faderift | [open] gay baby jail 2: son of gay baby jail

Entry tags:

[open] gay baby jail 2: son of gay baby jail

WHO: Benedict and Approved Visitors
WHAT: Treacherous Vint in a dungeon and he's just happy to be here y'all
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: below the mage tower (I think??)
NOTES: will update as needed

It might be at any hour of the day, though likely in the daytime, when one comes to find the dungeon's current occupant.
It's bizarrely nostalgic, that he should be in the same cell, on the same magebane, as he was several years ago when he first arrived in Kirkwall, kicking and fighting and shouting to anyone who would listen that he wasn't Venatori, dragged in and abandoned by his not-Not-Venatori mentor. He'd worked his way out from that, fought tooth and nail for two years to be someone worthy of freedom, of influence.

And now he's back. There's no kicking or shouting this time, and the young man seems a decade older. When he isn't sleeping, Benedict sits quietly on the bed, back straight, staring into space; he eats what he's given, magebane and all, without complaint. He doesn't speak unless spoken to, asks for nothing, and is on the whole so utterly unlike himself that it would likely be less surprising to learn he had been swapped out with a double, the real Benedict still in Minrathous making the same mistakes and never coming back.

But he's here, it's him, and he's at the mercy of any visitors-- good-standing members of Riftwatch only, of course-- who choose to make the trip downstairs.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

As bad as it felt to leave Benedict, there wasn't really much choice. Then it was dawn, and it was all over.

Colin had to take a break or two during the day to gather himself, and ask obsessively about any executions that day. By the time afternoon came, he was fretting far too much not to march to the offices for answers. Did it get postponed? Did Benedict hang himself in his cell? Did they forget he was there? Did Colin hallucinate the entire thing?

Asking around enough, he gets an answer: there is to be no execution. At that point, he fled to the dungeons nearly as quickly as he had the first time. By the time he arrives, though, Benedict is out like a light. He turns up at Benedict's cell now and again throughout the day, but it's not until the next day that he finds him awake. Colin seems confused but smiling, and reaches through the bars as he did before.

"I've got to find a better way to hug you, if you're going to spend much time in here," he laughs.

Edited 2019-09-24 00:50 (UTC)

Benedict looks better in just about every conceivable way, apart from wearing the same clothes. The terror is gone from his bearing, and he even smiles a little when he sees Colin, rising to his feet to come over and sheepishly take his hand. He leans forward, letting his forehead and one shoulder rest on the bars, seeming unable or unwilling to look Colin in the face.

"They're letting me live," he says quietly, still quite serious in the face of the cheerful greeting, "I won't expect anything more."

"That's wise." Two words Colin never thought he would say to Benedict two years ago. "You can never expect anything you didn't earn, and even then, you probably won't get it."

Welcome to being normal, Benedict. It sucks. You're going to love it. One arm is wrapped around Benedict now, and the other hand is in his. Maybe in the future, they'll open the cell door so Colin can come inside for his visits.

"And while you're alive, I can visit. And bring food, and whatever other approved luxuries I can bring."

Benedict just nods again, showing no sign that he's about to resort to his expected antics: complaining, playing for sympathy. There's a strange energy about him now, almost like a small child who's trying so hard to be good he's afraid to move.

"You don't have to," he says to the floor, "...you've done enough." Being with him on the worst night of his life far outweighs any treats anyone could bring.

"But I want to." Colin squeezes Benedict's hand. Something has changed about him. A lot has changed about him. Before, Benedict had a certain smarminess. Maybe it's the sheer trauma of the night before last, but he's not expecting anything he isn't entitled to. He's not asking for anything. In fact, he's assuming Colin doesn't want to the things he's offering to do for him--an attitude Colin relates to far, far too much. When they first met, Benedict was cute and sort of pathetic. Now, he's relatable. Another word might be common. And commoners are meant to stick together.

This stalls something in Benedict: he's told someone not to worry, they want to do it anyway. It's a totally backwards scenario from what he knew before Riftwatch, where he'd tell someone what he wanted and they'd oblige. Over the past couple years, he's learned he has to do more than ask, often give something in return, but he doesn't know how to handle this situation in particular.

So instead he just falls silent, looking down at their hands.

"It's better that I'm here," he says quietly, after a moment, "I wouldn't know what to do if I weren't."

"What do you mean?"

Compassion--the spirit--has taught Colin a lot these past couple of years. Experience taught him the rest. If you want someone to talk about themselves, you ask questions. You don't share yourself in hopes they will share themselves in return. And Benedict is, like Colin was two years ago, undergoing a transformation. It would be poetic to think of this cell as his cocoon, but Colin doubts it will be anything so romantic. Transformations are messy and painful, and can't be performed without support.

"I hardly expect that Riftwatch kept my quarters intact," he says, with a little shake of his head that verges on bitter, "...and unless I'm trusted to work for them again, there's no money. ...anywhere." It's a grim reality, but at least one he doesn't have to face right away: he's never known what it's like to not enjoy a certain lifestyle, but he's not stupid enough to think it will outlive his relationship with his mother.

"...and I'm. No one." He looks up at last, briefly meeting Colin's eyes as if realizing this for the first time. "My name is meaningless without..." Without his family backing it, is the clear conclusion.
"I'm nothing. ...so I'd rather be nothing here, I think." In a container, a tiny world over which he has very little control, but ultimately very little is the only amount of control he knows how to have.

"That's not a bad thing," Colin says gently, giving Benedict's hand another squeeze. "Start with the little space you're a master of. But the thing is, outside of here? You're very employable, sorry to say. You can read, write, and cipher. But if you want to learn your own craft, now is when you have the time to learn one, isn't it?"

Benedict nods faintly, looking increasingly embarrassed. These are probably things he should know already-- if he should need to know them at all, and not rot here for the rest of his life. But, he doubts he'll be allowed to live without pulling his weight somehow.

"Are those..." he mumbles, "..not... crafts?" There are slaves, at least, who are employed only for their ability to read and write.

A soft laugh. "They are crafts. But they don't have to be the only ones you learn. You have a lot of options right now, whether it seems like it or no. Trust me. Life in the Circle taught me that much about confinement, at least. No one will fret about it if I bring you books, especially if they search those books and find nothing untoward in them."

When Colin laughs, Benedict mirrors it with a faint smile, but he can't quite decide if the joke is at his expense.

"There is-- actually," he says, and pulls his hand away, but not roughly. He clasps the bars with both now, peering out into the hallway, perhaps as though afraid the law will descend on him for making a request.

"...in my room," he continues, "...what was my room. I had. A deck of cards. And a little... a carved wooden box." Pursing his lips, he rests his forehead against the bars. "...if they're still there, would you...?"

"Of course." Providing they make it past the guard's inspection, obviously. "Um. Now?"

After giving it a little thought, Benedict shakes his head. "If they're gone, they've been gone for months," he says softly. They were gifts from Kit: the cigarette box was carved just for him, a little token of friendship from someone long dead.

"...if they're still there, they can wait a little longer." He nods to himself.

Colin nods. "I'll look for them later. They're probably still there. I'm not sure if anyone really thought you were...gone."

Like a memorial, left as it was.

"Thank you."

Benedict falls silent for a moment, staring at the opposite wall, his head still pressed against the bars. He drums his fingers a few times, a little restless, already beginning to remember how bored he gets with nowhere to go and nothing to do; but even more than that, there are so many questions he has, awful thoughts that won't leave him be, that he can do nothing about as long as he's here.
And perhaps it's better that way, but it's hard to see in the moment.

"Does everyone hate me," he finally asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

A bit of a pause.

"I'm not exactly the person to ask about everyone's opinion on anything," Colin points out. "You might want to be more specific."

With a sheepish glance at Colin, he shrugs one shoulder. "I don't know," he says, already clearly regretting he asked, "...never mind. I suppose I'll know soon enough."
Another long pause follows, with more finger drumming and fidgeting. Then,

"...but if they-- if someone did, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

Colin looks a smidge uncomfortable. He glances away, then back.

"Would it be in any way helpful to you?"

There's a relatively clear answer to this, but it's somewhat at odds with what Benedict tells himself he wants.

"...yes?" he hedges.

Eyebrows lift gently. Are you sure?

A bit of frustration boils up at this, beginning to twist Colin's gentle refusal and silent resistance into a slight. Twenty-some years of getting what he wants when he wants it, tempered by the gained wisdom and maturity of a few, and with some trauma peppered in, the simple disagreement ignites the kind of anxiety that manifests most commonly as:

sulking.

He scowls, thunking his forehead against the bars again, tightening his grip. "Fine."

Colin smiles broadly, and can't help an unvoiced chuckle. He is wiser now, but he is still Benedict. There's something peculiarly comforting in it.

"I mean, I could still. But I'd have to ask if I should start with the ones who hate you just for being a mage, or the ones who hate you just for being Tevinter. I've done a surprising amount with being someone who people hate."

Though his irritation flares at the smile, there is at least a more intelligent part of Benedict that reminds him who was by his side when he thought he was done for.
The scowl remains, but he masters his tone, at the very least. "That's not what I'm asking," he grumbles, looking down again. "How many people know that I'm here. ...and why."

"That's a different question." And it causes Colin's eyes to become kind instead of teasing. "I don't think Anders would judge you too much. I could talk to him for you. Who else do you think might give you a chance?"

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject