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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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.