What a question. There are so many possible ways to answer it, all of which might contain traps, but apart from waxing nostalgic about all the slaves he mistreated, Benedict isn’t necessarily confident of where it’s going.
“…sunbathing,” he mumbles, with a wrinkle of his nose as he continues the list, “swimming. Parties. What anyone does when the weather’s hot.” Anyone within a certain socioeconomic tier, anyway, but it’s the information he has.
Fleetingly, Benedict meets Flint's eyes. He takes care not to look too insolent, which is easier said than done-- he just has one of those faces-- but with the faintest of rolls, he looks back down at the list.
"Vedici," he says, "Atticus is already over at Skyhold. His son Octavius is..." a little dweeb, "probably not a threat." He continues to scan down the list, occasionally reading off a name if he recalls spending time with them-- there's the obligate inclusion of Pavus, Asgard, and Florus, even if they're likely less of a threat.
"I wasn't close to any of them," he murmurs, sounding a little embarrassed.
"Your mother will have no doubt burned whatever ties you had even if you were," sounds like I don't give a fuck. What does he care how miserably unpopular Artemaeus may have been inside the Imperium?
"You will have spent enough time in someone's company to have blackmail, or to know their vices, or to remember the layout of the estate grounds regardless. That's what you're to include in this list."
He punctuates it by jabbing a finger at the paper.
"I want to know every detail you can remember about every one of these families your mother has been aligned with. Understood?"
Benedict is mid-word when Flint jabs at the paper, and it startles him enough to throw off his stroke, blotting onto the page. He frowns at it, and, as much as he dares, at Flint.
"Understood, ser," he says in a low voice, but his shoulders are tensed in the manner of a bristling cat, ready to flee but prepared to swat first.
"You could have just asked me," he says again, trace amounts of firmness in the quiet words, "I'm not a hostage." (anymore)
Stood above him, the urge to lay a hand on the scruff of Benedict's neck and give him a firm shake is so strong as to be nearly overpowering. What a little bastard he is, shrinking in every time except in the one he shouldn't.
Instead, Flint lays both hands flat on the desk. The rings on his fingers glint dully in the lamplight until the reflected light is swallowed up by the slanting of his shoulder as he leans forward over the desk's edge.
"Have this report sent to my office first thing tomorrow."
Jaw clenched, Benedict forces his gaze up to meet Flint's. "It'll be done, ser," he says quietly through gritted teeth, his fingers curled onto the quill in a death grip.
Flint challenges the audacity of that eye contact for a long, crackling moment, leaned forward still to cast a long shadow across the desk, and the page, and the younger man in the chair opposite.
On the subject of summer games in the Imperium, there is a particular sport put on for spectators in the southern territories which involve a black Marothian lion and youths armed with only short hasta. For those with a delicate stomach, it's the sort of entertainment best viewed from high enough in the stands that the bloodshed is reduced to pretty colors. The lion often wins the game. That said, it's no bull. After two or three kills, the lion tends to grow bored with pursuit. It's entirely possible for a youth in possession of no skill with a spear whatsoever to survive or even win the game. He or she only has to keep out of the animal's teeth for longer than his or her compatriots.
So. With a rasp of metal ring bands across the desk's surface, Flint draws his hands away. He straightens. Then, short the usual pleasantries one might excuse themself with, he simply leaves.
All the while Benedict's every muscle is tensed, his inner dialog a muddle of fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, and of course he blinks first-- or rather, cuts his eyes away momentarily, in the instant before Flint seems to accept his victory and takes his leave.
This results in an audible sigh, all the breath leaving Benedict's lungs as he's tempted to collapse right there on the desk. Instead, he draws himself up one last time to mouth FUCK YOU at the closed door in a silent shout, both middle fingers extended to the aether.
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no subject
“…sunbathing,” he mumbles, with a wrinkle of his nose as he continues the list, “swimming. Parties. What anyone does when the weather’s hot.” Anyone within a certain socioeconomic tier, anyway, but it’s the information he has.
no subject
He gestures to the list with a faint tip of the temple, though the point of his attention remains fixed on the younger man.
no subject
"Vedici," he says, "Atticus is already over at Skyhold. His son Octavius is..." a little dweeb, "probably not a threat." He continues to scan down the list, occasionally reading off a name if he recalls spending time with them-- there's the obligate inclusion of Pavus, Asgard, and Florus, even if they're likely less of a threat.
"I wasn't close to any of them," he murmurs, sounding a little embarrassed.
no subject
"You will have spent enough time in someone's company to have blackmail, or to know their vices, or to remember the layout of the estate grounds regardless. That's what you're to include in this list."
He punctuates it by jabbing a finger at the paper.
"I want to know every detail you can remember about every one of these families your mother has been aligned with. Understood?"
no subject
"Understood, ser," he says in a low voice, but his shoulders are tensed in the manner of a bristling cat, ready to flee but prepared to swat first.
"You could have just asked me," he says again, trace amounts of firmness in the quiet words, "I'm not a hostage." (anymore)
no subject
Instead, Flint lays both hands flat on the desk. The rings on his fingers glint dully in the lamplight until the reflected light is swallowed up by the slanting of his shoulder as he leans forward over the desk's edge.
"Have this report sent to my office first thing tomorrow."
no subject
no subject
On the subject of summer games in the Imperium, there is a particular sport put on for spectators in the southern territories which involve a black Marothian lion and youths armed with only short hasta. For those with a delicate stomach, it's the sort of entertainment best viewed from high enough in the stands that the bloodshed is reduced to pretty colors. The lion often wins the game. That said, it's no bull. After two or three kills, the lion tends to grow bored with pursuit. It's entirely possible for a youth in possession of no skill with a spear whatsoever to survive or even win the game. He or she only has to keep out of the animal's teeth for longer than his or her compatriots.
So. With a rasp of metal ring bands across the desk's surface, Flint draws his hands away. He straightens. Then, short the usual pleasantries one might excuse themself with, he simply leaves.
no subject
This results in an audible sigh, all the breath leaving Benedict's lungs as he's tempted to collapse right there on the desk. Instead, he draws himself up one last time to mouth FUCK YOU at the closed door in a silent shout, both middle fingers extended to the aether.