WHO: Benedict, some other people, you?? WHAT: just a catch-all WHEN: tra-la, it's may, the lusty month of may WHERE: around and about NOTES: If you'd like something bespoke I'm happy to include it!
Maybe it’s her delivery, or the realization of what he’s actually asked, but Benedict bursts into laughter in response. He has to pause to steady himself.
Abby can't really keep her affronted face on for long as he starts to laugh — pretty soon she's laughing too, though still looking at him weird. She says, "Don't," but it's a very half-hearted protest. She says, "I'm trying, okay."
Because she is. Very hard actually, and things are... more or less working out. It's weird, that never happens to her.
Abby puffs out a breath. "Really fucking awkward."
Privately she thinks that her and Ellie are getting along pretty well with each other, but that doesn't (shouldn't) extend to having to share a tent with her. Then again, she chose this. Because, "But we both want to stay with Clarisse."
If he senses her relief, he doesn't indicate it, clearly already wrapped up in what he's about to say.
"Enchanter Isaac has offered to work with me on some of my weak points, magically speaking," he explains, trying not to fidget, "--Entropy, more specifically. And he wants to practice in the dungeon."
He's keeping himself together, standing straight with eyes forward, but there's an anxious, twitchy quality to his movement that he's unable to hide.
"He told me to tell someone I trust. Just in case, um, you know. Something goes wrong."
Abby's first thought is that an Enchanter having the name Isaac is underwhelming but she quickly drops that in favour of this other revelation, the way that Benedict's body language changes completely; she's no stranger to that feeling. The cold weight that settles in your stomach even as the rest of you tries to lift off the ground and away, the nervous energy making your skin crawl.
"... I don't like the dungeons either." Her voice is calm and level. She's never told him why before. "If you don't want to go down there, you don't have to, Benedict."
"I get it." God, her mouth is so dry. Tongue coated in grit, so in the way. She takes a breath, swallows. "But it doesn't always work that way."
She's not trying to talk him out of trying, she wants him to understand. She wants him to know that, "You don't have to go down there by yourself. I can come too, if you want."
Her insistence is touching, and Benedict glances back up at her with a shy little smirk, only to lightly bump her shoulder with his own once more. Acknowledgment.
"Maybe if it's," he murmurs, "bad. But I should try without, first." He's a big boy trying to fight his own battles, after all.
"Okay." She feels a bit numb, skin prickling where Benedict shoved into her, and nauseous thinking of him walking into that by himself. Maybe he will be fine. Maybe it isn't the same after all. "Let me know." It's an offer that doesn't expire.
But because she needs a distraction to keep from thinking of what it might be like to go down there with him she immediately asks, "What's entropy?"
Whether or not he'll be fine, he at least seems determined to try-- he gives a little nod of assent, he'll let her know, but is otherwise grateful for the pivot.
Sort of.
"It's... disorder. A sort of pulling apart." He gestures lightly with his hands, as if to suggest something dissipating.
"Spells that rend mind and body." He's clearly trying not to sound too bothered.
She's not judging him if he really does, but — it's ugly work. Benedict has never struck her as somebody who could comfortably do that to another person and not sort of lose their mind over it.
"I already sort of do." The kicker of it, that Entropy is a school of magic in which Benedict has already been taught, but so frequently shied away from using for obvious reasons.
"My mother wanted me to learn it. I had to practice on," slaves, "um, unwilling targets. So I stopped for a long time, after I left home." He gives a dismissive little shrug.
"But most of my spellwork is defensive, meant to confuse and delay, so it relies on someone else being there with me. Isaac offered to help, and I won't have to spar with anyone who doesn't want to."
Abby mutters, "There are willing targets?" but that's not really the point of what Benedict is saying. She folds her arms across her chest and looks at him carefully. She is putting two and two together, here.
"Is this something that you want? Because it kinda sounds like something your mom and Isaac want."
He stops, turning and folding his arms with a look back at Abby that's stubborn and, in its way, vulnerable. Invoking his mother never results in a pleasant conversation, even if it was he who did it.
"I put too much faith in defense," he mutters to the ground, "I don't want to be caught flatfooted again." He grips his thin upper arms uneasily: his clothes are still loose on him, the return to normalcy after his capture a constant but slow process.
They mirror each other standing there, staring at each other, arms folded protectively across themselves. Benedict is the first to break, his gaze darting toward the ground and Abby relents, letting go of herself, arms dropping by her sides. If he wants to do it because he wants to be able to protect himself she can't stand here and criticise him for it. She remembers what it's like to not feel safe, like anything could come along and take something (someone) away from you.
She shrugs a shoulder. "Okay. If you're sure. I can — I'll help, if I can."
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Boy, what.
"It's just — weird, that's all!"
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Because she is. Very hard actually, and things are... more or less working out. It's weird, that never happens to her.
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"Of course." He doesn't argue, just breezes forward as though that exchange never happened: "so it's just... awkward, I suppose?"
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Privately she thinks that her and Ellie are getting along pretty well with each other, but that doesn't (shouldn't) extend to having to share a tent with her. Then again, she chose this. Because, "But we both want to stay with Clarisse."
So...
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"I wanted to," he says, a bit haltingly, "ask for your help with something. Or just. I don't know. Awareness?"
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Abby looks nakedly relieved to be able to steer away from the topic of Ellie, Clarisse and tents. "What's up?"
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"Enchanter Isaac has offered to work with me on some of my weak points, magically speaking," he explains, trying not to fidget, "--Entropy, more specifically. And he wants to practice in the dungeon."
He's keeping himself together, standing straight with eyes forward, but there's an anxious, twitchy quality to his movement that he's unable to hide.
"He told me to tell someone I trust. Just in case, um, you know. Something goes wrong."
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"... I don't like the dungeons either." Her voice is calm and level. She's never told him why before. "If you don't want to go down there, you don't have to, Benedict."
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“No, I,” he says in a low, pensive voice, “I think I do. I think I need to…”
He glances back at her, furtively, “I need to face it. And be done with it.”
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She's not trying to talk him out of trying, she wants him to understand. She wants him to know that, "You don't have to go down there by yourself. I can come too, if you want."
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"Maybe if it's," he murmurs, "bad. But I should try without, first." He's a big boy trying to fight his own battles, after all.
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But because she needs a distraction to keep from thinking of what it might be like to go down there with him she immediately asks, "What's entropy?"
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Sort of.
"It's... disorder. A sort of pulling apart." He gestures lightly with his hands, as if to suggest something dissipating.
"Spells that rend mind and body." He's clearly trying not to sound too bothered.
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She's not judging him if he really does, but — it's ugly work. Benedict has never struck her as somebody who could comfortably do that to another person and not sort of lose their mind over it.
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"My mother wanted me to learn it. I had to practice on," slaves, "um, unwilling targets. So I stopped for a long time, after I left home."
He gives a dismissive little shrug.
"But most of my spellwork is defensive, meant to confuse and delay, so it relies on someone else being there with me. Isaac offered to help, and I won't have to spar with anyone who doesn't want to."
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"Is this something that you want? Because it kinda sounds like something your mom and Isaac want."
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"I put too much faith in defense," he mutters to the ground, "I don't want to be caught flatfooted again." He grips his thin upper arms uneasily: his clothes are still loose on him, the return to normalcy after his capture a constant but slow process.
"I may as well use what I already have."
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She shrugs a shoulder. "Okay. If you're sure. I can — I'll help, if I can."
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"Thanks," he says, and means it, even if he's slightly regretting bringing it up.