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benedict quintus artemaeus

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WHO: Bene and you
WHAT: He's free! ...ish.
WHEN: Haring
WHERE: A room in the former Templar tower, always guarded.
NOTES: anyone who wants to see him will need clearance, and there will always be a Templar present!

Though technically Benedict is able to leave his newly-assigned room in the Gallows, he doesn't. Won't, rather, which is a strange decision considering that his formal incarceration has ended, and there's no reason he should have to stay hidden away in one small space indefinitely.

But he does. For reasons that are his own, Bene seems reluctant to go anywhere or be seen by anyone, preferring instead to sit by his window for hours, book on his lap, and watch the courtyard below.
Receiving all meals at his chambers, the opportunity to bathe is the only way to get him out the door. It's one he takes often, as often as he can, perhaps in an effort to make up for lost time. He even gets to shave, once a week, with supervision.

Benedict may not be in the dungeon anymore, but he cannot and will not forget that he is still a prisoner. A prisoner whose life has been threatened more than once, from both without and within the Inquisition. It's a step up, but a step up from a cesspit is still mud.

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When she says his full title, Bene's first instinct is to assume Galadriel is mocking him; but she... doesn't seem to be, so he calms his hackles. "Tevinter is disliked by most of the south," he mumbles, "I suppose they assumed we were spies. Are. I don't know." He sinks into the water a bit, submerging his chin and nearly his mouth. "They don't care that I'm not Venatori. I can't leave. I was in a cell for months." And he is never getting over it.

"Yes, I know the feeling," Galadriel replies as he sinks into the water with her. "It is galling and offensive."

There is a moment of silence as she dips beneath the water and submerges her head in the heat. Several seconds pass as she savors being warm, utterly warm, before she rises again and parts her hair back from her face.

"I healed your mentor of his wounds, or those upon his wrists at least. If you desire the same I would accommodate you," she offers almost idly. "Else I will simply offer some sliver of peace for you. Your jailer is incapacitated outside and shall remain so until I leave this place. Relax as you like for the next hour or so; she shall be unaware that anything has transpired."

His dark eyes lift to meet Galadriel's, intrigued. He straightens slightly, if only to free up his mouth a bit. "Really?" he asks, tilting his head, "I mean-- you should've left Atticus his shackle scars, but the rest?"

Galadriel considers his question with a tilt of her head. He was asking her a great many things at once and she is, for a moment, uncertain which to respond to.

"Ay, it is all true, if that's what you wish to know," she says, somewhat carefully. "I am gifted in many things, but obscuring the minds of templars is a skill I mastered here.

"As for the healing, that is not a talent of mine, but I offer it all the same."

It would be decidedly rude to let her gaze wander across his body and she did not, but the implication remains.

Well now they're best friends. Benedict smiles, emboldened by her obvious dislike of Templars.
"Would you?" He shifts from where he's sitting, making his way through the water (his waist and below still submerged, of course) until he's next to Galadriel, his wrists held out to her. "What kind of elf are you, anyway?" She's no Circle mage, that's for certain, and she doesn't have the lines on her face like the savage Dalish.

Galadriel regards his wrists as she considers the question put before her. He is curious, openly, but in a way that is largely token. It is a hard expression for her to define, so rarely have mortal men had the chance to level it at her, and she ignores it after a pause. It would be ridiculous to tell him and yet she does.

"I am Caliquendi, of the shores of Aman," Galadriel answers, fully aware that the truth would mean precious little to this man. "I suppose the translation would be... Elf of Light? Light Elf?"

She lifts a hand out of the water and considers his wrist. His markings are much the same as his master's, but she cannot restore them without the power of the Elessar aiding her. Still, she takes one, and turns it over in her hand.

"It is a term with a great deal of history embedded within it, history that matters not at all in Thedas. To you, I think, Caliquendi would mean age before all else. I am a very, very old elf."

It's true, Bene's never heard of any of this, and it sounds fake. But he's beginning to recognize that there are people here in Kirkwall that are unlike any others he's met before, and this is in part what drew Atticus here. No sense in pretending that everyone he meets should be from Thedas proper, when it appears people are capable of coming through the Veil.
It'd be fascinating if he didn't have his own predicament to deal with. But because of Galadriel's attention, he's finding it easier to turn up the charm, something Benedict does quite naturally when he sees the potential for getting something out of it.
"You don't look old," he points out with a wry smirk, "quite fair, in fact."

Galadriel says nothing in immediate response, save a gradual lifting of one brow as she regards him. His charms are obvious and, to his credit, he is both handsome of voice and face, for a mortal man, but Galadriel has never been swayed by such things. His compliment, if that was indeed ehat it had been, is something that merits reward. She presses some of her own will for restoration into his hand.

She is no healer, but the scars begin to slowly recede despite her lack of finesse.

"I have seen four Life Ages of this world and, barring my cousin, am the eldest living creature in these lands. But I thank you, nonetheless, for deeming me fair."

His eyes light up as she attends to his scars, and as the skin begins to pull less, Bene grins in relief. He hadn't even realized how much they'd been bothering him until now, when they're going away, and he looks up to meet Galadriel's eyes, both grateful and impressed.

"Older than the darkspawn?" he asks, unsure if he's willing to believe that, but his question is impish rather than overtly challenging.

"Yes," she answers without hesitation. "Considerably, though the song that twists them is elder still."

The restoration she had performed on his master had been a far cry more delicate and nuanced than this, but he seems pleased all the same. She is not willing to expend all of her energy upon him now, however, certainly not while the Elessar rested by the pools edge.

"I will finish this when I no longer hold your guard between waking and thought." She releases his wrist and looks back at his face. "I wonder, how many years do you wear? I can never say with men."

That's interesting. The darkspawn are among the oldest things that Benedict can think of in the known world, and for them to pale in comparison...
...well, maybe she's lying. But she's also helping, and he's not going to be choosy.

"Twenty-two," he lightly replies, "...what else can you do?"

Galadriel laughs, then, startled by the blatant nature of his question. He was a child, as all men were to her reckoning, but this was a shocking display of boldness. She quirks a brow at him again, her smile wry.

"Do you wish for me to compose you a list?"

When she laughs, Bene's confidence grows, and his smile with it. "It sounds like we have a common interest," he replies, eyebrows innocently raised, "maybe we could help each other."
If she can distract a Templar on a psychic level, she can do it again. Possibly enough times to allow him to leave, with supplies if he's lucky.
And he'd be out of here without a look back, but no doubt the woman would want something in return. But what does she want? Money? His family will provide.

Help each other?

Now there is a curious thought and Galadriel considers it. She leans back in the water again but her eyes drift over the surface of it as she ponders. He could, perhaps, be of assistance in her tracking Nenya...but she could not abide explaining Nenya to him. He could be tricked but it might not be worth the risk.

This all did beg a question, however:

"And what help do you desire from me?"

His smile fades slightly as he grows more serious, a desperation slipping into Benedict's gaze. "I want out," he whispers, "I don't want to spend my life a prisoner, researching Maker-knows-what and running stupid little errands for the Inquisition. I'm to be a magister, after my mother. I have to return to Minrathous." This is the first time he's been able to have such a conversation with someone, at least someone who could feasibly do anything and shows even a modicum of interest.

The sudden thread of earnest desperation that creeps into his tone is not quite alarming, but only just. Her expression remains mild as she listens to his plea and, after a pause, she very nearly laughs again. This poor man, how unfortunate his lot that he should meet her here and now!

"You asked what other talents I possessed and it seems you have need of my finest skills," Galadriel says slowly. "I am unrivaled in my ability for concealment, unfriendly eyes do not light upon those I shroud, not even in the darkest depths of shadow and danger. But it is a risk, aiding someone unknown to me.

"I cannot say I trust you just yet, not enough that I would give you the ability to pass without trace, but it can be done...if you aid me in another matter."

He tries to be a charmer, like his mother, but all too easily Benedict is revealed to be the frightened child in need of constant reassurance. He can't decide whether to be hopeful or not, but the woman seems somewhat endeared to him, so he maintains a pleasant bearing just in case.
There's a chance. There is.
"What matter?" he asks, almost too quickly. There are few matters with which he wouldn't aid, as it stands.

"I have lost something of great personal value," Galadriel answers with a tone that isn't entirely as dissaffected as she would like. "Unfortunately, it is very small and, by its very nature, it prefers to remain hidden.

"I am not well versed in the Magic of Thedas, so perhaps there is a way to find such things here...small baubles that defy far sight and linger in unexpected places. Aid me and you will be able to walk from these gallows, past every Templar in all of Thedas, and none shall be the wiser."

She pauses then and her expression seems harder, a little more dangerous. The promise of her ring, the deal, has struck something dark in her soul and it resonates like a bell.

"Return it to my hand, yourself, and I will give you such gifts--gifts no mortal nor immortal has borne in o'er ten thousand years. I will clad you in ramient that would make the old gods weep."

...gee.

This is not even slightly what Benedict had predicted: influence in Tevinter, reward money maybe, that sort of thing, but instead something very small that was lost. He tilts his head uncertainly, trying to imagine what piece of jewelry could possibly be important enough to reward someone with old-god-upsetting clothes, but there's no reason not to take her word for it.
"What is it?" he asks, guileless in his negotiation, so unlike his mother (and so like his father). "If it's outside Kirkwall, I'll have to be able to leave."

There is a moment where Galadriel's sense, her ageless wisdom, wars inside her against the desire for her ring. She must keep it secret, if the Dark Lord heard of it all would be lost...but Thedas knew no Dark Lords, Sauron and his wraiths were not here...and Morgoth was but a a distant, dreadful memory. She could tell him and possibly have it back--the emptiness inside her, the space where the ring's power fitted against her own, gnaws at her. She is not ready to fade into obscurity like her cousins, nor to give up all ambition--it is hers and she will have it back.

"A ring," she answers simply and the words feel like lead in the air between them. They seem to hush the room, or perhaps it is her power that makes the shadows grow long and the lights seem distant.

Or she is imagining it, for the sense of it is gone in an instant.

"My ring, and I know not where it is. If I did, I would not require aid, would I?"

She closes her eyes again and dips her head below the water. When she draws back up the world seems to have new purpose to it.

"It is in Thedas, somewhere, of that I am certain."

Benedict smirks, he can't help himself. His mother has rings that she favors, but there are none that affect her this intensely; he doesn't know why he feels that it does, but in the corners of his vision, things shift subtly, and he wonders if he imagined it.

"It's a deal, then," he says, his smile becoming something more genuine. "Help me get back to Tevinter, and we'll find your ring." It'll be easy enough to hire people to comb the countryside wherever she's been, and they can even use the money that would otherwise have been put toward a ransom.
If he doesn't forget, that is. That would be inconvenient, but perhaps not the end of the world.

The laugh that snaps out of her, then, is not the same as her startled laugh before. It is markedly less kind.

"Hardly," Galadriel corrects. "I do not wager such things lightly. Once my ring is returned to me then, and only then, shall you have my aid."

That she was barely capable of sneaking around, herself, without Nenya was something she refrained from mentioning. She drew her fingers through her long hair and, for just a moment, it looked dark where it hit the water.

"If you need your freedom to search, I can find a way to grant you temporary reprieve, but I do not preform high arts for the potential of future recompense."

Sure. All right.
Temporary reprieve can mean a lot to someone resourceful, and though Benedict's priority isn't to cut and run, it's possible things will turn out that way. There's something off-putting about the woman's laugh, the way she looks, but it's really nothing he hasn't seen before in his own mother. That's just how women are.
"Then give me freedom to search," he concludes, eyebrows arched, smile charming. He won't... not do it.

"I shall grant you reprieve in the morn, I must speak with my kin," Galadriel answers and his calm agreement has, despite everything, endeared him to her somewhat. If he is half as intelligent as his mentor had seemed, he is a sound investment. If he is a fool, then nothing is lost by enlisting him.

He cannot possibly be foolish enough to tell anyone they have met, after all.

"Retrieve my ring, Benedict Quintus of House Artemaeus and know what it is to befriend the Caliquendi."

But she has soaked long enough and now, with planning to do, her limbs itch to move. She stands from the water gradual grace and the water sheets off her. By the time she steps out she is only damp, once she reclaims her gown, the light that picks up in her skin seems to dry it.

"Now give me your hands or suffer your scarring until we meet once more."

Atticus might argue that Benedict is perhaps only half as intelligent, or less so; but the boy isn't stupid so much as he is ignorant, arrogant, and slow to learn when the lesson isn't taught harshly. He's the product of circumstance, and this circumstance is being of one of the wealthiest families in the Tevinter Imperium.
When Galadriel exits the bath, he casts a glance at her this time; really, that old? His gaze is more appraising than lecherous for the short amount of time he sees her, never having found the female form all that interesting despite it being thrown at him on various desperate lowborn-begging occasions.
He's snapped from his thoughts when the elf speaks, however, and he comes forward to extend his wrists upward from where he remains in the water. He'll stay a while after she's gone, appreciating the time away from the Templar, doing some thinking. He's always done his best thinking in the bath.

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laurenande - 2017-12-16 17:35 (UTC) - Expand

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