faderift | [open] far from my mother's home

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: October catch-all
WHEN: throughout Harvestmere
WHERE: Kirkwall dungeon/gay baby jail
NOTES: will add if necessary

For Riftwatch members in good standing, there's a built-in captive audience residing in a cell below the Kirkwall mage tower. One barred window peeks out onto the dreary courtyard, and on the opposite wall an interior door opens onto a dark, torchlit hallway, a bench placed on the wall facing in for the comfort of guests and interrogators.

Inside the cell, every day is the same. Sometimes Benedict is sleeping on the little bed supported by chains from the wall, sometimes he's pacing, sometimes he's standing on his toes to rest his chin on the windowsill, hands gripping the bars to keep himself upright, starved for any form of stimulation whatsoever.

Increasingly, he can be found sitting or lying on the floor of his cell, staring at the ceiling or fiddling with the straw scattered on the floor, bending and twisting it in such a way that, on closer inspection, he might be trying to figure out how to weave it.

Visitors will find him quite receptive, even excited to see them. Unless they're Flint.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Benedict nods again, letting Colin's words wash over him. Whatever he wants to be.

"Is it... should I know what that is," he asks sheepishly, "...what I want to be."

"Well, it's not like drafting a blueprint. There's always going to be things you try but don't fit, or things you admire in someone else but just...aren't you, when you put them on. The thing I found helped me was, um, well, dealing contraband lyrium to the Templars meant I had skill with money, so I became a ship's purser for four years. I hated that job, but it got me through the first few years. During those years, I got to learn not so much who I was, but who I wasn't. And that's, I think that's your problem. You've tried all your life to be your mother's ilk. That's clearly not who you are, and frankly, that's a good thing.

"So you need to show the people upstairs that. That that's not who you are, and who you are is surprising. You were deeply misguided, and maybe a little thick. But even if you're not sure who you are, you definitely know who you aren't."

Though he's still a rapt listener, a bit of the old Benedict creeps back in when he pulls an affronted face. Thick? Who is Colin calling thick?
But he thinks better of calling it out, for the same reasons as always: Colin is the only one here to see him, one of the few willing to help.
"I do know that," Bene admits with a sigh.

Colin sees that face. It's not something he's willing to dwell on, lest it make more of an impression than necessary. He meant what he said, but doesn't want to rub it in. He glances away and appears to change subjects.

"What were you like as a kid?"

That took a turn. Benedict looks a little surprised by the question, and looks away for a moment as he measures his answer.

"Oh, um. I don't know. ...probably the same." Either he's terrible at self-reflection or he recognizes how much of an insult that is to his current self-- or, knowing him, it's a little of both.
"I got everything I asked for.

"What else?"

There's a point to this. Not that Colin would be incredibly surprised to hear this man never grew past childhood, only that he wants to know what he was like in his purest form, without the baggage.

What else indeed.

"I, um..." He thinks about it, scratching at the layer of stubble that's begun to form on his jaw. "Was good at lessons. When I wanted to be." A sheepish smirk. "But I was lonely a lot of the time. There weren't ever really other children around, except at parties, and I wasn't allowed in the room when my parents had company."

Being seen and not heard, and all that.

"...so I read a lot, and painted, and. Pretty much did whatever I wanted, as long as I wasn't bothering Mother."

Now we're talking.

"So, when everything else was stripped away, you were an artist."

Benedict blinks, glances away and back. An artist.

"It was something to do," he says uncertainly.

Or maybe not. Maybe Colin is being overanalytical. He clearly deflates.

"Sorry. I thought I was being deep."

"It's not that I-- don't like it," Benedict says, finding himself trying to reassure Colin, "I do. But it was never... I wasn't supposed to take it seriously."
He bites his lower lip.

"And I can't do it now anyway. I may never be able to again." There's a touch of self-pity there, but mostly he gives off an air of trying to protect himself; getting his hopes up will only make it hurt all the more when they're dashed.
He doesn't know when his circumstances will change, if ever. There's no reason to assume they will.

Colin isn't quite as allergic to self-pity as he was. He has realized that sometimes, self-pity happens when there is a lack of compassion from anyone else. He gives Bene's hand a squeeze.

"You're terribly young to be in a cell forever," he points out warmly. "But either way, it's something to start with. Artists are creative, emotional, and eclectic. You were good at decorating, weren't you?"

"I was." He smiles faintly, but it doesn't last long-- Colin might not have meant his first statement as a jab, yet Benedict can't help but read it as one anyway. It's true, he is awfully young. What a waste of a life.

Though he doesn't pull his hand away, he seems to disengage mentally, directing his gaze toward the ground.

"...I don't want to talk about it anymore," he says, almost apologetically.

All right. There's a boundary, and even though Colin feels he has been misunderstood somehow, he has to let it go. He squeezes his hand again.

"All right," he says gently. "We won't. I'm sorry."

[open] far from my mother's home

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