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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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.