[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]

"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.

[bouchonne]

By's lips purse. "What," he says, "you want me to train you in withstanding interrogations?"

[altusimperius]

Benedict nods, somehow with both unease and conviction.

[bouchonne]

"Dear Benedict," Byerly says, "I'm merely a diplomat." A beat, then - "And it doesn't work like that. It's not something you just learn to withstand. It's not like holding your breath or lifting a weight."

[altusimperius]

"Then..."

Bene's eyes shift to the middle distance as he considers for several long moments. When he looks back, his gaze is calculating.
"...tell me something. Anything. And if you hear it back from... Gabranth. Or Edgard, maybe. You'll know they got it out of me."

There are a few people he can count on, he figures.

[bouchonne]

"Are you going to invite them to torture you?"

[altusimperius]

"I--"

It sounds so awful. It is so awful. His face sinks into his hands.

"--guess." He rubs his tired eyes, lowers his hands, and stares at nothing.

"I'd trust them not to murder me by accident. And to understand... well, why." Squinting up at Byerly, he looks no happier than he did the day he was sent to clean the latrines.
"Is there a better way?"

[bouchonne]

He shakes his head. "Maker preserve me," he mutters, running a hand over his face. Then -

"There are as many ways to interrogate a person as there are people, Artemaeus. Pain is one way, but also the most inelegant and often the least effective. An able interrogator will discover that, if you've built a tolerance to pain, you may have a weakness to - say - blows to your ego." Byerly's personal weakness, his spymaster would claim. "Threats to others. Promises of comfort. Maker, good old-fashioned narcotics will do a trick with some people."

You know. Just a diplomat.

Then he shakes his head. "Why are you assuming that I'd send you away for what you know? You don't even really know anything that valuable."

[altusimperius]

Listening closely, Benedict watches him, his chin now propped on the knuckles of his folded hands. He has no reason to suspect Byerly is anything but a diplomat, but Maker knows this sort of material doesn't limit itself to spies.
He knows his mother too well to believe that.

"Then why send me away?" he asks mutedly, "to protect me? You can't."

[bouchonne]

Byerly just shrugs roughly in response.

[altusimperius]

It would be flattering if it weren't so painful.

"When they-- if they come for me," Benedict continues, mumbling into his folded hands, "my only chance is to convince them I'm worth keeping alive." Which, in the past, has involved caving immediately and telling everything he knows, something he'll spend the rest of his (potentially short) living with.

"Let me..." He takes a deep breath, and pins Byerly with his gaze.
"...let me try. Or I'm dead anyway."

[bouchonne]

Good luck pinning Byerly. The man's eyes are sharp and hard - a contrast to his usual studied, deliberate look of vague dissolution.

"That's not your only chance," he says. But then - "But fine. If that's your will. I'll not jeopardize my kin if the offer is anathema."

[altusimperius]

This merits a blank look.

"Your kin?"