faderift | MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, Part 2

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MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, Part 2

WHO: Grand Tourney attendants
WHAT: Celebrations, slightly marred
WHEN: The last day of the Tourney, and after
WHERE: Wycome
NOTES: Reminder that brackets for all events are here!

I. LAST CHANCE TO PARTY

After the Grand Melee draws to a close, and the Grand Tourney with it, the grounds and adjacent taverns and inns remain crowded with visitors. There's at least one more night of celebration before everyone has to return to their lives. The most raucous of it, as well as the most bragging, originates from the Free Marches, who have taken James Norrington's presence on the winning Inquisition team as an opportunity to claim victory for themselves—the fact that the rest of the winning team was made up of Rifters and a Tevinter is something nearly everyone would prefer to overlook. For many competitors, it's the first night they've been able to indulge in honored Tourney pastimes without jeopardizing their performance in events. For many spectators, it's their last opportunity for the foreseeable future to spend time with new friends from other nations and to prove who can sing their homeland's favored drinking songs the loudest.

When it comes to the Inquisition, something has noticeably shifted. The congratulations for their victories are often sincerely delivered, accompanied by questions about the war effort and what they do. Identifiable rifters and mages may find strangers sitting down next to them, rather than giving them wide and whispering berth, and asking their names. Elves are slightly less likely to be asked to go get a broom or fetch a drink. Arguments about political philosophy don't uniformly fall to one side or the other, but they are more common than they were at the beginning of the week, with heated arguments about the future of this or that nation periodically breaking out over drinks.

Even those arguments are fairly friendly and high-spirited, though, and far outnumbered by the number of less serious conflicts that break out: drinking contests, pie-eating dares, and good old-fashioned dance-offs.

II. CONGRATION YOU DONE IT

To allow time for competitors to set their broken bones and stop bleeding, the award for the Grand Melee is given the following morning, with the Celebrant presented amid fanfare to the winning Melee team. Winners and high-ranking runners-up from other events, though less loudly vaunted, are directed to a tent to pick up their prizes.

The grounds don't immediately vacate, after that, but the mood is distinctly wound-down, while merchants pack up their stalls and revelers nurse hangovers or aching stomachs overloaded with pie. By midday, people have begun remarking on a peculiarity: the prizes meant for competitors from the Anderfels remain unclaimed, and the entire delegation seems to have left in the middle of the night, likely sour grapes over their Grand Melee loss, fiercest warriors in Thedas my ass—though some speculate instead that they've all been kidnapped, or that they fled to avoid being forced to return to their own country.

III. SHIT

The rumors don't have long to percolate before the question of what happened is answered—first by Ina Hachette, a member of the Anderfels court persuaded to defect to the Inquisition, who turns up out of breath and searching for the Inquisition's leaders, and next by a curt message delivered to Inquisition sending crystals that there's a disturbance at the Orlais-Anderfels border. A big one. Invasion-sized.

It's inevitable that the news spreads—living cheek by jowl in tents is not conducive to much secrecy—and soon rumors have run wild throughout the encampment, putting an abrupt end to the festivities as everyone scrambles to gather their forces to leave. Tevinter, on the whole, is the quickest to pack its bags. Whether they know something or are only worried people will turn on them as the finger-pointing begins is anyone's guess. But if it's the latter, they're right to worry, and nearly prevented from leaving by an Orlesian-led mob convinced that they know something. The task of keeping the peace and preventing bloodshed falls to the Inquisition as much as Wycome's local guard, as the tourney dissolves into posturing and wild accusations.

When the danger of an actual fight breaking out passes—mainly once Tevinter is gone—and the crowds thin, the Inquisition's delegation is ordered to pack up and make haste on the journey back to Kirkwall.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Though he's drunk, recognizing Hanzo is all it takes to knock the pleasant smile off Benedict's face. He has pointedly not spoken to anyone else who was on that ill-fated adventure, perhaps hoping to forget about it and hoping they would forget about him.

Visibly tensing, Benedict murmurs, "what about," as if he doesn't already know.

"You know."

Hanzo is not in the mood to be played around with. As much as he had shrugged it off when asked Hanzo had wanted to see home, as much as he could. The fact that they were stopped on the way - the fact that he had almost lost the spirits that he had done so much to protect... He frowns, staring Benedict down before he nods to the side.

"Come with me."

If there's one thing Benedict knows, it's that he cannot go into a room alone with Hanzo. Even finding somewhere more private adjacent to the same room would be dangerous, because it means they can't be seen, it means something terrible can befall him and no one will stop it.
"There's nothing to discuss," he says, pointedly, but with an unmistakable edge of fear in the words.

"There is."

Hanzo watches him for a long moment, eyes drinking him in, watching for a long drawn out moment. He looks around at all the other people, all the other fools from Tevinter and he pretends as though his heart doesn't ache. He pretends as though he was not one of them, once - distant, true, but one of them. An Altus, a Magister, a boy from Tevinter, the signs of it colouring every single one of his sharp features.

Leaning down, he whispers quietly.

"I will not harm you. I will not let anyone harm you, but I need to know."

If Bene weren't tipsy, maybe he could resist a little more strongly, pull off some of his classic Artemaeus charm. But he's out of sorts, and now increasingly nervous, looking worriedly off to where his friends are as Hanzo whispers in his ear.
"There's nothing to know," he insists, more timidly, and goes with Hanzo if coaxed.

Shooting the 'friends' a look - how long those friendships will last is another matter entirely - Hanzo shakes his head. He is not going to take no for an answer and while it seems as though violence will not be necessary... He is prepared for it. His Bow is at his back, the spirts curling and twisting against the familiar brush of his magic. He knows them and they know him, but he shakes his head. Slowly, he presses a hand into the small of Benedict's back, urging him to one side, to follow.

He's bigger, broader, stronger.

"I do not like lies. This way."

With the air of a condemned man walking to the gallows, Benedict is stiffly urged forward, all vestiges of enjoyment completely gone from his countenance. He's not stupid enough to think he can lie to Hanzo forever, but his confidence in success-by-aversion is replaced by the desperate wish for divine intervention.

It doesn't take too long for them to find somewhere quiet, Hanzo scouting out the area before he even dared get too close to Benedict. It's a safe route to the quiet of his own tent, opening the flap to wait for Benedict to slip inside, glancing around before he follows him in.

"I want to hear everything you know."

This isn't going to come easily to Hanzo, even if he does have the boy in a tight spot.
"About what," he says evasively, looking away.

"You're not that foolish." Hanzo shakes his head. He rubs the heel of his palm into his eyes before he breathes out. Nodding to the pillows, a safer place to sit, he settles down by the door, his bow at his side. Benedict can try and escape, he thinks, but it will not be easy; Hanzo is older, true, but he is fast. Very fast. "The slavers. The mark. Why you are so afraid."

wwWWOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO KNOW

Bene takes a seat on one of the pillows, glancing at the door all the while. Fleeing isn't too becoming of a magister's son, and will also implicate him, but it's always useful as a last resort.
"Those Templars tortured me," he says, and the vitriol in his tone, the hardness in his eyes declares this to be true. "When I first arrived, they thought I was Venatori, even though I told them I wasn't. They hurt me. They shut me in a dark room all alone, for..." his anger dwindles, but only as the result of a genuine lapse in memory. How could he tell the time, when there was nothing to look at?
"...a long time." His fear radiates from him, and he checks the opening of the tent.

"They'd kill me without a thought."

Hanzo watches him for a moment. He doesn't know how far he can trust Benedict, how much faith he can put on his shoulders, but he frowns, turning to stare at the edge of the tent. There's a risk, but what would happen if he was found out? He hasn't used his magic for ten years; he hasn't been anything close to Magister Shimada since he ran from home a decade ago. The title means nothing now, save to a few slaves who might cling to his kinder touch.

"They would think the same of me, if they knew the truth." It's not as if Benedict has no idea who he is; an old Tevinter family, the son's name obscured in history but familiar to those who had lived during his reign. "They are fools, idiots. They think that they can control magic when it is not something to be contained. They are afraid of their own shadows."

He cannot promise to protect Benedict from the iron rule of Templars - not when his position in the Inquisition is precarious at best. But his fingers brush over the Bow at his side and he breathes out.

"A secret for a secret. A trade."

Though he follows Hanzo's gaze to the bow, Benedict just makes a face of confusion and shakes his head uncertainly. "They are fools," he agrees, "...if I tell you, you have to promise they won't find out."

His eyes don't flick away from Benedict, from the face of the man in front of him, but he sits taller, arms resting on his lap. It's as comfortable now as it was fifteen years ago - his legs ache and his thighs protest, but he ignores it. It is comforting now.

"I make no oaths until I know what I am promising to hide."

"Then you're wasting your time," Benedict says, the words spilling out nervously. He gets up to go, not fleeing per se, but making a pointed exit.

Hanzo raises his hand, holding it up. The other touches his bow, careful - not a threat, exactly, but a carefully placed reminder.

"Very well. They will not hear it from me."

That was all he wanted to hear. It's still not information easily dispensed, but from one Tevene to another is different than from a former prisoner to his former captors. Hesitantly, Benedict takes a step back and seats himself once more.

It takes him a moment to come out with it, sitting with his eyes closed and brow furrowed, an expression of deep dismay on his face. "...the brand," he says, practically choking the words out, "...is... of my own house. It's for..." He rubs his temple, looking at the floor.
"...it's for slaves who are on their last chance. Who aren't allowed to leave the estate anymore, and if they're found outside it are to be killed or returned for that purpose." Very slowly, he looks up at Hanzo. Though a smug and incorrigible little bastard at the best of times, Benedict looks very serious now, sick with dread and fear of his own.
"They're. ...technically mine, on Tevinter soil."

For a moment all Hanzo can do is watch and stare. It's very clever, from the standpoint of a Tevinter Magister. Magister Artemaeus had arranged for the ransom, had arranged for her son to be returned to her. Of course the escort would be wrapped up with Templars to keep an eye on him, with the unexpected twist of another Tevinter mage, one that they recognised, one that they knew. Hanzo was no threat to them because they knew who he was and there was no need to brand a man who is one of you.

"If anyone else from Tevinter allied with your family sees this brand they will be killed on sight." Any loyalty to Artemaeus will come hand in hand with the death of anyone branded with this mark in the Inquisition. In the eyes of any law in Tevinter these people belong to Benedict while he is here, to the family as a whole - to the Magisters. They are claimed, and it leaves a little knot in his stomach. He had been content with slavery when he was a Magister himself - there had been no reason not to be - but ten years of isolation, living on your own and surviving gives you a new perspective.

"You didn't ask for this," is the clear conclusion. He frowns, pursing his lips. "Was it Calpurnia's plan? Vengeance for what happened to you under the Inquisition's watch?"

Slowly nodding along with Hanzo's conclusions, Benedict raises his hands to rest his face in them. What a disaster.
He shakes his head to confirm that he didn't ask for it, but follows with a shrug at the next question.
"She didn't tell me," he says weakly, looking up over his hands, "she-- I told her about them, in my letters. I'm sure she was angry." But why not clue your own son in on the plan? That digs at him almost as much as the madness of the gesture itself.

"I think-- the slavers must have been hired. But there's so much I don't understand. Why... why send me back after?" The words are desolate, broken. "Why involve me at all?"
She had barely said hello to him, her long-lost kidnapped son, before galloping off and away again. He hasn't been able to forget that.

"Vengeance."

Hanzo scoffs, shaking his head. To hear that your son has been taken by an fools organisation in the south, that he was kept and tortured and harmed... It would not only be infuriating to hear but embarrassing for the family. The blood of Tevinter is intended to be strong, to be powerful, to be great; to have that captured, tied down and held? It would bring some shame to the line of Artemaeus blood, to their line, to Calpurnia herself.

Hanzo knows this because he has experienced it himself. He knows what it means to bring shame to your family, to be the embarrassment. The weight of that threat had pressured him after his father had died, pressed down between his shoulders, had jabbed into his spine and curled disgust around him like an agonising pain. He had murdered his brother - his best, worst secret - because he had been so afraid of that shame and embarrassment.

It's been a long time.

"How were you caught? How did you get taken to the Inquisition prisons?" Hanzo shakes his head. "Perhaps she wishes for you to take your vengeance on your belongings. Perhaps she wishes for you to prove yourself again. When it comes to a Magister it could be any reason, or all of them."

All the night's eating and drinking are seeming a mistake now, because with this new revelation Bene feels he may lose everything in his stomach. He hadn't thought of it that way. He hadn't thought she could be so cruel, at least not to him.
Perhaps he knows his mother far less than he thought.

He sits and stares at Hanzo for a time, the nausea and horror showing on his face; will he really have to make this choice? The more he thinks about it, the more the pieces connect. It's classic Calpurnia, really.

"I... was apprenticing with Atticus Vedici," he answers, distracted, almost in afterthought, "he took up with some Venatori and we were all taken. I don't know by whom. Inquisition soldiers." He folds his arms over his stomach, curling slightly on the pillow. "He's at Skyhold now. Wheedled his way out and left me here to rot." There's hardly any hatred left when he says the familiar words, tells the story he's told so many times. It's small potatoes compared to what's going on now.

The problem is that Hanzo is well aware of what it is like to be a Magister. He had worn that mantle for long enough for it to become a crown of thorns. It had torn into him and he had loathed himself - why run otherwise? He had abandoned so much because of his own self-loathing, self-hatred, and it sinks around him like a familiar, dangerous cloak even now. It makes him feel nauseated just to think of it.

"I see." Atticus Vedici. Hanzo knows his name - how could he not, when he had been one of their circle, even for a brief time? It doesn't surprise him that he found his own escape and left anyone with him to die in his wake; self-preservation is the most important thing when it comes to Tevinter survival. Tangled up with an apprenticeship that turned into a trap. Hanzo can understand. He would be in the same position if anyone in the Inquisition linked him to the Venatori Shimadas moving now.

"You will not touch them. No one here will touch any of them." Hanzo reaches out and grabs his bow, stroking his fingers over the wood. Honour. Respect. Esteem. Knowing and doing what is right. They burn under his touch and he breathes out a sharp little noise, bowing his head. "I will find a way to fix this. I will not let them die because of some Tevinter arrogance."

Where their relationship began with mockery, shifted to commiseration, then avoidance, Benedict finds himself starting to look to Hanzo as an ally. His reaction has been telling; no outbursts of anger, no broken promises yet, no harm being done to anyone, and Bene is beginning to think perhaps he'll get through this even now that the secret's out.

"I want nothing to do with them," he agrees, lowering his voice to nearly a whisper, pulling his knees up to his chest as his stomach flips and flops around. "You won't tell them?" There are greater ramifications to this than just the Templars getting angry: he's been in Southern Thedas long enough to know how the majority feel about slavery and Tevinter's modus operandi in general. The Inquisition itself might get involved. There are so many different ways he could suffer, at so many different hands.

He's like a child, Hanzo thinks. He had been something similar when he had been very young; filling shoes that were not quite ready for him, trying to be bigger, better, with a bold face and the emotionless expression to go with it. It's a difficult situation to manage, but Hanzo is now the one who is going to have to do it. With tensions rising across the country and people from Tevinter moving around... It's important that he figures this out as soon as he can.

"Do you trust me to handle this?" He lifts his head, looking over at Benedict. "You want nothing to do with this. Your mother expects... Whatever she expects. She knows my name but is aware that I am in no position to do anything when it comes t our home." He shakes his head. "I will fix this on your behalf. Do you trust me to do that?" If this gets out and too much comes out... Benedict will not be the only one to suffer. Hanzo had been on that trip as well, left unharmed for it. Blame will be pinned to him just as easily.

Spending one's entire life being coddled leads to an arrested development of sorts, but having been in Kirkwall for the past half a year has begun to give Benedict his feet in a way that wasn't possible under his parents' wing. Still, there's a lot of ground to cover, and being on his own, especially as a prisoner, hasn't expedited the process.

He nods quietly to Hanzo, his anxiety easing ever so slightly. Someone with experience is here to help him, and though he was-- is still afraid, perhaps there's a chance this can get better without bloodshed.

MOD PLOT: NOT ALONE DO WE STAND, Part 2

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