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[altusimperius]

tell him how pretty he is

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[archademode]

"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?"

[altusimperius]

"It... yes."

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.

[archademode]

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?”

[altusimperius]

Benedict nods, shame creeping into his eyes as he tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, his shoulders squaring uneasily.

Here goes.

[archademode]

Here goes nothing, as the saying goes.

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."

[altusimperius]

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."

[archademode]

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.

"...why."

[altusimperius]

It's easier when Benedict can see Gabranth's face, and isn't met with that impassive metal visage.

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."

[archademode]

"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—

Save for themselves.

"You deserve better."

[altusimperius]

"No," spoken with conviction, even as Benedict flinches to talk over him, "I don't."

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."

[archademode]

'I betrayed them.'

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."

[altusimperius]

Perhaps this is the end of it. Benedict's gaze falters, and he looks at the ground-- does this count as the lies he's told to get out of things, if it was a lie by omission? Should he have volunteered it the instant someone pledged loyalty to him, is it his fault for not mentioning it sooner?

All of that will become clear soon enough.

"...a couple years ago, I went to Tevinter, for personal reasons. A slave had been sold, who was... important to me. And I wanted to buy her back."

Off to a great start. A strand of hair has fallen into his face, and he tucks it self-consciously behind his ear.

"I was with a Rifter at the time, Kitty Jones. We managed to get Mic-- the slave. But we learned it was a ruse. My mother had sold her just to bait me into coming north again. She convinced me to meet with her, and..."

He sighs through his nose, lips pursed.

"...I stayed. I sent the others back south and stayed with her. While she and the other Venatori studied my shard. I... I told them about the Rifters."

He's been slowly slouching forward, and his face finally makes it into his hands, which cover his eyes.

[archademode]

He watches that already slight figure sink deeper by the second, becoming little more than coiled shadow against a flickering backdrop of kindled flame.

“You went for the sake of someone you cared for.”

Though his voice remains evenly kept, still a tangle of subtle syllables and merciful pauses, there isn’t a touch of pity within the words themselves. He doesn’t sound as Jone did, cradling him to her shoulder; this is a matter of discussion between equals, and Gabranth seeks understanding— not platitudes.

He imagines Benedict knows it.

“Is that not the way of it?”

[altusimperius]

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."

[archademode]

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.”

[altusimperius]

"How?"

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?"

[archademode]

“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:

"I will help you."

[altusimperius]

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.

[archademode]

"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."

[altusimperius]

A timid nod. Benedict thinks it over, and finds no flaw in Gabranth's logic, as painful as it is to admit.

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.

[archademode]

And that— he does not expect.

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.”

[altusimperius]

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.

[archademode]

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."

[altusimperius]

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.

[archademode]

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.”