[open] far from my mother's home

[altusimperius]

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.

Comments

[keenly]

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

"Sorry. I thought I was being deep."

[altusimperius]

"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.

[keenly]

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?"

[altusimperius]

"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.

[keenly]

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."