[open] I'm learning to live

[altusimperius]

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.

Comments

[keenly]

When Colin appears, a guard follows him and takes out a key to open the cell door. Colin says nothing, only holds up what he's carrying: a bucket of steaming water and a bar of soap. A towel is thrown over his shoulder and there's a bag at his side. He is permitted to enter the cell long enough to deposit these things on the cell floor. Inside the bucket, Benedict will also find a sponge. From the bag, Colin takes out a basic change of clothes: a clean shirt, a loose-fitting wool banyan, and trousers that will definitely be too short for Benedict but still wearable.

He wouldn't say it, but this is as much for him as it is for Benedict. Visits have become increasingly difficult, with the smell, though Colin is too polite to have mentioned it.

[katabasis]

It's a pale, wet day. While the thick old stone of the Gallows provides a buffer against the chill, the damp passes down through that narrow little window high in the wall of Benedict's cell and drains downward where it forms a puddle of sludgy mud at the rear wall. They are, admittedly, somewhat grim accommodations. But if the mud wasn't there to be moaned about, then the contentious subject would be the lack of natural light, or the quality of the bread being served to the cell's occupant, or the unevenness of the floor and how the poor man had only last week stubbed his toe on a paving stone. Bleeding hearts will inevitably find some nettle to stab themselves with.

There is a heavy bang and clack as a key is turned in a lock. Suffice to say that as Flint comes through the door - armed with sword and belt knife, a stool and a half empty bottle of wine - he sees no issue with the state of the cell. He rights the stool, then sits down on it. The door closes and summarily locked again behind him.

"I find myself having arrived at an impasse.” There is a shallow bowl just inside the cell. He fetches it up, uncorks the bottle and pours a measure of the dark red wine into it. "As I’m sure you can imagine, it is not a state which I enjoy."