faderift | [closedish]

Her look is too much, and makes him avert his eyes, tension welling in his chest.

"Because," he says faintly, trying to keep his voice steady, "I could hurt you. Like, really hurt you. Or you'd hurt yourself."

A pause.

"...and it would be my fault." He glances back at her uneasily. Does she know what that would mean?

"Well." Adrasteia takes a breath. She can think of a few solutions. Rendering herself immobile is the first that occurs but she could still potentially hurt herself that way. "How else are you expected to improve at your magic if you don't practice it?"

Benedict shrugs helplessly, breaking his gaze from Adrasteia to bury his face in his hands. There's no right answer.

"I can practice the rift magic," he mumbles, drawing his hands away slowly, "or, you know. Start over. With something else." Or just dose himself with magebane for the rest of his life, or get a Chantry sun branded on his forehead, all's fair when it comes to avoiding the discomfort of responsibility.

Hm. While that's all... fair, as far as Adrasteia can tell, it's not helping him with the problem of getting better at magic that is anathema in the South, is it? "If you were back home, what would you do?"

She imagines the answer is not one she'd be inclined to like, but there's little lost in the asking.

There are a lot of reasonable answers to that, especially considering what he would do now if he were to return home, but he's not about to lie to himself or to Adrasteia. There's only one really true one.

"...we used slaves," he says with a little flinch, looking at the ground.

"Well." She gives a little shrug. "Here you have someone who is an elf but is not afraid to tell you if or when you've gone too far, and you need the opportunity to practice your craft. I understand your hesitance," conceptually, definitely, but personally? The fact that he had slaves is not great, but also is more a reflection on his family than him, in her mind, "but do you think that choosing not to is the best idea?"

Edited 2021-10-26 07:12 (UTC)

"It can be," he replies with an air of defeat, but stops himself before he can succumb entirely to the guilt of it. That doesn't look good on anyone.

"I suppose you're right." It seems wise to let Adrasteia guide the interaction, if she feels this strongly about it; and she'd be the one in the line of fire, after all.

"We can use my room," Adrasteia decides without hesitance because it's best if they're not interrupted and also if she's surrounded by the comforting and familiar in case something goes wrong. She nods, certain of herself, and then gestures for him to follow her to the former mage's tower.

"But first, let's grab some food."

A silent nod, and Benedict moves to follow, his heart in his throat. He doesn't say anything for a while, doesn't take much food, as he's not sure he'll be able to choke anything down while he's feeling like this-- he's just biding his time until he has to do the unthinkable to a willing participant.

She understands his hesitance, at least on it's face, but she's not sure she could explain why this is so important to her without giving away more than she's comfortable with. Maybe it's the memory of Adamant fresh on her mind after her conversation with Richard, or perhaps it's just the nature of the thing as a whole. Where else will she find someone who can use these magics and will be willing and able to have her as a participant in bettering them... or at least in determining where her own limits lie.

Still. She brings food up to her room in the former mage's tower, and makes tea for the both of them — lavender and mint with some honey — before she moves a chair to sit across from him and watches him over the rim of her painted teacup.

"This isn't just about you and furthering your own skills," she confesses quietly. "I need to know what I can tolerate, and what I can't."

It's an understatement to say that Benedict has little appetite, considering what's to come; but, strange though it may be, Adrasteia's qualification of the impending activity does actually, however slightly, ease his nerves.

He nods into a little sip of his tea, brow knitting as he looks over his cup at her. And after a moment, he murmurs, "I understand."

He pauses.

"...I'm... I need to do something similar."

Somehow that's surprising to hear. Maybe because she'd assumed that Benedict was rather...spoiled, before she actually began interacting with him. Maybe because she's realizing that she doesn't know that much about him, actually.

She knows how Byerly treats him, and that Ellis doesn't trust him, but that's about it.

"Oh?"

Tell her more, Benedict. She's clearly interested in whatever this is, if the raised eyebrows above her own teacup are any indication.

Though he's become more circumspect about to whom he spills all the details of his life, Adrasteia has one of those faces and has never proven herself to be anything but kind and trustworthy.

And it's not like what they're going into doesn't have its own element of trust.

"My family are aligned with the Venatori," he explains quietly, looking down at his cup, "it'll be clear by now, that... I haven't been the man on the inside they've wanted." It feels like dancing on a knife's edge, stating it outright; but should she choose to investigate, he has nothing to hide. He's telling the truth.
"If Tevinter takes Kirkwall, I'm..." He runs his thumb around the rim of the cup, stalling. "...I probably won't be killed." His fate, gauging by his tone, will likely be far worse than that.

Adrasteia draws a breath. Whatever she had expected Benedict might say, this is not it. Her face arranges itself in displeasure as she imagines what might happen to the son of a Venatori household who has aligned themselves with Riftwatch as opposed to the other way around.

"No, you'd be questioned and kept." A sigh. "Benedict, I'm sorry."

To hear it spoken outright is a knife twisting in his gut, even if Adrasteia isn't the one who actually put it there. It's strangely comforting, at least, to know he isn't just being melodramatic: his instincts have been good, at least to a degree.

He nods, setting his teacup down, abruptly losing his taste for its contents.

"Byerly wants me to go south, in such an event. But I couldn't stay there long, not with an anchor. And apart from that, it seems..."

He shrugs one shoulder and looks down. Cowardly is the obvious conclusion, but he struggles to say it aloud.

Edited 2021-12-01 06:33 (UTC)

"Like running from the inevitable?"

Adrasteia shakes her head a little. "There's a line between cowardice and self-protection in a war like this one, or a Blight; it's often thin, and more often than that it's drawn in the sand by a stick with the tide coming in. The Ambassador probably has your well-being in mind, when he suggests these things, but... you'll have to decide which is for you."

She thinks of the other shard-bearers and the fact that being too far from them over time is dangerous to their health. How that includes her now, too.

"That," Benedict admits, and though he's about to proceed with far less generous language than Adrasteia's, he closes his mouth to let her speak instead.

A silence passes between them then, in which he sips his tea and thinks on it a moment.

"I suppose it just... seems like running away. Because that's exactly what it is. And without Riftwatch, I'd..."

He sighs and pinches his brow.

"...I'd still be in line for the Magisterium. Complicit. Part of the problem."

"Hm."

She doesn't know what to say to that, actually. "Are you in a position to...legally remove yourself from that possibility? Would it even be recognized?

I'm sorry, I don't...know how any of these birthright matters work."

She finishes draining the teacup in her hands before setting it aside. "What are you doing to prepare yourself?"

"Trying to find ways to practice answering unexpected questions. ...and building my pain tolerance." He winces.

"...haven't... had a lot of luck with either. It's hard to get other people on board." This elicits a weak smile-- it is, after all, the whole basis of their conversation now, isn't it?

"I could publicly declare myself an enemy of Tevinter, but it'd just paint a target on my face." His beautiful, beautiful face. "I can't imagine my parents want me to inherit anymore anyway."

"Hm." Unexpected questions. Adrasteia thinks she can help with that. The pain tolerance will take some time to work towards, she thinks, but also...doable.

"Well. I'm on board." Obviously. "Painting a target on your face is not ideal." He doesn't need someone coming here, asking for him by name, and killing him that easily. "I'm sorry. About your parents." That they made those choices.

Speaking of unexpected questions, Adrasteia turns away and then asks: "Why do you like the Ambassador?"

Edited 2021-12-15 01:20 (UTC)

Giving a nod, and a little shrug, Benedict helplessly acknowledges Adrasteia's concern; there's nothing he can do about his parents, nor can he really accept someone else's apology on their behalf. This is just what it's like, now.

But the question does catch him off-guard, perhaps as intended. It yields a bewildered little smile, as it leaves him uncertain of how to react, knowing only that it's a bit funny.

"Is it that hard to guess?"

"Let's imagine it is, for the moment."

Adrasteia has her suspicions, and now she's curious. Plus he wanted experience answering unexpected questions.

"Why do you like him?"

The smile, small as it was, dwindles as Benedict is forced to think about his answer. It becomes something rather more self-conscious, as he rubs the back of his neck and looks over Adrasteia's shoulder, avoiding her gaze.

"I don't always," he admits, "but he gave me a chance. To remake myself, I mean. When most people would've dismissed me."

"Because you were a spy," Adrasteia clarifies. Mostly because she doubts anyone else asking these questions would be nice about it.

"Do you think you've done well with that chance?"

"A bad one," Bene mutters under his breath, glancing furtively away. He doesn't like to think about that time. Imagine, that he thought he could even try.

"I think so." A beat. "I've learned to be patient, at least."

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