player plot | when my time comes around, pt 2

[cozen]

WHO: Anyone who didn't die here.
WHAT: A sad week.
WHEN: Approx Solas 21-30
WHERE: Granitefell, the Gallows, wherever else you want.
NOTES: A second log for this plot. Additional posts/logs will cover the time travel/fix-it components—this one is for the time period where no one knows that's a possibility.

Those who fly out to Granitefell arrive a few hours after dawn to find a smoldering gravesite and fewer than twenty living souls, Riftwatch's five included. The survivors have done what they can in the intervening hours, but there's still work to be done to tend to wounds, move the bodies—especially the delicate ones—and help the remaining villagers, mostly children, build pyres to see to their own dead before they're relocated somewhere safer. Somewhere with roofs that aren't collapsed or still lightly burning.

Carts to carry Riftwatch's dead won't arrive for some time afterward, and bringing them back takes just as long. It's a few days before they're returned to the Gallows, preserved from decay as best everyone could manage but nonetheless in poor shape from the battle. Pyres are an Andrastian tradition for a reason—to prevent possession—but burials and mummification aren't so unheard of that anyone will be barred from seeing to their loved ones as they see fit.

Before, during, and after any funerary rites, there are absences. Empty beds, empty offices, voices missing from the crystals, pancakes missing from Sundays. Belongings that need to be sorted and letters that need to be written. And, perhaps most pressingly, work that still needs to be done, including the work left behind by those who can no longer follow through on their own projects or tie up their own loose ends, as the world and its war keep moving steadily onward as if nothing happened at all.

Comments

Benedict OTA

[altusimperius]

Ia. In the Diplomacy Office

He spends all his time there now, even taking meals up the long flights of stairs to eat them in solitude, sitting folded into the chair at his desk while the Ambassador's office sits dark and quiet behind him. He only goes into it during the day, when the sunlight makes it look normal, like he's just waiting for Byerly to wake up or to come in from this or that engagement, and it continues like this for several days until he finally runs out of work to do.

Ib. After Finding the Letter

It was a choice between leaving finding more to do or leaving (and therefore abandoning?) the office entirely, and Benedict knew which one would end up thrusting him more quickly into a world of perilous uncertainty, so he's opted for the former.
What he found has stopped him dead, and he sits on the floor in front of Byerly's desk for what eventually turns into hours, holding the parchment and staring at nothing.

II. Outside Abby & Clarisse's Door

Rifters vanish. It's what they do. Unless they don't.
Late at night, when the hall is silent, and still wearing the same clothes he had on days ago, Benedict comes to kneel in front of the chamber door. He presses a rune to the ground, placing over it a black-waxed candle, up from which he curls his hand to draw a flame: an Andrastian sendoff, in the Tevinter style. Without intervention the flame won't go out, even after the candle is a puddle of wax.

Office

[sprent]

She knows he's been spending a lot of time in there. All of them, suddenly adrift without a division head, have been silently haunting various parts of the office each. Gela finds she has to have things to do or she'll sit and think for hours about everything and everyone, even people who aren't here and have nothing to do with what happened, her father, Pavia, Iona, whom she owes a letter.

At some point she wonders painfully about what Jude would do, if he were in this situation, and decides he'd probably try to feed everybody.

So she quietly leaves the office. When she comes back it's with warm bread rolls that she didn't bake, but she thinks it will be okay. It's a little nerve-wracking to try to approach anybody else and risk pulling them momentarily from their own personal fog of grief, but she tries, with Benedict. She brings the basket to his desk.

Pushing it across the wood toward him, she tells him simply, "Have one."

[altusimperius]

Benedict is a proud person, arrogant even, and he (ostensibly) does not like to be told what to do. But at the times when he's floundering, besieged by choices and too many feelings about all of them, it is exactly the thing he needs most.

So, after staring at the basket for a moment, he mildly reaches in to take a roll. He doesn't look directly at Gela, unable to muster the social grace it would require to thank her properly, or worse, to have a real conversation.

[sprent]

It suits her that he doesn't look. She tries not to see a younger brother in every younger man she meets but it's difficult not to recognise the soft, sad slant of his shoulders and quiet upset. Sometimes she'd find Iona outside, crouched in the yard over some sorry, little dead thing, crying his eyes out.

She takes a roll too, and puts it up to her mouth, smells it before she bites.

"I've something I want to do, for them." The sixteen. "Can you help me with it?"

[altusimperius]

He takes a reluctant bite and chews it with a blank, forced motion, the autonomy of his body resisting doing anything but sitting and staring. It would taste good, if things tasted good anymore.
When Gela speaks, he finally glances to her and gives a nod. It doesn't even really matter what it is.

[sprent]

"Okay."

She takes the basket back. Her mouth is full when she says, "Come on, then." And gets to her feet, ushering him to follow her out.

Time to leave this office a moment. Get some fresh air.

[altusimperius]

His mouth still full as well, Benedict rises to follow Gela with the air of a weary sentinel, trailing dutifully behind to accomplish whatever needs done. He can't manage to have an opinion; he's thankful for the diversion.

[sprent]

He's slow to move, but he still follows her. He doesn't say a word. Gela checks for him once or twice, finds him trailing her slowly down the tower steps, lost in thought. She takes him outside of it, into the gardens.

"We're cutting flowers." Here: have a task. She's pushing the bread in her basket aside, to make room. "See the white-and-yellow ones? We'll take some of each bunch."

[altusimperius]

Seems simple enough, and something Benedict might even have enjoyed if there were anything worth enjoying right now. He worked in the gardens, for a time, and as much as he hates getting dirty, there's something to be argued for spending one's days surrounded by flowers.

He nods to Gela, waiting to see first if she'll use a knife or just pull them straight out.

ii

[favoriteanalyst]

"What are you doing?"

It's not the brightest or most specific of questions. He can see what's been done, feel a low hum of background magic, observe the flame. Andrastian but to the left. He's seen candlelit vigils before, but there's something different to this one.

He doesn't mean to startle. But sleep is hard to come by now. Funny how mostly used to the nightmares he'd gotten. Until there's new fodder for them. Maybe he shouldn't be here, walking the halls, going by their doors. But then, maybe neither should Benedict.

He lets the question stand.

[altusimperius]

Turning quickly toward the sound of a voice, Benedict almost seems as though he's been caught in doing something illegal or at least uncouth (which, to be fair, maybe it's the latter; he hasn't examined southern Andrastianism that much, truth be told).
He straightens, but doesn't sputter an excuse or leave. He knows Mobius to be an even-keeled type, friendly even.

"Candles," he answers dully, nudging his head toward them rather than explain further. He's tired, drained. They all are.

[favoriteanalyst]

"...Okay."

Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers. That's on him. But it's all clearly not malicious in any way. Keeping vigil, maybe. Abby might hate it, the morose moping and focus. He doesn't--didn't--know Clarisse enough to have a good idea, but she might not be a huge fan, either.

Neither of them are here to protest, and neither of their spirits are around (or shouldn't be), so.

"Can I join you?"

Unless Benedict wasn't going to stay.

[altusimperius]

Though he watches Mobius for an uncertain moment, Benedict eventually nods as he angles his gaze back toward the candles. No sense in turning anyone away, especially if he's here to pay respects as well.

[favoriteanalyst]

His knees protest a little in that way that speaks of age more than fitness as he comes down, not kneeling but cross legged. When he settles, he sags, the weight of loss like a boulder on his shoulders.

Quiet, for a few long moments. And then: "Do you mind if I say a prayer?"

[altusimperius]

Another long, slightly awkward pause, and then Benedict replies: "go ahead." It's not like either of them was Andrastian anyway, whether belonging to the northern or the southern Chantry. They wouldn't discriminate, and thus neither shall he.

[favoriteanalyst]

These things are more for the living than the dead anyway. It might not give anyone beyond any peace, but it might help set their own spirits to some form of rest.

It feels at least slightly better than empty nothingness and silence. "The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light."

[altusimperius]

Benedict weathers it at first, but as the scripture continues, something in his brain switches off and he abruptly finds he can't stand it: the recitation, the hallowedness of it, when they don't even know what happens to Rifters. Where they go.
He lurches to his feet and walks several jolting paces away, pressing a hand over his eyes. He thought he could do it, but he can't listen to this. Maybe he needed the silence. He needed to not think this hard about it.

ii.

[prelest]

It's not hard to understand what's going on when she sees the lit candle. It's late indeed, but Nina is struggling to sleep - the heat and the heightened emotions making a restless mix - and so she's up and wandering the halls. And she sees this little ritual.

She doesn't know whose door this is. She's not going to interrupt this small ceremony to insert herself into it, or ask questions, or anything. But she also doesn't want to just walk on and leave Benedict to do this alone. It's a terrible thing to bear grief by yourself, after all.

So she lowers herself to sitting, and watches the ritual. And in her mind, she sends up a prayer to the Saints to ease the pain in these hearts.

[altusimperius]

He can feel that someone is nearby, notes her presence, but doesn't pause in his ritual: if he does, he'll lose his nerve, try to explain or excuse it even if nobody asks.
In this way he appreciates the silent observation, even if on some low level it makes him anxious.

[prelest]

She can feel that spike in anxiety from him. Honestly, she'd likely be able to tell even without Heartrender powers; his body shows visible signs of distress.

There's a moment of hesitation. She's looked into what mages here can do and has been careful to not name any powers that wouldn't be expected of them. Healing, sleep - Those are safe. But this strays a little more into oddness. It's a little closer to what people might think of as a forbidden art.

But she's gotten to know Benedict a little. She doesn't think he'll be one to lose his head over a strange and new use of "magic." And so, softly, she asks, "Would you like me to help you calm down?"

[altusimperius]

It is a bit weird. But then, so is what he does. He can make people have nightmares while fully awake, can paralyze them in place with invisible restraints.

He thinks on it a moment, and then, with just the barest glance to Nina, he nods once. He doesn't want to admit aloud that he's this weak, but with the offer on the table, he'd be stupid not to accept it.

[prelest]

She nods in return and scoots up to sit next to him. Then she puts a hand gently on his back, and rubs gently; as she does, she attunes herself to his breath, and his heartbeat, and the chemicals racing through his brain that trigger fear.

Slowing his heart and breathing is easy enough. The chemicals are a little trickier: triggering the release of adrenaline to help someone keep fighting is one thing, but figuring out the balance that can help someone keep calm is complex. But when the breathing steadies, and the heartrate, the chemicals ebb with it, bringing a measure of ease and quiet.

"How's that?" she asks.

[altusimperius]

It's like smoking, he wants to say, but has to admit it's much faster-acting and doesn't include the haze over his thoughts and vision. It's stranger still to be touched like this by a woman who... isn't Micaela, which is a somewhat shameful realization, but the magic pulsating through him prevents him from dwelling on it for too long.

He nods, suddenly feeling as though he could-- and wants to-- fall asleep right here, on the stone floor.

[prelest]

She watches as he nods, searching his expression. With some of the anxiety gone, it's clear enough that he's exhausted. Looks fit to drop, really.

"Is your ritual finished?" she asks. She doesn't want to cut it short, but it's probably important to usher him off to bed before he swoons.

[altusimperius]

Nodding again, Benedict moves to stand, a little worried he won't actually make it down the stairs to his bed. If he were in the other tower the hookah room would make do, but that's an awful lot of stairs for his current state.

"Thank you," he mumbles, beginning to shuffle toward the stairwell. He'll make it.