faderift | [open] the way it feels to be just anyone

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: catch-all
WHEN: Bloomingtide
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: will give warnings as needed. hit me up if you want a starter!

I. The Library

Performing his chamberlain duties in the daytime and studying magic in the evenings doesn't leave Benedict a lot of time for leisure, and in fact the hours he would have spent drinking or playing cards are now occupied in the little office he sets up every night at one of the library tables. It's here that he writes letters, several scrolls weighted down in front of him which list Tevinter's major families and their relations, spread all across the country and ripe for persuasion.

Sometimes he can be found writing fervently, a cup of tea sitting untouched and forgotten beside his scribbling quill; more than once he's fallen asleep there, his face smudged with ink as it rests atop the desk.

II. The Gallows Courtyard

On the rare occasion that he's out of real work to do, Benedict can sometimes be found sitting on the steps of the tower with his parchment board and a quill or stick of charcoal, idly drawing the surrounding architecture. The sketches are loose, but hone in with great detail on things like the flourish in a column or a specific pattern of tilework; he shows little interest in the denizens going about their day, and in fact makes a little face of irritation if ever someone steps in the way.

III. Wildcard

do ur worst

for Solas

With the warming weather, Benedict has felt more comfortable taking his magical studies outside to practice in the open. Well, semi-open-- still afraid of being heckled at the proper training grounds, he opts instead for the herb garden in the evenings, where he can take his time and maintain a relatively low level of anxiety.

The barrier is something he mastered ages ago, but Benedict's skill in it has weakened with his resolve; he can't seem to keep it going under duress, which has led him to try a visibly stronger method: the Rift barrier, as he saw Solas conjure when Kirkwall was besieged by ghosts.
Benedict is able to draw a brief form: a slab, part of a wall, which remains for several seconds and then disintegrates, much to his aggravation.

If he can't make a simple barrier work, no matter its material, he can't protect himself.

for Kitty

It's been more than a few days, but the Inquisition is like that: people get busy and stay busy, with less time than they hoped for side projects. So it's more like several weeks later when Benedict next visits Kitty in the library, walking in with his posture straight and his eyes bright, hopeful.

"Any luck?"

for Marcoulf

There's been no reason to talk to the little ferret-face, save perhaps for a gnawing conscience that rears its head every time Benedict remembers that awful night and the subsequent conversations. Perhaps he was too unkind to him-- perhaps he's afraid of Marcoulf still, even after everything. But he can't have this nonsense hanging over his head, not when anxieties are at an all-time high and the whole world seems unbalanced.

So he approaches Marcoulf one night, sauntering up next to him and leaning against a nearby pillar, where he lights a cigarette and just... stands there. One of them will speak first. Maybe.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A sheepish smirk results from that, and Benedict seems genuinely uncomfortable, but he passes it over. The drawing is of a set of windows on a tower: serviceable, unschooled but observant, nothing one might find hanging in a fancy gallery but perhaps impressive for someone who has never been caught doodling by anyone who wanted him to.

"...it used to make my tutors so angry," he murmurs with a tiny smirk, "they'd lecture and shout at me, then my mother would get rid of them, then I'd do it again for the next one." Unexpectedly, he seems the tiniest bit ashamed of this revelation. "...but I suppose there's no tutor to lecture me here."

That tiny shame is so oddly endearing, at least to someone who wishes rich people would show more shame about the terrible things they do. Like getting tutors fired. But the story also brings the man down a bit, makes him seem like he used to be a semi-normal boy who doodled during lessons. It very nearly makes up for the impression that he's never had a hard day in his life.

"Usually if I need to step away and sort my head out, I cook something. It got me through some hard years, in the Circle."

If anything, it's the first time Benedict has demonstrated shame at all-- at least without being scolded first, called out for thoughtlessness and made to think on his error. Could it be that a conscience is beginning to form?

That, or he's just embarrassed his mother had to solve his problems for him.

"They let you do things like that in the Circle?" The question comes out blunter than he'd meant it to, and Benedict winces slightly-- of all the things he doesn't understand about the South, he at least has a healthy respect (read: fear) for the concept of Circles.

A small shrug.

"It wasn't usual, but I cleaned up after myself and the Tranquil didn't mind, so they let me. It also kept me from, um, getting in fistfights with other apprentices. So."

Colin seldom puts forward the energy of someone who got in fistfights. He certainly isn't now.

Tranquils. The word itself sends a shiver down Benedict's spine, accompanied by a pang of nausea. To think that something he'd never even heard of was... is..? so prevalent in Southern Thedas, to think that even someone of his standing wouldn't really be safe from it--

it haunts him. His eyes have gone a bit distant, his posture tense.

"You were just... working alongside them like that?" Perhaps it's an insensitive question.

Colin nods.

"It seemed sort of morbid at first, but they're not actually very different from us. They'll have a conversation with you just like anyone. Sometimes, you can't even tell, until something gets caught on fire and they have absolutely no reaction."

A soft laugh.

It doesn't seem right. Somehow, the casual tone of Colin's answer makes it all the more frightening; what is it like, being oneself but not, surrounded by familiar faces who can do nothing, are perhaps even content working alongside one's husk?

Would he be having these thoughts at all if the Knight-Commander hadn't tapped him on the forehead in that dark cell, threatening him with a horror didn't even comprehend until learning later that tranquility no longer only meant a state of peace?

Colin's laugh shakes him to the core.
"What do they..." He keeps his voice low, conspiratorial-- it feels like all the warmth has been stolen from the day, the sunlight gone cold on his face. "....what do they do, to... make them like that?"

Colin's gaze goes distant.

"I don't know," he says in a hushed tone. "We weren't allowed to see. They wanted to keep that power over us a secret. One day, they're your friend. The next day, they remember you, but they don't remember why you were friends. Their smile's gone. You won't laugh together anymore."

He carefully passes the sketch back to Benedict.

"I thought I was going to join them, for a while. My Harrowing was very late because I wasn't showing good progress."

Benedict takes the sketch back, listening intently, his face grim. To think this is something that's just... allowed? Not just allowed, but encouraged at times?

"...if the Circles come back," he murmurs, "you and Anders can return to Tevinter with me."

Benedict doesn't even know the worst of what the Circle was like for Colin, and yet he's offering this? Alexandrie offered the same thing, but that didn't cloud Colin's sight and heat the skin of his neck and shoulders. After years of muddling through on his own, someone has offered, without any self-interest, to take him away from the danger. He acts before he can think.

The kiss against Benedict's lips is light, shy, and uncertain. The instant it's over, Colin's entire face reddens. He freezes, gaze cast anywhere besides Benedict's face, teeth clenched as he swiftly goes from desire to panic. Why did he just do that, and how can he fix it?

This was perhaps the last thing Benedict expected to happen at this moment, and he's shocked enough that he nearly falls over-- only to glance furtively around after, as though a panel of Magisters might erupt out of the ground to judge him for the indiscretion.

He's kissed people before, but certainly not in public: this sort of behavior is reserved for behind closed doors, in a room heavy with smoke and stocked with wine, while the parents do their boring political socializing in the ballroom. It's close and drowsy and drunken and secret, and he doesn't know what to do with this chaste, open-air expression of... what?

Affection? That's supposed to be for girls.

Meanwhile, Colin buries his face so far into his hands he can see light on the other side. He can't even look at the expression on Benedict's face.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice muffled by his hands. "I don't know why I did that. I'm sorry."

Though he's still stunned, it quickly becomes clear that Benedict isn't about to be dragged off to his mother and lectured about inappropriate public liaisons, so all he can do is look to Colin.

"It's-- fine," he says awkwardly, realizing he has no idea what to do, how to comfort someone in such a situation.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeats in mortification before taking a deep breath. Benedict said it's fine. It's fine! It's fine.

"Just, pretend that didn't--um. Tevinter--what were we talking about?"

The Tranquil, Benedict realizes, they were talking about Tranquility, but he's not eager to broach that topic again.
"Um," he fudges, looking around, everywhere but at Colin, "I um-- I should get back to work, actually." A sheepish smile is cast to the other mage as he stands, clumsily gathering his things, dribbling ink all over his arm.

The breath he took collapses out of him, and he looks away, face still burning.

"I'm sorry," he says again, as if Benedict didn't hear it the first thousand times.

"No problem, it's-- not a problem," Benedict assures him lamely, then takes his leave with relative haste. He has to think about this, and, to a lesser extent, perhaps put Colin out of his misery. It's a lot to process, and far more than he's ever been adept at doing.

[open] the way it feels to be just anyone

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject