faderift | [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

A little hiss through his teeth, and Benedict looks away, his face hard and his posture stiff. Perhaps it wouldn't be simple-- but loneliness is, he has learned through experience, a hardship against which he has little defense.

It's all too ironic that he's basically asked to be put through the wringer, then, when the most difficult option of all is just to accept what's likely best for all of them.

So he nods, pinching the bridge of his nose. Leave it to Gabranth to talk proper sense into him, as much as he hates to hear it.

“Let us refrain from this for now. Come with me to your quarters, and I shall sit with you while you rest. Fully.” His arm is extended in formal offering, a gesture towards the path they've already tread, knowing full well the walk back will feel more akin to regression than progress.

But that is the nature of all things, cyclical, knotted, tangled as the emotion that no doubt clings tight within Benedict's chest.

“No harm shall come to you, or this place, or those you hold dear while I stand watch.” He cannot think if he is too wearied. He cannot compose himself, nor fight, nor study his own grief, his own fear— he needs rest.

“You have my word.”

Though he takes a breath as though to protest, Benedict feels all the more like a petulant child throwing a tantrum and being put down for a nap-- it's perhaps more dignified to just let it happen, rather than insist he isn't exhausted.
He finds himself missing Micaela acutely, but would never admit such a thing in front of someone he's trying to impress.

"Fine," he murmurs, "...but the hookah room. My quarters is full of people." He doesn't want to deal with any snickering or commentary about it.

“As you will it.”

A fair compromise, as far as Gabranth is concerned. The solitude will suit them both in the wake of such taxing endeavors as the ones they’ve both endured— though between the two of them, it is Benedict that fares worse for his troubles. The slouch in his posture speaking of much.

For it, Gabranth stays close. Diligent in his guarding presence, his steadied walk.

Not an escort, but a bulwark.

There's agitated silence as they make their way back to the tower, and then up, Benedict's brow set in a restless furrow as his thoughts venture miles away. He's ashamed of himself, but can't immediately define why: it's something to do with cowardice, or being foolhardy perhaps, always a step behind the more seasoned members of Riftwatch.
It's difficult to climb out of being a joke to them when he's a joke to himself, but maybe that's the fatigue speaking-- if only he could go back to basing his worth on fashion and hair products.

When they arrive in the hookah room, he flops down onto his favorite cluster of pillows, kicking a few into place and gesturing to them so Gabranth can sit down as well, if he pleases.

He does indeed.

Ridiculous as it looks, wrapped in armor as he is, settling down to sit amongst soft bedding, hunched forward with his gauntleted forearms resting over the plating at his knees— Gabranth holds no hesitation in acquiescing to that subtle request, helm placed somewhere at is side, forgotten near instantly.

"I'll not sleep." He promises, before Benedict's fear might think to offer up the suggestion in a drowsy haze.

Reaching for the hookah, Benedict flicks a flame into his hand, focusing on that for a moment before glancing up at Gabranth.

"Do you sleep?" he asks seriously. It just occurred to him that he doesn't know.

"I am still a man, Lord Artemaeus." The words exhaled softly, his lip pulling at its edge as his eyes drift shut.

He dislikes Benedict's habit of smoking, yet— for once— voices no complaint over it, merely leaning away from the hookah and settling deeper by degrees into that nest of finery.

"Or do you believe I disliked Orzammar so much that it drove my mood into despair, rather than a perpetual lack of rest."

"To be honest," Benedict answers mildly, "it could have gone either way."

He carefully draws some smoke up through the hookah, puffs it out until he's satisfied by its quality, and then leans back, leaving it in his mouth as he gazes wearily at the ceiling.

"If you don't age," he muses, "it seems unfair that you should have to do things like eat and sleep."

“It is.”

All of it is unfair.

“But we were designed for destruction, even within the realm of the gods: a death surrendered to weakness or starvation would still advance their endless game.” He watches the smoke curl in the air, coiling like a serpent— something he would equally avoid, given such close proximity. As it stands, he simply opts to look towards Benedict instead, appraising the measure of his expression.

“Endless life and rebirth ensured their stories were no less entertaining, that was purgatory's only purpose.”

Benedict frowns, angling his head to watch Gabranth through heavily-lidded eyes.

"My ancestors-- the ancient Magisters-- tried to achieve immortality. People say they were the first Darkspawn, and that's all Corypheus is. He's just more powerful than the others."

Even if it's too early for the weed to kick in, the act of reclining itself is beginning to relax him.

"I'm glad you're not a Darkspawn, under all that armor."

He makes a loose noise of vague amusement, attempting— and failing— to comprehend the comparison between his own curse and that of their marked enemy. Perhaps he knows too little of this world still.

Perhaps Benedict is too intoxicated already.

“Immortality takes many shapes, Lord Artemaeus. My curse is markedly more bearable than some, yet perhaps not kinder in origin. You will be better off never knowing its touch.”

With a little noise of agreement, Benedict nods-- his muscles are visibly beginning to relax, his eyelids drooping as his head sinks into the pillow behind him. The high is starting to kick in, and with it, the fatigue he's been avoiding.

He starts to say something else, but trails off instead, drifting into sleep with the hose still loosely held in one hand.

[open] I feel calamity whisper

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