faderift | [open] I'm learning to live

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: November catch-all
WHEN: Firstfall
WHERE: the dungeon
NOTES: will update as needed

It's getting cold.

Which is to say, it's gotten cold. The dungeon doesn't allow for a lot of natural light, the sun appearing through the window only for a little while in the morning, leaving the rest of the day shrouded in gloom. Now that the winter draws ever closer, Benedict finds himself in shadow most of the time, and has determined that he would gladly sacrifice the light entirely if it meant the wind no longer blew straight into the cell.
He has taken to sleeping under the cell's bench at night, if only to block the wind.

It doesn't help that he's lost some weight off his already skinny frame, though it's difficult to see when he's so frequently wrapped up in the thin blanket he's allowed. It's not uncommon for a visitor to peer into the cell and just see what appears to be a lump of fabric, only for a dirty foot or greasy head to emerge from within it as he either looks to see who's arrived or fails to contain his lanky form in his sleep. His face has accumulated a layer of scruff that will never quite become a beard (not that he ever wanted one), but serves only to itch constantly.

All things considered, it hasn't taken too long for Benedict to reach a miserable state. But he has books now, and he has watercolors, and something in him seems much more alive than it had previously-- he no longer lies staring at the ceiling, finding respite from gnawing boredom only within his own mind.
When not reading or painting, he can often be found working on a straw mat that, at some point, he began to weave out of the contents of the cell's floor. It has slowly come to take the shape of the window.

Still he asks for nothing, speaks only when spoken to, and seems to have settled into a sort of peaceful hopelessness. If this is his life now, at least he's alive.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Eminently less stupid than any given person hopes he is, Benedict remains still and doesn't even look at the bottle. He's cowed by Flint's presence, certainly, but one might also say his optimism about the chances of pulling any shenanigans and living through the encounter is at an all-time low. Which, at least in his mind, is for the best.

He looks a little more frightened by the prospect of there being hearts who have been bleeding on his behalf-- he knows about Colin, and though he gets unnervingly righteous, there's been no intentional heartstring tugging that Benedict is aware of. In fact, he's been avoiding it.
He nods, eyes locked on Flint, just letting him speak.

Benedict is, for better or worse, hardly the first person to make this mistake.

"Now, the trouble is that there is exactly one straight forward solution to both these problems. I don't Believe I have to explain it to you, but stop me if I've lost you. I would rather the point be made clear."

It's impossible to lean any further back into the wall, but Benedict tries anyway, the color draining from his face. He nods rapidly, adding "it's-- it's clear," in a slightly choked voice. "..ser."

The man in the chair regards him with a flat expression. It cannot be described as calculating, but it must be. In any case, it gives off the distinct impression of being very aware - of the color draining from Benedict's face, of this room and how far away anyone else in the whole world is from it.

"I gather you would prefer to avoid that outcome," he says.

It's been months since he first came back to Kirkwall, and there have definitely been moments when Benedict has wondered whether he'd have preferred a quick death to this long, pathetic lingering. But here, faced with the idea by someone who would no doubt bring it all too gladly, he finds his attachment to life as healthy as ever.

"Yes, ser," he says in a small voice.

A nod. Good.

"Then it would benefit you to suggest a few alternatives."

Oh.

Benedict's heart feels like it's fallen into his stomach, and both are bouncing around like fleas on a dying dog. He was in no way prepared for this, apart from the occasional flight of ludicrous fancy. But then, there's always the standby.

"I can-- translate Old Tevene," he stammers, "and-- decode letters, and," it all seems to be hurrying out of his mouth faster than he can think about it, "I'll-- I'll do anything you want." He'll even stay here, but he doubts that's what Flint is looking for.

"And in what way do you think either of those things would even begin to be applicable to this organization?"

He has thoughts of his own, but that's obviously not why he's here.

That stops Benedict in his tracks, and he stares at Flint, frozen. That's what he was doing before, after all, in between his duties as a chamberlain.

"Corypheus," he breathes, "is-- is an old Magister, he operates the way the Imperium used to, he wants it to be that way again." Unless Corypheus is no longer an issue? But Colin would've said something, wouldn't he?
"Finding a way to-- to stop him might be-- as much about undermining his expectations as... as thwarting his military efforts." Bene's hands are clasped tightly, his gaze focused on the wall behind Flint.

"I met him," he adds, shoulders hunched, "the Senate thinks he'll give them even more power, that they'll be running Thedas like the Ancient Magisters with him as their figurehead. But if-- if they can be convinced to turn, or," he winces, "...or d.. dealt with..."
It's hard not to show any dismay at the idea, but his family is not only fully embroiled in the Wrong Side but are the reason he's here, and they certainly haven't sent a rescue party.
"...then his base will crumble."

"I'm not discussing this matter theoretically. I am not interested in what could potentially turn families in Tevinter from Corypheus, or what we might discover in some old papers three years from now to undo them. What I am asking," he says, that bowl of wine balanced on his knee. "Is what will do it, and your plan to accomplish it. Saying you'll read letters and do translation is all well and good, but requires very little of you."

An impossible question, in particular for one with so little news out of the outside world, who doesn't know what may or may not have already happened, or what's in motion. And it's not like he had much power to begin with, all things considered.
Benedict opens his mouth, closes it again, and looks away, as miserable as he is frightened. "I don't know," he admits, his voice low, "...I don't know."
He looks down at his hands. "But if someone figures it out. I'll do it."

[open] I'm learning to live

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