No one has died, and so eventually Gallows settles back into its more ordinary cadence of weekly meetings and dispatches, cycling rota assignments, and packets of paper shuttling between one desk to another with somewhat alien efficiency. For all the urgency that itches at the back of the neck, no one is really behind in the way it feels like they ought to be—those weeks of being short staffed and working double- or triple- duty having happened to other people, in some other place, in some other time.
And so there is no reason whatsoever for Commander Flint to manifest in the Diplomacy antechamber and not simply pass directly into the office beyond without so much as a glance spared for Byerly's assistant cringing behind his desk.
Instead, he stops just inside the forward chamber. He doesn't bother to draw the door shut behind him, and the looming point of his attention swings with dread weight in Benedict's very direction.
Benedict doesn't always look up immediately when someone enters, especially when he's particularly invested in what he's doing. This is one of those times, but the sound of his name being spoken by That Voice is enough to stop his quill mid-scribble, and he remains frozen for a long moment before turning only his head to regard the Commander.
He doesn't say anything, but there is a flicker of his gaze toward the back office as he realizes that Byerly isn't here, and if this goes poorly nobody will know how he died.
"Leave that." He's a sturdy man, James Flint, but there's something plenty agile in how he prowls forward from the office threshold to close in on Benedict's desk. "You and I are going to have a conversation."
If there's a chair on this side of the desk, he doesn't bother with it. Instead, coming to stand across from where Benedict is sat, Flint helps himself first to one of the blank sheets of parchment ready for an assistant's quill, and then to the quill itself (presuming Artemaeus had dropped it in his haste to go scrambling after the crystal's chain).
Flint dips it in the waiting inkwell. Scrapes the excess ink from the nib.
"You can start with a list of names. Your mother's associates in the Magisterium, and their children."
Drawing himself up tightly as though in anticipation of violence, Benedict leans away from Flint in his quick approach, flinching with the usual instinctive, gut-clenching terror that the man invariably brings out in him.
But as the parchment and quill are presented, he hesitates a moment, staring down at them like he can’t quite believe what’s happening.
Is that all?
He accepts the pen delicately, taking a deep breath and steadily pressing it back out as he regains composure, straightens, remembers who he is.
“You could’ve just asked, ser,” he says, a prim veneer over what nerves still remain. The nib is set to paper.
The pivot of Flint's attention from page to Benedict's face is so knife sharp that it's a wonder the younger man's insides don't spontaneously become his outsides all over the desk. Are you really giving him cheek right now, you miserable little shit?
Benedict flinches accordingly, but doesn't collapse into a keening heap, not this time.
"I am writing," he says with the same haughtiness, despite how his hand shakes, "ser." And he is: he's even made a header for the part of the list he's working on now, which is SENATORS.
Good. So he won't mind if Flint settles in, palms flattening on the desk and weight seating forward across his shoulder so he might lean in loomingly across the desk.
The width of him casts a grim shadow over Benedict's work. He lets him proceed like that for a number of trembling lines, before—
(A name, familiar to his own eye maybe, materializes on the page.)
"How did you spend your summers in Tevinter, Artemaeus?" This is presumably not pleasant chit chat with which to pass the time.
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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timeasmymeasure
🔪
Date: 2023-08-22 10:47 pm (UTC)And so there is no reason whatsoever for Commander Flint to manifest in the Diplomacy antechamber and not simply pass directly into the office beyond without so much as a glance spared for Byerly's assistant cringing behind his desk.
Instead, he stops just inside the forward chamber. He doesn't bother to draw the door shut behind him, and the looming point of his attention swings with dread weight in Benedict's very direction.
"Artemaeus."
no subject
Date: 2023-08-22 10:52 pm (UTC)He doesn't say anything, but there is a flicker of his gaze toward the back office as he realizes that Byerly isn't here, and if this goes poorly nobody will know how he died.
makes myself laugh
Date: 2023-09-04 07:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-09-04 05:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-09-05 05:49 am (UTC)If there's a chair on this side of the desk, he doesn't bother with it. Instead, coming to stand across from where Benedict is sat, Flint helps himself first to one of the blank sheets of parchment ready for an assistant's quill, and then to the quill itself (presuming Artemaeus had dropped it in his haste to go scrambling after the crystal's chain).
Flint dips it in the waiting inkwell. Scrapes the excess ink from the nib.
"You can start with a list of names. Your mother's associates in the Magisterium, and their children."
no subject
Date: 2023-09-05 06:18 am (UTC)But as the parchment and quill are presented, he hesitates a moment, staring down at them like he can’t quite believe what’s happening.
Is that all?
He accepts the pen delicately, taking a deep breath and steadily pressing it back out as he regains composure, straightens, remembers who he is.
“You could’ve just asked, ser,” he says, a prim veneer over what nerves still remain. The nib is set to paper.
no subject
Date: 2023-09-06 05:34 am (UTC)"Write."
no subject
Date: 2023-09-06 05:59 pm (UTC)"I am writing," he says with the same haughtiness, despite how his hand shakes, "ser." And he is: he's even made a header for the part of the list he's working on now, which is SENATORS.
no subject
Date: 2023-09-07 05:28 am (UTC)The width of him casts a grim shadow over Benedict's work. He lets him proceed like that for a number of trembling lines, before—
(A name, familiar to his own eye maybe, materializes on the page.)
"How did you spend your summers in Tevinter, Artemaeus?" This is presumably not pleasant chit chat with which to pass the time.
no subject
Date: 2023-09-07 05:46 am (UTC)“…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
Date: 2023-09-10 09:17 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2023-09-11 08:44 pm (UTC)"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
Date: 2023-09-13 06:48 pm (UTC)"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
Date: 2023-09-13 09:08 pm (UTC)"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
Date: 2023-09-14 05:07 am (UTC)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
Date: 2023-09-18 08:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-09-19 04:59 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2023-09-19 06:19 pm (UTC)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.