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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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)
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?”
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."
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.
"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—
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.
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Instead, Gabranth simply situates himself more fully at Benedict’s side, content to wait until he wakes, however long that might be.
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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.
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Which...really isn’t much of an explanation at all, in fact.
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"...sorry."
He glances up and down the armored form. "...welcome back."
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“Come.” Helm shifting in dim morning light, angling itself towards the entryway. “I wish to talk.”
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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.
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“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.
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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.
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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.”
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"Huh," he intones, crossing his legs and looking up at Gabranth, "how'd that go?"
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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.
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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?"
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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?”
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"...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."
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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?"
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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.
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“With those in leadership as well as your peers, I take it?”
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Here goes.
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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."
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"No, I can't," he insists breathily, drawing his knees up to his chest, "and... don't. Please. Don't mention me to them."
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Perhaps strangely, he doesn't look angry about that refusal.
"...why."
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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."
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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."
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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."
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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."
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