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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"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.