[open] so what did I miss

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: he's been [redacted] as the ambassador to Antiva
WHEN: mid-Drakonis
WHERE: the Gallows
NOTES: (alan cumming voice) moarder

I. The Docks, the day of the Revered Mother's arrival (just one thread please)

When Benedict steps off the ferry, it's clear that something is happening. People are scurrying about, there's an edge of tension across the plaza; he'd heard, obviously, of Riftwatch's doings in Starkhaven, but whatever this is seems more immediate and quieter in its bluster.
Waving down the nearest passerby, he asks: "what's going on?"

II. Eating

If only there were more tools to keep one awake through the day. Benedict hadn't even noticed that his dreams had stopped when he went off to Antiva, but now that he's back in Kirkwall, they've returned en force. He sits in the staffed dining hall with whatever the day's meal option is, stirring it idly with a tired, dead-eyed stare at either the far wall, the middle distance, or someone at whom he'd normally have no intention of staring.
If the latter should occur, and they should meet his gaze, he gives a little start and averts his eyes-- but it might be too late.

III. At Work

For the last couple months, Byerly's office has been relatively unguarded; this is no longer the case. Anyone coming in to see the Ambassador will have to get through his secretary first-- or, should they like, they're welcome to visit the secretary himself. The Maker doesn't judge.


IV. Wildcard

for Byerly

The day he returns, Benedict saunters into the office and promptly leans against the doorframe, initially to scan for Byerly and then, upon seeing him, to offer a wave of greeting. He doesn't say anything, not yet, but his expression conveys everything: What A Trip.

Comments

[altusimperius]

Not a baseless claim; they’ve had conversations before, along these lines.

“Why,” Benedict asks, wondering if his heart is thundering loudly enough to be heard outside his chest.

[bouchonne]

"Why don't they like me?" Byerly asks, a dry laugh in his throat. Then he catches sight of Benedict's anxious expression, and he sighs.

"We can - make arrangements. Stark and the Scoutmaster have no interest in punishing you for your past deeds, especially after your proven record of loyal service. And Flint - I'll ensure he does nothing. Even if the protection of this office goes away, I can still...safeguard you, to an extent."

[altusimperius]

"No, I know why they don't like you, I know how you feel about mages," Benedict cuts in, his brusqueness belying his increasing tension, "but why now? What changed?" What did you do is the unasked question as he paces a few steps, bringing a hand to pinch over his mouth as he stares unseeing at his own desk.

[bouchonne]

Byerly's mouth twists bitterly at the unspoken message. "What do you think?" he snaps in return. "I was an asshole. I'm always a fucking asshole. But this time, they're puffed up by their little victory, that heroic sacrifice they talked Fiona into, and so they're bold enough to act on their displeasure."

[altusimperius]

"I don't suppose you ever considered not being an asshole," Benedict snaps over his shoulder, "seeing as you're so aware of it, but I suppose it's too late for that."
He turns fully, spreading his hands in frenetic exasperation. "So what's the plan? Roll over and let them be right? Throw all our work in the harbor and crawl under a cart in shame because you're an asshole and can't do anything about it?"

It's the sort of pep talk he himself has grown accustomed to receiving; it's fear that propels it back outward again, his hands visibly shaking at his sides.

[bouchonne]

Of all the fucking -

"Fuck you, Artemaeus," he snarls back at him. This might be the first time that Benedict has seen him be hotly furious - not icy rage, not fear, not the simulacrum of anger, but something seething and ferocious. "Why don't you fucking do something for a change, instead of asking me to wipe your ass."

[altusimperius]

"Maybe I will!"
The words come out rather more strangled than he'd have liked, leaving his mouth before he can stop them. "If you're not going to! You don't get to-- to make me give a fuck about this, about you and what we're doing, and then just-- slink away like none of it matters!" He points at him fiercely, jabbing his finger to punctuate a syllable every so often. "Maybe I will do something!"

[bouchonne]

A short, harsh laugh. "I wish you would," is supposed to come out as a devastating snarl. Instead, it comes out rasped and low. And it's followed, uninspiringly, with an even lower, "I'm fucking tired. I'm fucking tired of this."

[altusimperius]

Thick though he may seem at times, Benedict catches that shift; it chills him to the bone, stealing from him any words that might have followed. With a furtive, still-angry glance back at Byerly, he turns and stalks out of the office.

cw suicidal ideation

[bouchonne]

How grand. Byerly gives a short, miserable laugh into his coffee, considers briefly whether he could fit through the window, decides his shoulders are just a little too wide for that, and then puts his head down on his desk.

[altusimperius]

On the other side of the door he just slammed, Benedict abruptly stops in his tracks and is crushed by the magnitude of what he just committed to doing.

Oh, fuck.