Another glare at Edgard turns into an imploring look at Jone, but it's clear enough Benedict is on his own here. Enduring. And it's awful, in ways for which he doesn't even entirely have the words: but then, as with before, there is a part of him that recognizes his full capacity to simply walk away, and the fact that he doesn't want to is its own dilemma. He finds, to his agony, that he very much cares what everyone present thinks of him.

So he listens quietly, teeth gritted, the unpleasantness of it written on his terrible-at-lying visage, but there's regret there. And when Gabranth alludes to a previous injury, there's a twitch in Benedict's brow as it knits together. He doesn't remember, or was never aware.