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.”
“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:
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."
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.
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.”
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.
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.”
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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."
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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.”
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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?"
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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."
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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.”
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All he can do is hope trusting Gabranth (as with Jone, as with Edgard, as with Byerly) won't be the end of him.
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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."
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"Will you think less of me if I ask it of you?" he says quietly.
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They will start slow, at first.
“No. I only ask you face them proudly if they hold questions for you.”
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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.
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“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.
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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.
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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.”
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The smile Benedict casts his way is genuine, if a bit curious.
"Got other plans?"
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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.
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Better not to pry.