normal everything looks."

Though he thinks about it a moment, Bene nods eventually, giving a little sigh as he rests his cheek on his hand.

"Yeah. Yeah, let's do that."

"We'll talk then. Just. Wanted to make sure you're all right this morning. I'll see you after work."

"See you then," Bene says, tapping his own temple and pointing at Colin in the universal 'I get you' gesture.

The trip to Denerim and back is long, by way of both travel and necessity itself: Gabranth refused to rush Jone through the shadows of her own past, as he— were Landis to exist as anything more than an unseemly speck of rubble— would refuse to rush himself through his own.

Still, in the end that means he’s not seen nor heard from Benedict Artemaeus since before their efforts in Cloudreach, and in the late hour of his return, he makes searching the man out a priority.

Regardless of what Benedict might otherwise be doing.

It's at a time when reasonable people are in bed (or at least people who have to work during the day), and Benedict is no exception. He's asleep, stomach to the mattress with one hand hanging down to the floor, his face turned to the side on the pillow and serene in its unconsciousness.

A pity, then, that serenity never lasts. Beside him in the dark soon kneels that ever-grim set of armor, gauntleted hand pressed fast to Benedict’s shoulder— a bid at forcing dull senses to draw back out of dreams and into the waking world once more.

“Lord Artemaeus.”

That his helmet remains in place owing to lack of privacy might make for a terrible awakening, if Benedict can find it in himself to open his eyes.

It's never going to be that easy. Though he rouses slightly, Benedict responds to the disturbance by lightly swatting at the hand on his shoulder and mumbling something about how he's busy.

Were Benedict someone else, perhaps this would go differently. It’s a simple thing, after all, to drag someone from their slumber— prone as they are in dreams.

Instead, Gabranth simply situates himself more fully at Benedict’s side, content to wait until he wakes, however long that might be.

It's quite a while, but not too long-- he normally wakes up an hour or so after dawn, with enough time to have breakfast and train with Jone before he heads up to Byerly's office for work.

By the time it happens today, however, there have been enough people coming in and out of the dormitory to have pointedly noticed the suit of armor sitting crouched and still next to Benedict's bed. No one makes any trouble about it, but a chuckle does ripple through the room when he does finally awaken, and gives a loud of gasp of alarm.

“You did not wake.” He explains, the emptied sockets of that heavy helm meeting Benedict’s own bleary bewilderment.

Which...really isn’t much of an explanation at all, in fact.

"I did now," Benedict snaps, but immediately catches himself, pursing his lips closed with a shake of his head.

"...sorry."

He glances up and down the armored form. "...welcome back."

There’s a soft little sound from inside that helmet, something akin to an exhale in the wake of Benedict’s quick correction: diffused tension, perhaps— or fond approval. If he notices (or even cares) about the amused whispers of laughter echoing elsewhere at his back, it doesn’t show; the whole of his attention is on Benedict, and for that he rises to stand at last, ignoring the stiffness of a night spent keeping careful watch.

“Come.” Helm shifting in dim morning light, angling itself towards the entryway. “I wish to talk.”

It occurs to Benedict, as he slumps out of bed, how strange it is that he's happy to see Gabranth-- or perhaps 'happy' isn't entirely the right word, but there's a feeling of something clicking into place now that he's in Bene's presence again.

They parted on unpleasant terms, and he's been stewing in them ever since. He doesn't waste any time picking out clothes, instead simply padding out barefoot after Gabranth, still wearing the undershirt and loose linen trousers that he sleeps in.

A single glance is cast downwards towards those bare feet, though it comes without judgment and ends the moment Gabranth turns to begin his own steady walk through winding corridors. He’d originally intended to take in air while the morning chill yet lingered. Now, he cuts a different path— one to spare a magister’s son cut heels or sore skin.

“Your efforts since Cloudreach, how do they fare?”

They’d not spoken even during their slow return, after all, and Gabranth had departed halfway through to see to the matter of Jone’s wellbeing. Necessary delays, ever translating into lengthy absences.

"Um... normally?"

In Jone's absence, and with everything happening like it did, it's been difficult to focus too intensely on his combat training-- at least too much more than he already was.

He shivers at the cold flagstone under his feet, regretting not at least putting on slippers, but it seemed a mistake to keep Gabranth waiting.

It isn’t exactly a motivated answer, and it lacks any sort of definitive plans for future endeavors...but Gabranth supposes he can hardly expect the man to become Larsa overnight.

Or at all.

A few turns, an intentional course cut (one Benedict himself might recognize), and they stand outside the room where they’d first met in short order. Gabranth expects there’s some degree of comfort found inside for the mage, and at the very least, a place to warm himself.

Once inside, he shuts the door behind him.

“Jone of Denerim has seen my face.”

Pleased by Gabranth's choice of room, if only for its fireplace and generous assortment of pillows, Benedict wanders inside and makes himself comfortable atop several of them. The fireplace is cold, but if their discussion is to be a lengthy one, it's not like he needs anything other than wood to light it.

"Huh," he intones, crossing his legs and looking up at Gabranth, "how'd that go?"

He pulls his own helmet free as Benedict seats himself, content to remain at a distance— looming beside the doorway as a cautious measure, should someone decide to wander nearby at this early hour, however unlikely.

The noise he makes is an unhappy one. A throaty little sound that only winds up as a meager mmph, his eyeline lowering by degrees.

“Not well.”

Which is putting it lightly, considering how vividly they’d argued for a short, volatile period of time. In hindsight, even after all they’ve been through since, he still does not understand it. “She seemed claimed by malcontent. Quick to provocation, though it was she who bid me remove my helm to begin with.”

Fearful, anxious— those aspects of it he keeps to himself, as he’d not dare to speak of her vulnerability to another without consent. Not even Benedict.

"Oh."

Benedict has known Jone to have Feelings about things, but this surprises him somewhat, especially with the detail that it was she personally who requested he remove his helmet.

"...why? Did she say?"

“....I do not remember.”

That he was an arse, a prettyboy, somewhere along the way between shoving at him and calling herself a monster.

Still, despite his meager lack of confession, the simple truth that he realizes in this moment is that there is no point to dredging this up: much as he wants to understand why she’d drawn into herself in a panic— why she lashed out in the first place— there is too little he can divulge that isn’t part of biased, blurry (infuriated, even) hindsight.

In the end, to press farther would only result in this becoming the equivalent of petulant whinging...and he refuses to stoop so low.

“It is unimportant.” Offered as an abrupt dismissal, his attention drifting instead towards Benedict’s chosen nest of pillows.

“Did you officially report on your success in Orlais?”

"Oh." Noting the evasion with a raised eyebrow, but he doesn't push the question.

"...um. No, not... I mean, I didn't." He looks a bit self-conscious, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know that anyone wants to hear it from me. Jone spearheaded the thing, and all that."

"To speak of your own contribution hardly detracts from her efforts."

And it had not, for a number of reasons, been an insignificant amount of assistance in the grander scheme of things. Benedict had granted them all the benefit of safety between the jagged snaps of claws and fangs, and regardless of how they'd come to bare teeth at one another during the party, his work in accumulating favor seemed fairly well executed so far as Gabranth could measure at a distance.

"Your standing within Riftwatch is poor, is it not?"

Edited (what is sleep what is english idk anymore) 2021-04-17 11:10 (UTC)

"It... yes."

Perhaps it's about time Gabranth learned the whole truth of it. If Benedict weren't still waking up, it would seem like as good a time as any, but with things being as they are, he waits a moment to see if Gabranth has any specific questions.

There is no evasion, no sign or glimmer of fear in Benedict’s expression, though hesitancy dwells deep in the sound of his voice— apparent even at a distance. A subtle shift, compared to the ever-harried man he’d first met, grasping for footholds in everything surrounding him as if afraid to be caught unawares.

“With those in leadership as well as your peers, I take it?”

Benedict nods, shame creeping into his eyes as he tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, his shoulders squaring uneasily.

Here goes.

Here goes nothing, as the saying goes.

Gabranth, now satisfied with the lack of footfalls anywhere in the hallway nearby, sets his helm within the crook of his arm, rather than gripping it fully— pacing instead towards the window, and tilting his head towards the crisp scent of a frost-touched morning.

"Then I would suggest you do as I propose, and speak of your most recent accomplishments to those who hold station above you. Do not boast, only offer a report, and leave it at that." A beat, his pale eyes shifting to view Benedict out of the corner of his own peripheral vision. "This will help you atone in their eyes."

"And if you cannot, I will do so on your behalf."

The mere thought of it, of daring to exist in the gaze of Flint or Yseult or... most other people, really, without proof of some major heroism-- confusing a dragon doesn't count-- is enough to send a shiver up Benedict's spine.

"No, I can't," he insists breathily, drawing his knees up to his chest, "and... don't. Please. Don't mention me to them."

Whatever half-given attention had rested upon Benedict before, it now turns to full attention: his own stance rearranging to take in the sight curled up before the hearth.

Perhaps strangely, he doesn't look angry about that refusal.

"...why."

It's easier when Benedict can see Gabranth's face, and isn't met with that impassive metal visage.

He himself is curled in a ball on the pillows, chin resting on his knees, arms wrapped around himself.

"...the less they hear about me, the less they can find wanting."

"The less you speak of yourself, the less merit they'll find within you."

It's...unusual. Unusual in that the words are so gentle, so carefully exhaled from a voice that's usually calcified with harshness and authority. Here, now, in the sanctity of this moment there's a richness to the low hum lurking in his throat, surrendered entirely to a room without witness—

Save for themselves.

"You deserve better."

"No," spoken with conviction, even as Benedict flinches to talk over him, "I don't."

It hangs in the air a moment, his gaze fixed on Gabranth's face: so strange and lovely and alien, in its way.

"I betrayed them."

'I betrayed them.'

Those words ring more true than Benedict could possibly know— enough that for a single, steady beat that peregrine gaze pauses, as if searching for some sort of knowable answer in the lines of Benedict's face, rather than demanding it outright. He stays otherwise still, fingers drawn along the front plating of his helm, frozen in the face of conviction.

"Tell me."

Perhaps this is the end of it. Benedict's gaze falters, and he looks at the ground-- does this count as the lies he's told to get out of things, if it was a lie by omission? Should he have volunteered it the instant someone pledged loyalty to him, is it his fault for not mentioning it sooner?

All of that will become clear soon enough.

"...a couple years ago, I went to Tevinter, for personal reasons. A slave had been sold, who was... important to me. And I wanted to buy her back."

Off to a great start. A strand of hair has fallen into his face, and he tucks it self-consciously behind his ear.

"I was with a Rifter at the time, Kitty Jones. We managed to get Mic-- the slave. But we learned it was a ruse. My mother had sold her just to bait me into coming north again. She convinced me to meet with her, and..."

He sighs through his nose, lips pursed.

"...I stayed. I sent the others back south and stayed with her. While she and the other Venatori studied my shard. I... I told them about the Rifters."

He's been slowly slouching forward, and his face finally makes it into his hands, which cover his eyes.

He watches that already slight figure sink deeper by the second, becoming little more than coiled shadow against a flickering backdrop of kindled flame.

“You went for the sake of someone you cared for.”

Though his voice remains evenly kept, still a tangle of subtle syllables and merciful pauses, there isn’t a touch of pity within the words themselves. He doesn’t sound as Jone did, cradling him to her shoulder; this is a matter of discussion between equals, and Gabranth seeks understanding— not platitudes.

He imagines Benedict knows it.

“Is that not the way of it?”

As a rule, Benedict doesn't talk about it. The subject is too raw, and if the right people know about it, why dredge it up to those who don't? Never mind that some of his most significant relationships are all with people he's met since then.

And they don't even know.

With his face still covered, Benedict suppresses a sob behind it as he's overcome by the sudden rush of emotions tied to these memories; he's been ignoring them so successfully until now, but lying to Gabranth's face is utterly out of the question.

"It was for me," he shakily admits, "and it could have gone more smoothly if it hadn't been. Micaela would be with her family. Kitty..." Someone else he hasn't thought about for months, years? The memory of her hits him like an icy dagger in the heart.

"...her reputation was ruined by association. And then she disappeared." Like Rifters do. To say so aloud, in the moment, feels unbearable.

"I was sent back to spy." His voice cracks as he speaks, though he holds back any more undignified displays, for now. "I'm shit at it. I didn't even try. I was caught out immediately, and imprisoned."

He isn’t the man for this. For narrow rooms filled with the sound of shuddering sobs, or the pain of tangled blame overgrown with time and knotted anguish.

Gabranth— Noah. Kingslayer, his brother’s cruel jailor: willing pawn, treacherous impostor, a merciless traitor utterly devoid of honor. A life lived only in pain from a past gone rotted with misery. What right has he to offer assurances or promise of peace? His own amends were paid in blood, and he would not suggest Benedict do the same.

...but maybe that is the point. To advise another soul away from his own endless errors.

“These things cannot be changed.” It’s a hushed sigh of a sound, something that precedes the way he sets his heavy helmet aside— careful when he moves nearer to Benedict, kneeling across stone flooring. Within arm’s reach, yet not touching.

“The pain of it endures, and so must we, for it is unjust to ask those who we’ve brought suffering upon to bear the consequences of our misdeeds alone.”

If his friend is gone, if the woman he’d sought to save is misplaced or in despair, then they alone cannot be the testament to that turbulent chapter.

“Atone, Benedict. In their honor, until your fingers bleed and you can walk no further.”

"How?"

He doesn't uncover his face, too wretched to risk being seen clearly.

"I try to make myself useful. And stay out of the way. What else can I do?"

“You protect yourself in hiding. What use is that to those you’ve wronged.”

There is, after all, a difference between making oneself useful— between the comfort of smoking and sitting and skirting duty— and truly setting all focus on a better cause: locked in course and purpose like a broken bone meant to be knit. “There is no more time left to burn. You cannot distract yourself, you cannot run from the pain— there is no distance in this world or any other that is wide enough.”

A slow pause, heavy enough that Gabranth feels it in his shoulders, for how he struggles to press the words between his teeth:

"I will help you."

Though Benedict nods, the motion is despairing: it's the knowledge that he has been doing his best, despite everything, and that that isn't, and will never be, good enough.

It wasn't good enough for his mother either, and that bridge is as good as burned now.

Then, "I will help you." His hands slowly lower from his face and he looks at Gabranth, wary and exhausted and imploring. He wants that, even if he can't imagine what could be done differently.

"You will first permit me to speak to your betters— or you will do this yourself."

Like excising a wound: the rot needs cleaning, cutting away piece by careful piece. That it will scar over is undeniable, that Benedict will likely never fully mend the damage done is— as Gabranth sees it— a just outcome. But if he is to stay here...

"You cannot devote yourself to the betterment of this world if those surrounding you refuse to place their own burdensome tasks within your care. They will never trust you as a companion, that is their right— but they must hold faith in your ability, and you must endeavor to prove that this is the case."

A timid nod. Benedict thinks it over, and finds no flaw in Gabranth's logic, as painful as it is to admit.

After a pause, a quiet "I trust you." More than I trust myself, is implied, to do what needs doing. But in the meantime, it will be awful.

He pushes his hair back out of his face, endeavoring to get a grip on himself.

And that— he does not expect.

That quiet assurance of trust. He’d anticipated— well, he isn’t quite certain, in truth. To be fought, perhaps. To be denied, or pressed, or ignored, but not instead greeted with the sight of a man so weary with regret that honesty seeps from him like blood from a struck injury.

It fits poorly in his silhouette, faith. It always has. But if he can offer anything to see it met, for someone so utterly unmoored in miring despair, he will.

But he swallows first, the sound of it dry. Thin.

“It will not be misplaced.”

A twitch at the corner of Bene's mouth is acknowledgment, and acceptance. It would seem one of his biggest pitfalls over time has been trusting too easily, but when the recipients in question are his own parents-- the people responsible for who he is, who he'll become-- it becomes difficult to determine with whom it won't be misplaced.

All he can do is hope trusting Gabranth (as with Jone, as with Edgard, as with Byerly) won't be the end of him.

Change is daunting. It is terrifying. As haunting in its promise of uncertainty as the inky depths of the ocean at night— each step must be taken carefully, slowly, lest the waves rise up as one slips to tumble beneath them.

Fortunately for Benedict, Gabranth has done this before.

Yet his brother would offer more, were he here (he ought to be here: the one to steady those around him, to inspire and brace and better it all by virtue of a steadfast heart). For that reason, perhaps, Gabranth’s gloved hand hovers for a single, uncertain moment—

—before resting briefly across the slight span of Benedict’s shoulder.

“Decide which of us will relay the information. I will follow your determination."

It feels shameful to admit he doesn't want to. Benedict isn't sure which is the way forward, but thus far, pleading his own case has never amounted to much-- or has only damaged his case.

"Will you think less of me if I ask it of you?" he says quietly.

There’s a hum of a sound pressed against the roof of Gabranth’s mouth, his lip twitching. A faint pull upwards at the corner, though that gesture’s long forgotten— and quickly abandoned.

They will start slow, at first.

“No. I only ask you face them proudly if they hold questions for you.”

Ugh. Harder than it sounds.

But Benedict nods, since it's the least he can do. He's had someone advocate for him before, and it has a way of getting out of hand, but somehow he trusts Gabranth to keep his best interests at heart.

That hand withdraws, then, pulling away from Benedict’s shoulder to reassemble the gap between them. There is no immediate comfort in medicine, only the bitterness of it, or the sting of a needle, yet in the aftermath....

“I shall fetch you something to eat.”

It’ll offer the man time to breathe. To acclimate himself in the warmth of a kindled fire, his own security in that given space a mild easement.

To brace himself, as he must learn to.

"Oh."

That's a surprising offer, but-- "no, I... I mean. Thank you. But I'll be late for training if I eat up here."

And at the moment, the last thing he wants to do is irritate Jone.

He’ll need to dress. He’ll need his shoes— there’s no denying that to tarry any longer would, in fact, cause unnecessary delay...and likely spark Jone’s penchant for retaliatory mischief.

So he draws himself upright, moving over to the window to retrieve his helmet, fitting it neatly back into place as preparation for his own departure. He cannot confess aloud that he was, in fact, looking forward to the idea of companionship over breakfast.

But no matter.

“I am unable to join the both of you today. Put forth a strong effort.”

"I will."

The smile Benedict casts his way is genuine, if a bit curious.

"Got other plans?"

“None joyous. I will be speaking on your behalf.”

The sooner the better, is his belief in this— and he still has much, much more to read before Flint’s wretchedly assigned task is completed.

That wipes the smile right off his face. Benedict nods, and takes his leave.

Better not to pry.

IC inbox

At some high society ball in Minrathous

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post-Tevinter

crystal.

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guess who, asshole

Santa??

you're fired

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a very mysterious invitation

yoooo

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