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."
It is a simple thing (far simpler than facing the aftermath of their own resolutions, Gabranth thinks), when he turns to retrieve his helmet from where it rests abandoned beside the shut doorway, cloak draped heavy across his shoulders in warm light.
"Come, then. I shall take you to see to the matter of your own recovery before you are returned to your duties."
Agreeable as can be, Benedict is content to follow Gabranth's lead. 'Content' is, perhaps, the best way to describe his present state of mind: his heart has been soothed by the man's acknowledgment, his encouragement, and now by his direction. Sometimes, after a day of stress and rumination, all a person wants is to be told what to do by someone who knows better than himself.
A little smirk creeps onto his face as he walks just behind Gabranth at the shoulder. "Recovery," he echoes with sheepish amusement, "it's not like I was injured."
“A heart is a far easier thing to wound than a limb, Lord Artemaeus.” It feels comfortable, to be so armored once more. To set that barrier in place and guard himself from exactly what he speaks of now.
“And you need your strength, besides.”
He moves for the doorway, propping it open with the back of his gauntleted wrist.
And yet it's not towards the dining hall that Gabranth cuts his path: taking instead a wider route, towards Kirkwall proper, rather than anything housed strictly within Riftwatch's eye.
"Mm." Agreement hummed, his footfalls quick. "You will grow accustomed to it."
The detour isn't unnoticed, but Benedict doesn't comment on it; no reason to, really, since it's been more or less established that he can leave the Gallows under Gabranth's supervision.
"...will I?"
The thought that every day could be like this one is enough to send a chill down his spine.
Well that's sort of weird. Though surprised by the request, Benedict acquiesces easily, turning his palms up and extending them toward Gabranth for him to see.
There's an ink stain or two around his fingertips, and on the side of his hand where it can smudge against the parchment, but apart from that and a few callouses acquired from polearm training, they're clean and smooth.
There, at least. A few rough patches scattered amongst signs of finer graces: all he needs to make his point, gloved thumbs heavy in their press across slighter hands—
And then he releases Benedict, returning to his intended path.
“When you first began your training, it hurt terribly, correct?”
The way soft skin cracks, how quickly it takes to blister and bleeding after little more than a brief foray into fresh endeavors.
“Exposure in all things demands change. Draws out armor from nothing, and makes the unbearable brookable.”
The evening streets are clear of much foot traffic, though Gabranth is careful to keep close watch over Benedict regardless. Fearing no flight, only danger. Always that.
“Someday even this will feel as nothing more than a glancing scuff to you. Easily forgotten.”
With the weather warming, it's nice to get out, even into the piss-smelling streets of Kirkwall. There's a familiarity to being in the city, no matter what city it is. He keeps his pace up to match Gabranth's, his demeanor verging on cheerful.
The place he settles on is small. Cramped by seating less than aggregate space, a clutter of chairs and tables mismatched— but it’s fine fare by reputation. As close to to the demands of loftier appetites as one can get outside of Hightower, and Gabranth hasn’t the coin to see to matters there.
Benedict will just have to endure this instead.
For the entirety of that meal, Gabranth himself doesn’t dine in tandem, only talks and regales and watches with his usual indifferent state. It is, so far as outings go, a fair enough one by his own estimate. And when it’s done, Benedict is returned without incident, sent off to see to himself before nightfall proper.
Small, small favors at the end of a misery overcome.
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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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"Come, then. I shall take you to see to the matter of your own recovery before you are returned to your duties."
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Sometimes, after a day of stress and rumination, all a person wants is to be told what to do by someone who knows better than himself.
A little smirk creeps onto his face as he walks just behind Gabranth at the shoulder.
"Recovery," he echoes with sheepish amusement, "it's not like I was injured."
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“And you need your strength, besides.”
He moves for the doorway, propping it open with the back of his gauntleted wrist.
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"I guess it's..." He trails off, trying to determine how best to summarize it, "...been a bit of a day."
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"Mm." Agreement hummed, his footfalls quick. "You will grow accustomed to it."
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The detour isn't unnoticed, but Benedict doesn't comment on it; no reason to, really, since it's been more or less established that he can leave the Gallows under Gabranth's supervision.
"...will I?"
The thought that every day could be like this one is enough to send a chill down his spine.
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“Let me see your palms.”
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There's an ink stain or two around his fingertips, and on the side of his hand where it can smudge against the parchment, but apart from that and a few callouses acquired from polearm training, they're clean and smooth.
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And then he releases Benedict, returning to his intended path.
“When you first began your training, it hurt terribly, correct?”
The way soft skin cracks, how quickly it takes to blister and bleeding after little more than a brief foray into fresh endeavors.
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The evening streets are clear of much foot traffic, though Gabranth is careful to keep close watch over Benedict regardless. Fearing no flight, only danger. Always that.
“Someday even this will feel as nothing more than a glancing scuff to you. Easily forgotten.”
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With the weather warming, it's nice to get out, even into the piss-smelling streets of Kirkwall. There's a familiarity to being in the city, no matter what city it is.
He keeps his pace up to match Gabranth's, his demeanor verging on cheerful.
"...I mean. I hope so."
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The place he settles on is small. Cramped by seating less than aggregate space, a clutter of chairs and tables mismatched— but it’s fine fare by reputation. As close to to the demands of loftier appetites as one can get outside of Hightower, and Gabranth hasn’t the coin to see to matters there.
Benedict will just have to endure this instead.
For the entirety of that meal, Gabranth himself doesn’t dine in tandem, only talks and regales and watches with his usual indifferent state. It is, so far as outings go, a fair enough one by his own estimate. And when it’s done, Benedict is returned without incident, sent off to see to himself before nightfall proper.
Small, small favors at the end of a misery overcome.