faderift | [open] I don't know how you made it in

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[open] I don't know how you made it in

WHO: Benedict and MAYBE YOU
WHAT: the gradually developing situation involving a certain Vint's return to Kirkwall
WHEN: mid-September onwards
WHERE: around the Gallows
NOTES: More prompts are likely to be added as things unfold! I'm going to take this step by step and address developments as they arise.

I. Return to the Gallows

His clothes don't fit, he's shaken and feels like he's about to vomit at just about any moment, but Benedict is here and, it would seem, this is more or less of his own volition. He can be spotted crossing the Gallows with some trepidation, taking his time, inspecting stalls and seeming to prolong the inevitable: which is to say, actually going and talking to anyone in whose hands his life is about to rest.

He's quick to avert his eyes should anyone meet them, but isn't about to take off running.

II. Upstairs (one thread only please)

Seated outside the Division Head office, Benedict is simply waiting for one of them to become available so he can... what, turn himself in? Have a conversation. Both Leander and Alexandrie made it abundantly clear that he's not doing any fleeing without dire consequences, so here he is, and here is the last place he has ever wanted to be.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

As predicted, That Man seems perfectly content to take up some idle post not far past the door itself with his hip set comfortably against some likely piece of furniture. The book is tucked under his arm. Were it not for faintly homicidal intent radiating from his general presence, he might seem quite easy there.

"Was your trip pleasant?"

"If you'd like," Yseult shrugs at Benedict and takes the wine glass when he sets it down, taking a sip as she slides off the edge of the desk, "It will have to be the cold-steeped, I'd prefer not to light the fire."

The fireplace grate is empty, unsurprising given the summer heat still lingering. She crosses back to the sideboard where several liquor bottles sit next to two sweating pitchers. "Gentlemen?" she asks Flint and Thranduil with a glance over her shoulder and a raised brow as she lines up cups.

"Benedict, I take it you haven't met Commander Flint, formerly in charge of our naval forces. He has taken over Ser Coupe's role since her retirement from it."

Thranduil does them the courtesy of closing the door, though he comes closer to Yseult to save her from needing to walk his or Flint’s glass over.

“Watered wine,” he says. “If you would be so kind.”

If they are to play at being civilized—

Yseult's compliance elicits a sigh of tangible relief from Benedict, who can still very much feel that Flint is behind him, but is willing to deal with it if it means he's not about to be poisoned. He nods with a tense smirk to Yseult-- cold-steeped is fine-- and grips and regrips the chair's armrests as he takes in the information about Coupe's retirement.

"No, I hadn't," he says, casting a glance over his shoulder, "I... didn't know she planned to retire." There were, apparently, a lot of things he didn't know.

"Tea would be welcome."

This said without his attention straying. When Benedict glances back, it's to a patient examinatiom in progress.

Yseult nods, and turns back to the sideboard to see to pitchers of tea and water and wine, a few remaining chunks of ice clinking against crockery and then glass. It takes her a minute to get them all sorted, and she hands off two glasses to Thranduil, conveniently near, and the fourth to Benedict, keeping for herself the glass of wine she'd poured at the start.

"There," she says, returning to her desk and this time taking a seat behind it. She takes a sip of wine and then folds her hands. "Yes, she found the demands of the position straining after so long and chose to step down. Commander Flint has proven an able replacement and should be treated to the same respect."

With Yseult occupied with getting to her point as artfully as he tends to, Thranduil holds out Flint’s glass for him to take, and minds his own. The luxury of ice in the summer lends a spare thought to whichever mage provided it, and then he returns to standing something near to guard.

“Oh. Of. Of course.” Benedict shifts to take the tea, breathing in its aroma before taking a tentative sip. Another glance behind him, to Flint and then Thranduil, then back to Yseult.

He’s willing to be here, that much is clear, but the idea of initiating, volunteering information before it’s requested, strikes him as unwise.

There's some low murmur of thanks as he accepts the glass and little else before Flint's attention strays past Benedict to Yseult. If she has some thought as to how this is meant to go - and it seems clear she must -, then by all means. She's welcome to select and set the first screws in need of turning.

The tea is strong and herbal and tea-ish. I don't like tea, it all just tastes like tea to me no matter what other adjectives are in the name, so don't expect me to give any more description than that.

"So," Yseult says, after a glance confirms that Flint and Thranduil are not itching to take the lead, "You said you want clemency, and I'm sure there are arrangements we could make, but in order to do that we'll first need to be sure that you take full responsibility for all of your actions and understand the ramifications of what you've done. Remorse means little, otherwise. A full confession is the only way we can begin to move forward."

The tea is, we can gather, fine.

Benedict nods, pursing his lips anxiously. This is more or less what he expected-- perhaps kinder, even.

"The night Kitty and I arrived, I... made the choice to stay. With my mother." He knows that this in particular will be incriminating, and is quick to continue. "I suppose I thought she'd follow them if I didn't. ...and hurt them." His mouth twitches, becoming a frown.

"And she was hurt."

The thought of this clearly upsets him, and he rubs at his upper arm. Although he may regret still caring about his mother, it's far more complicated than any political situation can make it.

"...she wanted me to stay. I." Here he pauses, and takes a sip of his tea, something crossing his face that isn't quite fear, but belies a conflict, something he's trying not to express but can't help but allow to manifest in tiny slivers anyway. "...was told that if I left again. I couldn't come back."
He can hardly expect anyone here to understand what such a thing means, to be the heir of one of the most powerful seats in the country, to be told exactly what to do to not lose everything toward which his life has built-- the destruction it wreaks on one's identity, priorities, one's sense of worth. And yet.

"...but I did," he says faintly, with the slightest tremble in his voice. "What they're doing there is... frightening. The Eld-- Corypheus, he wanted to see me personally, to see this." He holds up his left hand, pulling off the glove to reveal his anchor shard.
"They couldn't use me for experiments, not with my ...my family being who they are." No thanks to his mother, but that's not important. "...they would've used Kitty, if she'd stayed. He asked me where to find others. I said..."

His breath hitches, but he keeps it together. "...I said here. Which he already knows. But he wants more. Of us. Of these." Taking his left hand in his right, he grips the spot on his palm where the glow is brightest, looking down at it, almost as though ashamed.

"I left on a smuggler's wagon," he says quietly, to his hand, "and was brought here. They--" He pauses, like he can't quite make himself say the rest, and shakes his head, twisting his lips. "...I'll be worse than disowned, if he finds out I'm helping you."
Benedict has never been an especially good liar, one might say barely possessing enough emotional maturity to conceal any of his feelings at all, even when it doesn't matter. At the moment, he appears genuinely frightened.

Flint drinks his tea. By the time their runaway has finished, he is happy to set it aside - a soft clink of the cup being set aside, the miscellaneous jangle of some small piece of metal on his person all from his post near the door as he shifts slightly forward.

Helping you, the magister's son had said.

"Do you suppose," he says, and it isn't to Benedict but rather to Yseult. To Thranduil. "It was the anchor shard that dragged him back here? Or is that too optimistic of me?"

He does not sound especially overflowing with optimism.

This yields a frantic, incredulous look, his words quiet but fraught with outrage. "I just--!!"

"Because to my ear," Flint says, not loud or sharp but forceful in the way that people accustomed to being in charge can sometimes be. "He said he left because he was frightened. Of what Corypheus, or his mother, or whoever else might possibly crawl from Tevinter's woodwork to harm him might do.

"Were I driven from a place by fear"--in the alien tones of a person who may not know the word--"I cannot imagine that in the wide world, the first direction I would choose to run would be toward the one I'd willfully risked fucking over."

"I don't--" stammers Benedict, thrown off by this line of questioning, "--there's nowhere else..!"

It's true, he probably would have come back even if he hadn't been sent. He's known safety here, there are people he trusts even if he doesn't necessarily like them, and ultimately-- now more than ever-- he believes in what they're doing.
But Flint's logic is unassailable and even Benedict can't deny it. He's visibly flustered, glancing between the other two as if hoping for rescue.

After a pause in which Thranduil looks beyond Benedict, thinking, perhaps, of Kitty, of her harrowing return home, he addresses the room rather than any specific person.

“We are not a charity,” he says, and allows it to be as simple as that. Yseult has her destination in mind already.

Yseult might, but he's in no mood to coax a magister's son into stumbling toward it. If Benedict's to get there, it will be because he's been driven to it.

"Tell me,"--and this Flint does address to the boy, snapping as an especially irritable dog might at shy heels--"Can you think of even a single reason why we shouldn't haul you down to the Gallows courtyard and execute you in front of the whole company this very moment? We can't trust you to be here in the Gallows. We can't trust you in the field. Even if you weren't here to play stupid while feeding everything you see and hear to someone waiting outside, what guarantee do we have that you won't simply roll over the next time someone gives you even the slightest reason to think you might be safer in their custody than in ours? You are at best a halfwit and at worst a lying coward. Either would be better pitched in pieces into the harbor than allowed to remain here."

"Commander Flint," Thranduil says, mild as seawater. Because everything he's said is true, and they are on their second go-round of this, and the only difference is that they are Riftwatch, now, and not Inquisition.

He takes a sip of the wine. He should have some barrels put up for winter. It is like as not to be the next thing that will be in short supply, and he does not care for ale.

Thranduil has only ever been the carrot when Coupe was the stick. This dynamic is not new, simply now including Yseult. Still, fear always spoils the meat.

"Betrayal seems to come cheaply to you, monsieur Artemaeus."

Yseult sighs. Not at Flint or Thranduil, but at Benedict, lifting her shoulders and letting them drop again.

"I'm afraid they make convincing points. I'd like to believe you, but you're not a good liar, Benedict. You really shouldn't bother. So tell us the truth--the complete truth, of every single thing you did and heard and saw when you were in Tevinter and when they brought you back here--and maybe we can weigh that against Commander Flint's arguments and find some alternative. Alright?"

Shoulders taut, eyes wide in terror as Flint descends with his judgment, for a moment Benedict looks like he might faint. But his gaze is drawn to Thranduil, and then Yseult, and a shift occurs: a stillness passes over him, a wash of hopelessness, of resignation to the truth.
If only Kitty knew how right she was, yet even she missed the mark. What fear should he have of torture, if most of the options in front of him simply end in death?

He's quiet for an unusually long time, slouched in the chair with his fingers curled over his mouth, gaze turned inward. Most, including himself, would think him the type to carry on in a moment like this, to get on his knees and plead for mercy. But he's tired, and if there's one thing he learned from his time in Minrathous, it's that whining doesn't work anymore.
If it ever did.

"I was brought here," he mumbles, his voice dull and expression stiff, "it's. Actually extremely difficult to get in and out of Minrathous right now. ...impossible, even."
A long pause. "They think I'm going to spy for them." A point which Flint already touched on, but it's irrelevant now, isn't it? "But I'm not a good liar." At this he actually cracks the faintest smile, completely devoid of mirth, staring somewhere between Yseult's leg and her desk. "I'm not. Good at any of the things I'm supposed to be doing for the Magisterium. Or Tevinter. ...categorically."

His head droops, his gaze sinking lower. Despite the stillness of his expression, a tear spills, and he lets it.
"I fucking hated this place. For a long time. But then I-- I don't know, I was... doing things, being useful. And you gave me a chance. And I was happy, happier than I've ever been. I believed in it, I still do. I was wrong to think I could go back, even for one stupid errand--"
On this, his voice gains some inflection, a hiss of anger. "--and not get-- dragged back into the-- that."

He finally stops sinking, giving his hand a disgusted little wave as he readjusts his position, but still doesn't look up.

"I don't want to die," he mutters, rubbing his temple. "I don't-- imagine that matters. But for what it's worth. ...I'm sorry."

Edited (being a perfectionist sorry aa) 2019-09-19 05:33 (UTC)

From his post near the door, Flint makes a disgusted noise.

"And now we know he'll spill his guts with just a threat."

Though he flinches when Flint speaks, Benedict says nothing, and continues to stare downward.

Yseult's brows lift as Benedict concludes and then fall, and she looks like she'd like to sigh again but refuses to be the sort of person who actually does that out loud twice in as many minutes. Instead she takes a long drink of wine and clicks her tongue once against the back of her teeth.

"It's late," she says finally, "He can spend a night in the cells and write down everything he recalls, and in the meantime we can discuss what we've heard so far. There's no need to rush things, after all. We can always execute him tomorrow."

Edited 2019-09-21 21:14 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[open] I don't know how you made it in

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helo I wrote u another novel

becomes cassandra

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