[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

[bouchonne]

[ By wakes by degrees, hot and grimy and unsatisfied by that sleep. He swallows hard, trying to clear the dryness from his mouth - no success. Tries again. Shakes his head, and lifts it -

Finds his correspondence to his spymaster here, out in the open, on his desk. For anyone to find.

Shit.

It's telling that the first thing By does, even before taking stock of his surroundings, is to go to conceal that letter. To slide it under other papers, to close his book of cyphers. And only then does he lift his head - and he meets Benedict's eyes, and the tension on his face is plain. ]

[altusimperius]

[The motion doesn't go unnoticed, but Benedict gives him a moment, glancing over with his mouth full and waiting until he's swallowed before greeting him.]

Good morning, sleepyhead.

[He could be mocking him, but he isn't-- Byerly has needed to sleep, and Benedict is glad he has been.]

Want anything from downstairs?

[bouchonne]

[ His pulse - heavy and dull - returns to normal. All right. Good. No cause for fear. Benedict is his normal, strange self. He saw nothing. ]

Mm.

[ He grinds sleep from his eyes. ]

Coffee.

[altusimperius]

[A nod, and Benedict finishes up what's on his plate, then rises. Look at him, bussing his own dishes-- he leaves the room, ostensibly to go downstairs.

When he returns some ten minutes later, it's with two mugs of coffee, one for Byerly and one for himself. He sets the Ambassador's on his desk, then returns to his own, sipping at it daintily before he settles in.

And just when it seems like they'll return to industrious silence:]

What's Ponticello?

[bouchonne]

[ Fuck.

Fuck. ]

The bridge of a violin.

[altusimperius]

[Benedict can be oblivious, but even he has never seen that look on Byerly's face.
He raises his eyebrows with an uncertain tilt of his head, as if to say: you sure?]

[bouchonne]

[ What's the best outcome, here? That Benedict goes away with suspicions unassuaged? That he goes away misinformed, perhaps. He's not a particularly sharp man, after all; By could easily spin a convincing enough story to deceive him, even brain-fogged and half-loopy from exhaustion. But then what? What if he opens his mouth? By has to come up with a story right here, on the spot, that demands decent amounts of secrecy, so this story isn't spread around, without making By seem like the sometime-traitor he is. And that story is...

It is...

Fuck. ]

Ask if you're going to ask. Be direct about it.

[altusimperius]

[As it dawns on Benedict that this is not the kind of exchange he thought it would be-- which is to say, being filled in on some new job detail, or being told it's above his pay grade-- he begins to get a sick, tilting feeling in his stomach, a deep sense of impending imbalance, as though he's just stepped through a doorway he can't walk back out of, without having wanted to be here in the first place.

He's on alert now, staring cautiously at Byerly as he chooses his words.]

...who were you writing to?

[Asked quietly, gently, like a hand outstretched to a scared animal.]

[bouchonne]

My spymaster in Denerim.

[ That's said plainly. Not, of course, that it is plain or easy to comprehend; the very statement begs many, many more questions. But By speaks as though there's nothing more straightforward, and looks Benedict directly in the face. ]

https://youtu.be/4vrMKl2zltA

[altusimperius]

[There's that tilting feeling again.]

Your what,

[bouchonne]

My spymaster. Who directs me in my duties as a spy.

[ He doesn't smile. Nor does he look at Benedict. Instead, he rises to pour himself a very deep shot of a very strong liquor straight into his coffee. ]

You did not, I hope, think that they would make a common idiot Ambassador.

[altusimperius]

[Suddenly Benedict has no appetite for his coffee, or anything else. Perhaps Byerly is sleepwalking. Or drugged. Or...]

...does Riftwatch know? [he asks, still hushed. Perhaps there's just more to the situation than he's imagining.]

[bouchonne]

Does Riftwatch mean the full organization? I hope you're not imagining that you alone have been kept in the dark.

[ His sarcasm is - tired. Just tired. ]

The Division Heads are informed. [ A sour smile. ] Flint uses it to justify any number of his own moral failings, you can be sure.

[altusimperius]

[Bene shakes his head, no, that's not--

and there's the truth he was waiting for, which he accepts with a deep sigh of relief. He feels like he's aged twenty years in the last two minutes, not allowing himself to imagine what it would have been like to navigate a situation where he's beholden to one department head and keeping a secret from the others.]

Maker's breath, you could've led with that, [he breathes, and picks up his coffee to take a gulp from it.]

I don't imagine you're going to sell us out to the highest available bidder.

[bouchonne]

[ You could have led with that. Like it makes it okay. ]

If I was interested in high bidders, would I be serving Ferelden?

[ His voice remains sour as he takes a deep gulp of his own (fortified) coffee. ]

[altusimperius]

Why are you serving Ferelden?

[As long as they're speaking frankly.]

Obviously it benefits them for you to be in a position of power, but it must benefit Riftwatch somehow also, if the other Division Heads know and you haven't been hanged yet.

[bouchonne]

That's two different questions, Artemaeus. Why I'm serving Ferelden and why they tolerate it.

[altusimperius]

...will you answer both?

[bouchonne]

[ Another sip of coffee. ]

Give me your best guess on each. I'll tell you whether or not you're right.

[altusimperius]

[Fair enough.

Benedict falls silent with a little nod, thinking on it as he sips his coffee. When he finally speaks again, his words are measured, but spoken with energy, like those of a pupil being called upon to solve a problem.]

You serve Ferelden out of obligation to your family, [he guesses, watching Byerly's face,] or... at least sentimentality for your homeland from being brought up in its nobility.

[Projection perhaps, but it's not insane to imagine he and Byerly have some things in common.]

...and maybe it's tolerated because Riftwatch has your reputation as collateral. As long as you serve the organization well, you won't be exposed.

[bouchonne]

[ By is, strangely, obliquely, cheered by the wrong guesses. ]

Alas, no. No to each. I'd tear my family up by the root, with a scant few exceptions, and my noble roots have little to do with my relationship towards my country. And they'd not have given me such power if they were holding me in check with fear. It would be far too easy for me to turn on them in my position of power.

[altusimperius]

[A little sigh, and Benedict accepts his defeat; he'll have to be an idiot a little bit longer, it seems, but at least he made an attempt.]

Why, then? Should I keep guessing?

[It altogether feels more like they're playing a strategy game than uncovering potential treason, but they've already gotten this far.]

[bouchonne]

Hm.

[ He gives a little frown, then decides: ]

Yes. Keep guessing.

[altusimperius]

[So be it.]

Perhaps you just love your mother country that much. Or perhaps someone you love is in danger of retribution if you should leave or betray your post.

[Look, he reads romance novels occasionally, it's Athessa's fault.]

[bouchonne]

[ That pulls an honest grin out of Byerly. ]

Maker, I wish I was important enough to get someone held hostage to guarantee my cooperation.