Benedict has been making himself scarce this evening, but he isn't difficult to find, if one knows where to look.
Up the tower in the hookah room, he sits on one large pillow with another hugged to his middle, smoking a cigarette (no bothering with the hookah today) and looking out the window at the Gallows below.
That much was already certain, from the moment he’d forged agreement with Byerly Rutyer, there could be no doubt about how Benedict would come away from his inevitable chastisement. Gabranth would have preferred the sting of it be met by Byerly’s own reinforcement, yet—
Well, he cannot help but wonder if there isn’t some part of Vayne Solidor that lives on in reincarnation here, managing to deftly guide him into situations he’d rather avoid.
He finds Benedict where he expects to, that tightly coiled little figure in an isolated room. The hour is late, the grounds quiet; still he shuts the door behind him when he enters, pulling the helm from his head and setting it quietly aside.
“I spoke of praise for you, though I know you may not think it so for how he sought retribution.”
There’s no harshness. No bitterness. His voice is throaty with the hum of somber sincerity, as he measures the look of the man opposite to him now.
The armor makes enough noise on approach that there's nothing by which to be startled when the door creaks open, but as he turns, Benedict still puts the cigarette out on an ashtray on the windowsill-- he doesn't even know whether or not Gabranth would disapprove of it, just that he doesn't want to take any chances.
On closer inspection, his eyes are tired and rimmed with red, though any meltdowns he's been having have since passed: the very picture of a youth twice-castigated, who has been stewing in misery since. He meets Gabranth's eyes and nods his understanding, reluctant to speak in case his voice quavers.
He’d sat with Lord Larsa many a time. In the aftermath of Bur-Omisace there had been— unique to a boy so tirelessly sure of heart and hope— such a moment of misery in him. A single, fracturable point where he needed more than a keeper, more than an unfeeling shadow at his side.
It was an eternity ago now. Like a life lived in another’s body, the memories feel faded at the seams when he reaches to grasp them, but even so they are not gone. He’d kept his hold tight throughout death. Throughout all of it.
His inhale is audible. His exhale pressed to the roof of his mouth by his tongue. He doesn’t know where to start, and so looks away from Benedict towards kindled ash where it lays at the foot of the hearth instead.
Benedict opens his mouth as if to respond in the positive, but just shakes his head, looking down as one hand untucks from his folded form to push a strand of hair behind his ear.
He'd already known he was in the wrong, long before Byerly brought it up-- what he's reeling from now is, perhaps, more embarrassment than regret. To be in his early twenties and only just now learn that there's a difference between discipline and abuse, a midpoint between total reckless freedom and being shut in a dungeon; he's self-aware enough to recognize that most people figured it out long ago, and to feel shame in his lagging behind.
"Not really," he says hoarsely, but is hardly comforted by the admission.
Yet the pain of it is felt no less, Gabranth can see it plainly: those reddened eyes slick with tears at their corners, when he dares to bring his own stare up to meet it.
Emotions are a troubling thing. Would that he could excise them— but such dreams are only that, and of little use to either himself or Benedict here in this closed, narrow little space.
“Speak, then.” It’s a command, of course, as all things given by a wearied Judge Magister must be, but it is— in both nature and delivery— low. Soft.
Unable to meet Gabranth's gaze for long, Benedict stares at a spot on the floor and searches his ragged mind for an answer that will make sense to someone who isn't himself. It's more difficult than one might imagine, the questions venturing rather deeper than one incident or exchange.
"Sometimes," he says after a long pause, his voice raspy and quiet, "I wish I'd never come here. And still had my old life. And weren't... trying to do what I'm doing."
He's not in danger of losing his composure again, but his brow is still taut enough to give him a headache, his mouth fixed in a despondent frown.
"I wish I could take back a lot of things. ...I wish I were someone else."
He listens to that outpouring, letting it bleed like a wound run clear. It takes time for him in the aftermath, to dislodge something in his chest, insipid and weary and all too truthful, his attention still fixed on fading embers when he speaks at last:
“When I was young, no more than a boy, the vast Empire to our northern borders laid siege to my homeland. It was abrupt in its cruelty, and it was mercilessly efficient.” Perhaps there had been warning signs— or perhaps, like an oil-soaked rag, all it took was the right condition to catch flame and ignite in one swift, decisive movement— he supposes in hindsight it doesn't matter much. “We were as a speck of dust in their shadow for all our size as a republic, and when the deed was done we were naught but dust. So few survived that the very name and memory of our homeland was erased completely, not even relegated to myth in its absence.”
“There are times when I wish this was not so. That I could return to its streets and the memory of joy that lingered there.
But this is not the way of things.”
Tension leaves his lungs by way of a long, lingering exhale. He buries those memories again, as he always does, and sets his sights instead on the man still huddled soundly by the window.
“And you, I think, are fortunate in the aftermath of your own hell. For you have walked through it and found those who would yet stand by your side knowing full well who you are, and what you’ve done.”
Him, he means. The others as well, but in this moment, with his pale gaze fixed— he means himself.
It's tough to argue with that, and Benedict won't even try; having one's homeland decimated is a far cry from it being the conquering oppressor. Minrathous is still very much there, and likely will be even after all this is over. His family home, his parents, all his grand things, still exist even if he doesn't have access to them.
But that brings him to the true question gnawing at him, with Gabranth's gaze so stolid and earnest and true.
"Why?" Benedict asks faintly, and pauses. He purses his lips, wanting to elaborate, not sure in which direction he should, and finally landing on: "why show me such devotion? Is it because I'm nobility?"
"At first." He can make that confession easily, it had been obvious enough in retrospection.
"Long have I been imprisoned in death before my arrival in this world, and I can confess to finding some small amount of peace in lost habits." His armor, his dogged refusal to surrender any given tasks, no matter how little rest it grants him in exchange. Oaths and formalities and talk of making right a thousand things set wrong, behind the mask of a title he has no use for.
Outdated. Unnecessary.
"But you are yourself, Benedict Artemaeus, not the Prince I looked after, nor the true son of a Magister as I would recognize it— though I did at first will it to be so."
He pauses, then, turning sharper features away to set about finding an easier focal point. One that won't feel the weight of his words.
"If I am here now, swearing promise of fealty, it is because of you. For all your flaws...and your desire for betterment."
Reassuring though that may be, it's a lot of pressure. Benedict reaches behind his head to knot his hair in his hand, thinking over Gabranth's words. A silence falls between them, which he disrupts a long moment later, to ask:
There’s a low grumble in his throat. Something akin to a growl, his lip curling. Like a hound near a bath, displaying only the mildest form of protest; he does not wish to say it aloud, but is unwilling to permit himself to bare fangs at a man still perched perilously at the edge of his own thoughts.
His jaw works, his teeth grit— visibly unsettled as he is, he thinks this would be easier if he still had the luxury of a faceless helm to guard him from the fragility of sentiment. Gods know Larsa would never have needed such iron-clad reassurance.
But again, Lord Larsa is not here.
Another breath sees his lungs cleared, and in the wake of that small gesture, there is a single, tired offering left:
Although not not reassuring, Gabranth's response is... about what Benedict expected. He rests his chin on the pillow he's hugging.
"...I asked my mother once, if she loves me," he says quietly, "I was... I don't know, twelve or thirteen. She told me Micaela-- my nanny-- was turning me soft. Micaela wasn't allowed to put me to bed anymore, after that."
A twelve or thirteen-year-old still desiring to be tucked in at night being its own indication of his attachment struggles, at least Benedict doesn't seem all that emotional about it now. "We were both upset, Micaela and I. She'd hold me close when she knew my mother wouldn't see. ...I think she loved me. Loves."
The tip of his index finger rests just inside his mouth as he chews absently on the nail.
"But she was our property. A dog loves you too, but they don't have a choice. They can't go find someone they'll love more."
Again, when Gabranth listens, there isn't an expression prompted. No judgment, no harsh twist of his features. Only a pulsed beat of silence, before:
"I served as guardian and blade for the Emperor’s sons. Both of them, though the disparity in their ages meant their use for me was vast in its variances. Lord Larsa was the younger. A boy of twelve, with a sharper mind than any— but he was exceedingly fond of it, keeping to my shadow."
He wasn't naive: though hope lived bright in his heart, Larsa never sought to ignore glaring truths. Judge Magisters were little more than murderous, esteemed watchdogs, bid to kill at a moment's notice. That Larsa saw humanity in Gabranth, in spite all of that— it wasn't the product of willful ignorance, only a matter of glancing between the lines with perceptive care. "I laid down my life for him in service. This much you know already, as I have made it no secret."
"I was no more than a hound, as you say. Bid to serve and bound to oath. But I did..."
When he swallows, it is dry. Words stuck harsh in his throat, offering a visible sign of something deeper dwelling harsh beneath his skin. Knotted scar tissue. Faded lines.
"I think it true, that he was as my own blood to me. Choice— it mattered not. I did not need to choose to know that I did care for him."
Discomfort dwells rotten in the aftermath of that confession. He blinks hard for a moment, inhaling once through his nose with something close to a stranglehold on whatever vulnerability tries to bleed through the cracks in his armor. He shakes his head, rises fully to his feet to draw away from the fire.
The memory of Micaela, in tandem with this newfound insight, gnaws at the pit of Benedict's stomach. She's safe, he reminds himself: he may never see her again, but she won't be captured and re-enslaved as long as she's in the Free Marches. As long as her documents are in his name.
"Will you promise me something?" he asks after a long moment, finally looking up to meet Gabranth's gaze.
"If I'm... being a shit," he murmurs to the floor, "tell me so, before you give up on me." He knows himself too well. Pausing for a moment or two, he presses his mouth against the pillow, then adds, "...give me a chance to make it right. And I will."
Tentatively, he looks up again. "That's my promise to you."
He watches that face sink deeper into the pillow kept tight within cinched arms, and he thinks then— unbidden— of the boy he used to be, back when such things meant the world to him. When he'd been left, breathless and bloodied, clutching the tatters of a life no longer recognizable.
One without his brother's shadow at his side.
“Know that I would not leave you.”
It is too late for that, now. They are beyond such squalling desires.
“...but I accept these terms. On my honor as a Judge Magister, I shall not break them.”
Whether or not he's ready for it, the life Benedict has chosen is one where he must settle for being trusted or, at the very least, useful if he can't be loved. But there are worse things: he could be dead, or spurned so thoroughly as to be unwelcome anywhere, in Tevinter and the Free Marches alike. Perhaps he's managed to save himself from that, if only barely.
It feels craven, to sit here hugging a pillow while such an agreement is made, while Gabranth stands so tall and still. Benedict rises, lowering the pillow to the floor as he extends his hand with his jaw set in determination. He's a grown man, and he's made a vow, and he can shake on it.
There’s a flicker of something, just there at the corner of his mouth. The faintest pull, like the ghost of an expression long forgotten.
It isn’t a smile, but it speaks of approval all the same. Enough that in a rare show of concession he meets Benedict’s outstretched hand with his own, fingers clasped just across his wrist, rather than against his palm.
“There is no coming back from this. I trust you know such oaths last until death.”
Benedict sees that flicker, even if he doesn't comment. The grip on his wrist feels right-- it's what he wants-- and he finds his mood bolstered, even in the face of Gabranth's warning.
He pauses, to allow it gravity, to truly internalize its meaning. But then he nods, and grips back over the metal gauntlet, his expression sincere and perhaps a little shy. He means it, but more than anything, he wants to mean it, and that will carry him farther than simply making the promise.
He withdraws, then, hand moving instead to rest lightly on his pommel as a matter of comfort and habit. There’s something to be admitted, though he surely won’t, that perhaps Byerly had the right of it. That for all the discomfort of small gestures, this was no less than what was needed.
Instead he tips his head away, granting attention to something else unimportant nearby.
“Have you eaten?”
He remembers how Benedict had fled to train without taking breakfast. How chasing that with Byerly’s chastisement might well have put off any feelings of hunger.
Benedict seems to realize it at the same as Gabranth, and he sighs with the sudden pang of it. "No," he says with an air of surprise, "...Maker, I'm hungry."
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Up the tower in the hookah room, he sits on one large pillow with another hugged to his middle, smoking a cigarette (no bothering with the hookah today) and looking out the window at the Gallows below.
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That much was already certain, from the moment he’d forged agreement with Byerly Rutyer, there could be no doubt about how Benedict would come away from his inevitable chastisement. Gabranth would have preferred the sting of it be met by Byerly’s own reinforcement, yet—
Well, he cannot help but wonder if there isn’t some part of Vayne Solidor that lives on in reincarnation here, managing to deftly guide him into situations he’d rather avoid.
He finds Benedict where he expects to, that tightly coiled little figure in an isolated room. The hour is late, the grounds quiet; still he shuts the door behind him when he enters, pulling the helm from his head and setting it quietly aside.
“I spoke of praise for you, though I know you may not think it so for how he sought retribution.”
There’s no harshness. No bitterness. His voice is throaty with the hum of somber sincerity, as he measures the look of the man opposite to him now.
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On closer inspection, his eyes are tired and rimmed with red, though any meltdowns he's been having have since passed: the very picture of a youth twice-castigated, who has been stewing in misery since.
He meets Gabranth's eyes and nods his understanding, reluctant to speak in case his voice quavers.
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It was an eternity ago now. Like a life lived in another’s body, the memories feel faded at the seams when he reaches to grasp them, but even so they are not gone. He’d kept his hold tight throughout death. Throughout all of it.
His inhale is audible. His exhale pressed to the roof of his mouth by his tongue. He doesn’t know where to start, and so looks away from Benedict towards kindled ash where it lays at the foot of the hearth instead.
Confess pride, Jone had urged.
He tries, but it sticks to his teeth.
“Was he harsh in judgment?”
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He'd already known he was in the wrong, long before Byerly brought it up-- what he's reeling from now is, perhaps, more embarrassment than regret. To be in his early twenties and only just now learn that there's a difference between discipline and abuse, a midpoint between total reckless freedom and being shut in a dungeon; he's self-aware enough to recognize that most people figured it out long ago, and to feel shame in his lagging behind.
"Not really," he says hoarsely, but is hardly comforted by the admission.
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Emotions are a troubling thing. Would that he could excise them— but such dreams are only that, and of little use to either himself or Benedict here in this closed, narrow little space.
“Speak, then.” It’s a command, of course, as all things given by a wearied Judge Magister must be, but it is— in both nature and delivery— low. Soft.
“Tell me what troubles you. I would hear of it.”
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"Sometimes," he says after a long pause, his voice raspy and quiet, "I wish I'd never come here. And still had my old life. And weren't... trying to do what I'm doing."
He's not in danger of losing his composure again, but his brow is still taut enough to give him a headache, his mouth fixed in a despondent frown.
"I wish I could take back a lot of things. ...I wish I were someone else."
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“When I was young, no more than a boy, the vast Empire to our northern borders laid siege to my homeland. It was abrupt in its cruelty, and it was mercilessly efficient.” Perhaps there had been warning signs— or perhaps, like an oil-soaked rag, all it took was the right condition to catch flame and ignite in one swift, decisive movement— he supposes in hindsight it doesn't matter much. “We were as a speck of dust in their shadow for all our size as a republic, and when the deed was done we were naught but dust. So few survived that the very name and memory of our homeland was erased completely, not even relegated to myth in its absence.”
“There are times when I wish this was not so. That I could return to its streets and the memory of joy that lingered there.
But this is not the way of things.”
Tension leaves his lungs by way of a long, lingering exhale. He buries those memories again, as he always does, and sets his sights instead on the man still huddled soundly by the window.
“And you, I think, are fortunate in the aftermath of your own hell. For you have walked through it and found those who would yet stand by your side knowing full well who you are, and what you’ve done.”
Him, he means. The others as well, but in this moment, with his pale gaze fixed— he means himself.
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But that brings him to the true question gnawing at him, with Gabranth's gaze so stolid and earnest and true.
"Why?" Benedict asks faintly, and pauses. He purses his lips, wanting to elaborate, not sure in which direction he should, and finally landing on:
"why show me such devotion? Is it because I'm nobility?"
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"Long have I been imprisoned in death before my arrival in this world, and I can confess to finding some small amount of peace in lost habits." His armor, his dogged refusal to surrender any given tasks, no matter how little rest it grants him in exchange. Oaths and formalities and talk of making right a thousand things set wrong, behind the mask of a title he has no use for.
Outdated. Unnecessary.
"But you are yourself, Benedict Artemaeus, not the Prince I looked after, nor the true son of a Magister as I would recognize it— though I did at first will it to be so."
He pauses, then, turning sharper features away to set about finding an easier focal point. One that won't feel the weight of his words.
"If I am here now, swearing promise of fealty, it is because of you. For all your flaws...and your desire for betterment."
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A silence falls between them, which he disrupts a long moment later, to ask:
"Do you like me?"
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Must you, Benedict.
"Your companionship is not undesired."
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"But you... want to be here. With me." The pillow is hugged tightly to Benedict's middle as he folds around it, leaning slightly closer.
"Not because you think you have to be." This is an important distinction.
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His jaw works, his teeth grit— visibly unsettled as he is, he thinks this would be easier if he still had the luxury of a faceless helm to guard him from the fragility of sentiment. Gods know Larsa would never have needed such iron-clad reassurance.
But again, Lord Larsa is not here.
Another breath sees his lungs cleared, and in the wake of that small gesture, there is a single, tired offering left:
“Yes.”
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"...I asked my mother once, if she loves me," he says quietly, "I was... I don't know, twelve or thirteen. She told me Micaela-- my nanny-- was turning me soft. Micaela wasn't allowed to put me to bed anymore, after that."
A twelve or thirteen-year-old still desiring to be tucked in at night being its own indication of his attachment struggles, at least Benedict doesn't seem all that emotional about it now.
"We were both upset, Micaela and I. She'd hold me close when she knew my mother wouldn't see. ...I think she loved me. Loves."
The tip of his index finger rests just inside his mouth as he chews absently on the nail.
"But she was our property. A dog loves you too, but they don't have a choice. They can't go find someone they'll love more."
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"I served as guardian and blade for the Emperor’s sons. Both of them, though the disparity in their ages meant their use for me was vast in its variances. Lord Larsa was the younger. A boy of twelve, with a sharper mind than any— but he was exceedingly fond of it, keeping to my shadow."
He wasn't naive: though hope lived bright in his heart, Larsa never sought to ignore glaring truths. Judge Magisters were little more than murderous, esteemed watchdogs, bid to kill at a moment's notice. That Larsa saw humanity in Gabranth, in spite all of that— it wasn't the product of willful ignorance, only a matter of glancing between the lines with perceptive care. "I laid down my life for him in service. This much you know already, as I have made it no secret."
"I was no more than a hound, as you say. Bid to serve and bound to oath. But I did..."
When he swallows, it is dry. Words stuck harsh in his throat, offering a visible sign of something deeper dwelling harsh beneath his skin. Knotted scar tissue. Faded lines.
"I think it true, that he was as my own blood to me. Choice— it mattered not. I did not need to choose to know that I did care for him."
Discomfort dwells rotten in the aftermath of that confession. He blinks hard for a moment, inhaling once through his nose with something close to a stranglehold on whatever vulnerability tries to bleed through the cracks in his armor. He shakes his head, rises fully to his feet to draw away from the fire.
"I imagine it was the same for her."
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As long as her documents are in his name.
"Will you promise me something?" he asks after a long moment, finally looking up to meet Gabranth's gaze.
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Despite his so-called destiny of defiance, if ever there was a man who kept his word to those who mattered most, it would be Gabranth.
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He knows himself too well. Pausing for a moment or two, he presses his mouth against the pillow, then adds, "...give me a chance to make it right. And I will."
Tentatively, he looks up again. "That's my promise to you."
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One without his brother's shadow at his side.
“Know that I would not leave you.”
It is too late for that, now. They are beyond such squalling desires.
“...but I accept these terms. On my honor as a Judge Magister, I shall not break them.”
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It feels craven, to sit here hugging a pillow while such an agreement is made, while Gabranth stands so tall and still. Benedict rises, lowering the pillow to the floor as he extends his hand with his jaw set in determination. He's a grown man, and he's made a vow, and he can shake on it.
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It isn’t a smile, but it speaks of approval all the same. Enough that in a rare show of concession he meets Benedict’s outstretched hand with his own, fingers clasped just across his wrist, rather than against his palm.
“There is no coming back from this. I trust you know such oaths last until death.”
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He pauses, to allow it gravity, to truly internalize its meaning. But then he nods, and grips back over the metal gauntlet, his expression sincere and perhaps a little shy. He means it, but more than anything, he wants to mean it, and that will carry him farther than simply making the promise.
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Instead he tips his head away, granting attention to something else unimportant nearby.
“Have you eaten?”
He remembers how Benedict had fled to train without taking breakfast. How chasing that with Byerly’s chastisement might well have put off any feelings of hunger.
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"No," he says with an air of surprise, "...Maker, I'm hungry."
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