faderift | [open] I feel calamity whisper

Entry tags:

[open] I feel calamity whisper

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Lifting his head, Benedict smiles mutedly; everyone is tired, everyone is busy, and although he's quite glad to see Gabranth, he doesn't want to frighten him off with a barrage of questions or nagging concerns.

"You're back," is all he says instead, and motions for him to sit down.

In some way, he is surprised to be greeted by no arms slung tight around his waist. No tearful weeping, faced pressed to the dark mirror of his armor.

Whether for exhaustion, or simply poise, Gabranth is glad of it all the same. It feels as though an eternity has passed since their last meeting, and with so much of the world changed, he wants to believe Benedict has done no less— but for the sake of betterment, rather than turmoil.

His seat is taken, one arm resting against the table's edge.

"You are well, I presume? You have been well cared for in my absence?"

Byerly, who so often safeguards Benedict like a wayward pup, no doubt has been sunken to the neck in work with yet more duty set upon him. What that means for Benedict in turn....

The constant fear and unease has brought out an unusual quiet in Benedict's being, replacing his typical anxiety with a much heavier, pooling dread.

"I've been managing," he replies, immediately dodging the need to complain about how Byerly is crumbling to pieces and won't accept help from anyone. "...trying not to worry."

About his own fate, and that of the people on the frontlines. About everything.

"Better managed here than elsewhere." He concludes, stolid as ever beneath the shadow of his helm.

"Our forces survive. They have brought much hurt to our enemy's overly ambitious talons, and I believe in time this press will subside— though it has come at cost."

There are worser ways to fight a war. Quicker ways to lose. That only some ground has been ceded is a good sign, Gabranth believes, for he holds much experience in the way of an empire's ceaseless fury. Entire homelands cut clean away from history's weave in an instant.

"You will remain safe here, Lord Artemaeus."

"I'm not..."

He trails off momentarily, but decides to finish the sentence before Gabranth can scold him for hesitating. "...I'm not certain that's true."

He's considerably younger than Gabranth, but he has personally been here, on this island, rather longer, and seen how easy it can be for the wrong people to slip through the cracks.

"You've thought about what I asked you?" Might as well not beat around the bush.

“Name somewhere better, then, and I shall take you.”

This is not said in jest. Nothing about it— even setting aside Gabranth's bullish insistence on truthfulness and duty— reads as humorous in the slightest, as though he would pick Benedict up in this very moment and cart him off towards the nearest ferry without so much as a pause for consideration.

“I did not need to think on it: you have asked, and I shall act on your request. Do you wish to dispense with the formalities of reunion?”

As far as he knows, there is nowhere better. That's the sad reality of it, which he and Gabranth, Byerly, anyone else concerned will have to accept.
The south of Ferelden, if it comes to that.

"It seems... best," Benedict admits, ducking his head slightly, knitting his brow as he looks up through the dark slats of Gabranth's helmet, "unless you'd prefer them." The formalities, that is.

"What is their goal? What would they seek from you? I must know this in order to conduct a proper investigation."

A proper faux investigation must still mimic its counterpart; just as Gabranth insisted on Benedict honing his instincts in true battle, he'd demand no different for this.

As for the rest...

"And you must tell me where we ought do this. Someplace where we will not be heard. Or questioned."

"Well," Benedict answers, delicately tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, and lowering his voice so as not to alert the entire dining hall of his former indiscretions, "...the last time, they wanted to know about Rifters. And shards. How the power works, how to harness it."

His eyes go distant for a moment, but then he rises, gathering his things with him.
"I imagine they'll want to know what I know about our leaders, our movements. If they're still foolish enough to think I'm a double agent, which... I doubt, they'll get what knowledge they can of Riftwatch's inner workings."
He sneers.
"It worked once, after all. For what it was."

He beckons lightly to Gabranth, leading him out of the dining hall.

Gabranth follows, merely a step or two behind, committing it to memory as though it were a military briefing held within the halls of Archades itself.

"And you do not believe your familial ties will safeguard you, this time?"

"Only to the extent that my prison will be familiar to me." He'd explain the whole situation with the shared dream, the odd feeling that it's closer to becoming the truth than anyone is comfortable admitting, but it's easier to simply state what has happened.

"When I went back the first time, my mother put me under house arrest until she felt it was time to send me back. She called in favors so that she could be the one to control my fate."
He glances over his shoulder at Gabranth. "To expect the same clemency from the Magisterium a second time would be... well. Careless. Idiotic."

He leads him out into the courtyard of the former Mage Tower, and stops in front of a dirty old door in the back, rusted from disuse. He regards it for a moment, as though steeling himself.

He is afforded that time. Whatever of it he requires: this is a false trial, not a true one— there would only be cruelty in rushing it. More harm to be found than good.

"Consider, then, to lend yourself to what they do not suspect from you. Loyalty. Forthrightness. Fear."

A deep breath in, then out. Benedict squeezes his eyes closed and wrenches the door open, revealing stone stairs leading down into a dingy hallway, gloomy light spilling in from the barred cell windows cut into the outside wall.

It still being the daytime, the dungeon isn't as dark as it could be; however, Benedict still snaps a flame into his hand to light a sconce, which he unhooks from its brace on the wall to lead the way forward.
The flame flickers with his shaking hand.

Edited 2021-07-21 19:55 (UTC)

It is a familiar sort of ruin, this place. It reminds him of Ivalice, in a strange way. Of the stony walkways he once would tread thousands of lifetimes ago. Even the smell of it evokes memory— a familiar fondness, rather than fear.

But he cannot miss those trembling fingers, those shaking shoulders.

"If you are not ready," he interjects, his voice low, "then we need not do this."

"I'll never be ready," Benedict admits, and stops walking. He ducks his head with a wince, avoiding letting his gaze wander to the cell just to his right: on its walls are a series of little drawings, runny and faded from weather and wear, but still (if one should look closely) in a hand that Gabranth may recognize from the piece he was given before departing.

"I haven't been ready for anything," he adds miserably, turning to look into the slot where he knows Gabranth's eyes to be, his own expression imploring. "I don't know what to do."

He does not recognize it. Not for lack of comprehension, but for attention: his own is fixed entirely on Benedict alone, even in the grim shadows of this place. He does not care to mark stone or steel or iron where it surrounds them— he did not come here for that.

“Life does not come with leylines to be read like a map, Lord Artemaeus. There are no poor choices, only careless ones. Selfish ones, versus the selfless sense of sacrifice.”

"Which is this?" Benedict asks, his voice soft and weary, his face open. "I know a place where we won't be heard. But will it matter in the long run? If what I fear comes to pass, is there actually any way to prepare for it?"

He's working himself up, in the manner of a lad who has had too many worries and too little sleep of late.

“I cannot be the one to tell you. Did you make this decision to protect those around you— ”

It is not Gabranth’s place to fall headlong into sympathy. He has already offered the full wellspring of it before to Benedict in private over past transgressions— he has poured it out to Jone, in the shadow of her origins. There is much he feels, even now. But feeling is not always what is needed.

Clarity. Clarity is what must live between them now. For Benedict’s sake, more than anything else.

“—Or to protect yourself?”

"I don't know," he admits, his voice shaking-- already doing great at the questioning part, Benedict savagely thinks, but doesn't voice it. Instead, he falls still for a moment, actually reflecting on the question.

"...both," he decides, staring somewhere past Gabranth's shoulder.

“Then it is a tarnished decision.” Is the answer that comes drifting to the surface, one hand rising unbidden to pull away the confines of his own helm.

He will not speak of this as a suit of armor.

Hanging his head, Benedict is abruptly on the verge of tears. He holds himself back, but wonders feverishly why he ever thought it would be a good idea to come down here, as if it would make him stronger instead of just further crumbling what resolve he's managed to build.

He puts a hand over his face to shield Gabranth from its weakness, feeling his gaze all the more acutely now that the helmet's off.

"Maybe I should just go south," he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

"To what end?"

To run? To lap his wounds in misery and false comfort? Gabranth is hard-hearted, yet not cut from stone, he is not immune to the anguish that rests before him— it does not miss in its own striking potency— that does not make this any less of an interrogation.

Perhaps not the one Benedict had come expecting, however. The digging beneath surface thought, in order to bleed out truth.

Upon consideration, the truth is even bleaker:

"To get out of the way."

Benedict can only assume this is what Byerly meant by the notion-- if he's not nearby, he can't be taken, can't be a liability to everyone in Riftwatch, least of all the department in which he's been working for... has it been nearly a year now?

There is more here, lingering within Benedict's response, aside from the obvious fear. The uneasy dread of what might be, and the far more nightmarish product of a mind left to weigh an unspoken tangle of factors— Gabranth is no keen tactician or diplomat, yet he can perceive it all the same.

And as he'd said once before, no wound can be left to rot.

Thus he withdraws there, abandoning the initial purpose of this exercise in favor stepping away to a less confined portion of that dismal space, gesturing for Benedict to follow.

"Tell me what has transpired in my absence. Truly."

It requires going back up the stairs to do so, and Benedict is positively wretched about it, his bold gesture having gotten the better of him.

"Byerly and I have been..." He sighs, shaking his head, "...well with the Commander and the Scoutmaster gone, he has so much more on his plate, and I'm trying to support him, and..."

He trails off with a frown. He's tired. They're both-- all-- so tired.

"...well he said that if the Venatori take Starkhaven, I should go south. Because if they take Starkhaven, they can take Kirkwall."
He looks at his feet. "I'm trying to come up with a reason that wouldn't be a good idea."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject