[open] I feel calamity whisper

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict & you
WHAT: livin' that wartime life back on the home front
WHEN: Solace, over the course of the modplot
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: feel free to request specific prompts if what's here doesn't suit you!

I. Diplomacy office

Receiving, sorting, answering correspondence; following up on important dates, of which there are seemingly countless these days; making and delivering coffee; taking dictation, recording meetings, making lists; cross-referencing names and locations as requested, labeling markers on a map; there's hardly time to breathe.
It's been some days now since Benedict has had a proper sleep or sit-down, spending his days and nights scrambling after Byerly, seeing to the many minuscule needs of a Diplomacy office when its Forces and Scouting counterparts have fallen off the face of the world.
He doesn't begrudge Byerly-- in fact, for the first time since starting to work for him, Benedict is as quick to snap to his needs as a seasoned valet.
When not hunched over his desk in the office itself, he can frequently be found scurrying to and fro with this or that missive, list, or directive, if not just the latest pot of coffee.

He'll stop for a few moments to chat, but only if it's important.

Ia. for Byerly

With the Diplomacy office's activity having thinned out for the day, the room looks like a hurricane hit it-- this likely includes its denizens, although one of them has stepped out to retrieve more coffee, despite the darkened sky and the guttering candles.
It's an automatic motion, setting the cup on Byerly's desk, but Benedict actually looks at him for the first time in a while, and furrows his brow.

"...how long have you been here, today?"



II. The Off Hours

Going to bed just isn't cutting it anymore. Benedict can lie facedown on his mattress for the hours he's able to take to himself, but amidst the racing thoughts and the day's anxieties, sleep just isn't happening.

It's at these times that he drags himself out of bed and ascends the tower to the room where his hookah lives, long abandoned by either Athessa or Colin, but he can't let himself think about that. He smokes, and lies there staring at the ceiling, and sometimes he sleeps.

After a while, he can be found there nearly every night, either unconscious or trying to be amidst the haze of elfroot smoke.


III. Wildcard

Comments

[altusimperius]

"Don't sound so surprised," Bene replies with a little smirk-- it's only half the truth, really. Tolerability is part of it, perhaps, but also if Byerly suddenly dies of hypertension, they're all fucked.

"Just a moment." He goes to leave the room, and returns with a spare pillow and blanket taken from some nearby closet, right where he remembered them; he was once the chamberlain, after all. Coming back over to Byerly, he unceremoniously tosses the blanket over him, and moves to situate the pillow behind his back, whether he's prepared for it or not.

[bouchonne]

"Oh, come on." He swats ill-temperedly at Benedict, flaps his hand to scoot the blanket off him. "Fuck off. I'm not taking this much of a break. Honestly."

[altusimperius]

“You fuck off,” Bene primly replies, and seats himself on the corner of Byerly’s desk, then lifts the crystal around his neck to dangle it menacingly.

“Shall I ask your lady wife what to do? I think she’ll agree with me.”

[bouchonne]

By's mouth opens - and he stops, genuinely rather flummoxed by the threat.

"Don't bring her into this, you little snitch."

[altusimperius]

Purposefully, Benedict extends the pillow toward him. The threat is still very real.

[bouchonne]

And By growls...then takes it from him. Is this the first time Benedict has won against Byerly? One thing's for certain - By is not a gracious loser, if his glare is anything to go by.

[altusimperius]

With a smile like a contented cat, Benedict folds his arms and relishes his victory.

It's not like he isn't exhausted as well, but he'll take little accomplishments where he can find them. And after all the fuss, perhaps Byerly will have forgotten his question.

"I'll just be over here," he says, gesturing to his desk as he rises off of Byerly's, "you won't miss anything, if anyone comes in."

[bouchonne]

"A snitch," Byerly labels Benedict, "and a shirker."

[altusimperius]

A little sigh through his nose, and, caught out, Benedict carefully sits back down on the corner of the desk. When he folds his arms again, the gesture is one of insecurity more than satisfaction.

"It'd depend on who got to me first," he admits in a low, quiet tone, "and whether or not they already know the intelligence they've been receiving isn't actually from me."

[bouchonne]

Fine. Finally, something of substance. After a few minutes - enough to make Byerly impatient on its own.

"Run through the scenarios."

[altusimperius]

The time for snipping around has clearly passed, and Benedict has already returned to looking rather exhausted himself.

"Best case scenario, my mother bribes someone to turn me over. I go back under house arrest under her control. I..."

He trails off, his eyes momentarily glazing over.

"...have a feeling we both know what that would entail." Self-consciously tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, he looks at the floor.

"Apart from that, I don't entirely know. Like I said, that's the best case scenario. I've no expectation I'd be able to lie my way back into anyone's good graces, not after all this."

[bouchonne]

He drums his fingers on the desk. Then he says, firmly, "If they make it to Starkhaven, you'll be going South."

[altusimperius]

"To Ferelden?"

That's a grim thought, albeit not as grim as the alternative.

"...where?"

[bouchonne]

"To Gwaren," By replies, which answers the letter of the question, if not its spirit.

[altusimperius]

"That's..."

Bene's shoulders sag as he pictures the Fereldan map, one of many he's all but memorized since beginning his clerical duties under Byerly.

"...far." The word is a rasp, carrying a note of defeat.

[bouchonne]

"Yes?" His look at Benedict is positively incredulous. "That's quite the point, dear child."

[altusimperius]

"I'm not a child," Benedict says quietly, with far less insolence than the statement would normally suggest-- it's a statement of fact. "And if they want to find me, they will."

He clasps his hands, resting them between his knees to gaze pensively down at them.

"Running wasn't the answer before. I don't think it will ever be."

[bouchonne]

"What," he says, "looking to complete your redemption on the gallows, then?"

He shakes his head.

"There's still work to be done from down there."

[altusimperius]

It would be torture, Bene thinks, but doesn't say: it's been difficult enough, getting close to people and now praying for their safety on the warfront an Eluvian's distance away. To be halfway across the world, alone save for whatever strangers are already in Gwaren, who no doubt have their own opinions about Tevinter expats-- he'd have to start over. Again.

"...let's talk about it later," he says in the same quiet rasp, and rises again, this time with a listlessness that eclipses any triumph he previously felt.
"You said you'd rest."

[bouchonne]

"Later, when I've forgotten about it?" By asks. "Or later, when they've arrived and strung you up already? Which would be your preference?"

[altusimperius]

"Byerly," Benedict implores, sinking into the seat of his own desk, his head dropping into his hands, "please. Just. Let me think."

[bouchonne]

Byerly, who does not tend to stop or think, clucks his tongue in disapproval, then gestures dismissively. Fine.

[altusimperius]

A reasonable amount of time passes, enough that one occupant of the diplomacy office should be able to take a decent breather, and the other can scramble for a plan.
Never one to stop or think until somewhat recently, Benedict nonetheless finds it comes a little easier than it used to, even if he doesn't like the result.

"I have an idea," he murmurs, having the decency to wait until Byerly is up and about again.

[bouchonne]

"Maker have mercy," By replies with sardonic dryness.

[altusimperius]

It's enough to cut, at first, and Benedict falls silent. He's no stranger to being shut down, but takes a moment to remind himself of the stakes at hand.

"...they probably won't kill me," he says in a low voice, "they'll want my shard. And information. Assassinating me would be a waste."
He looks contemplatively down at his gloved left hand.

"I'm bad at interrogations. But I was bad at fighting, too. Then I practiced, and I can do it now." He lifts his eyes to meet Byerly's, both hoping and fearing that he'll catch his drift.