faderift | [open]

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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"Yeah, most of them," Kit echoes, tugs on a shadow of a smile, then leans to brace his elbows against the table. He taps a finger against the wood demonstrably. "See down there, they've got something called the caste system. It's a little like your topsider classes, but--say a dwarf is born into the mining caste. That's it. That's her life, from birth to death, she's a miner. Can't do anything else. Any daughters she has, they'll be miners, too.

"There's all kinds of castes in Orzammar," he goes on, and names off some of them. "Merchant caste, servant caste, artisan caste, warrior caste, smith caste--noble caste, of course. They're the ones who run the show."

He reaches for his cigarette case and taps one out, then strikes a match to light it. "I wasn't in any of those castes."

Having finished eating, Bene still has the skewer in his mouth, fiddling with it and using it to pick his teeth as he watches Kit's finger on the table. At this moment, he looks for all the world like a bored schoolchild, in a good enough mood but in no particular hurry to learn anything.
"So which one were you in?" he asks, waiting for the punchline.

"None of them." The end of the cigarette glows like an ember for a moment, then Kit leans back in his seat and exhales the smoke off to the side. If he's going to Go There, as it were, he's going to be comfortable while he does it.

"If you aren't born into a caste, you're casteless. Nothing you can do to change it, either." Another drag from the cigarette; he reaches out to tap the ashes off into the now empty bag. He'll deal with the mess later. "And the rest of the castes, even the lowest of them, they want nothing to do with you; they don't want you working for them, they don't want you talking to them, they don't want to see you, don't want to hear you. You can't live in the nicer parts of the thaig, and you can't do honest work, because an honest merchant wouldn't be caught dead dealing with you. They know you on sight, too," he adds.

Kit's face is covered in the stylized tattoos of the Legion, but beneath them, there's still an older mark that stands out against the others. He leans against the table and reaches up to tap the ragged-looking brand that still mars his skin. "They brand you," he says quietly. "When you're a baby. I don't even remember it happening, but someone took a needle and ink to me when I wasn't even knee-high to a nug yet."

Benedict listens, the smile drifting from his face as his look becomes more pensive, perhaps confused. He feels something resembling sympathy, but in truth the first thought that comes to mind is more along the lines of 'should I be seen with you, then?'

He understands being born to wealth or to a soporati family, or to slavery, but it never occurred to him that anyone might have a problem with it. Most people seem fine with their lot, including Kit, for that matter.
"...why?" he asks, wrinkling his nose in distaste for the practice of branding a baby. Discarding people. "Why not just get rid of them?" What's the point of keeping around people who aren't good for anything and can't be looked at?

"Why not just get rid of them?"

By the sodding Paragons--

Kit's expression grows exceptionally still. He fixes his stare on Benedict, his eyes gone hard and unfriendly. Bluntly, he says, "That's a disgusting thing to say. A shameful thing."

He puts out his cigarette and starts to stand up.

The son of a magister will do as a magister does, which is think of people as assets first and as people second. He's genuinely surprised by Kit's reaction, blinking as though insulted.
"Wait," he says lamely, as the dwarf stands, and gets to his feet as well, "don't go."

Kit is in the process of tugging his coat on over his shoulders; he doesn't say anything at first, but when he does, his tone hasn't changed.

"Why?" he says, a challenge in his expression. He's not going to hold Benedict's hand through this; he's done an awful lot of that as it is, and maybe it's time for him to let go and force the boy to navigate these particular waters on his own. "You have something you want to say to me?"

By this point, Bene is used to being treated with hostility, but not from Kit. Never from Kit. He fumbles for an answer, feeling like the world's been dropped out from under him.

"You-- you left, didn't you?" he says quickly, "now you're not casteless anymore." See, you're not dead or abandoned, because... universal providence or something!!

For certain values of 'leaving,' 'beaten half to death and left to rot in the Deep Roads as a child' probably qualifies.

Kit makes an incredulous noise somewhere between a snort and a sigh. On any other topic, he'd dig his heels in and fight it out longer, but on this one, he can't. Not now. Not after what he had to do in Orzammar with Yngvi.

(The red in the poor bastards meant it was a mercy to kill them, but still--)

He gestures at what's left of the food. "Enjoy your lunch," he says flatly, and turns again to leave.

Though Benedict opens his mouth to protest, Kit is gone and the door shut before he can say anything.
"Fine!" he yelps at no one, kicks the door, and goes to flop onto his bed and sulk. At least he has a proper bed for sulking now.

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