There’s no mystery to be had for where they meet: it is where they always meet, and one of the few spaces in the Gallows where Gabranth is certain they’ll have privacy.
He waits there, in the room where they first encountered one another. The door unlocked (for now), his arms folded— helm in place.
Benedict will no doubt arrive when he is able, though the fact that Gabranth is left to worry in the interim does neither of them any favors.
When he's made it to lunchtime and the Diplomacy division hasn't collapsed on itself, Benedict's panic subsides; but it's still worth it to meet with Gabranth, whom he finds exactly where he'd imagined he would.
Carrying two bowls of the day's stew, Bene lets himself in and comes to set them down on a low table, his head ducked in a wince. This isn't going to be easy.
Sullen, yes, but not deathly injured nor pale with fear: the fact that he's strolled in carrying food rather than clutching at his own arms or chest in dread is a sign this isn't nearly as disastrous in nature as he'd initially assumed.
Or if it is, Benedict is masking it remarkably well.
"Speak." He demands, already making to remove his helmet.
"Um," he stammers, taking a seat on the floor by the low table, "there's someone... new to Riftwatch. Another Rifter. He came by the diplomacy office."
As an afterthought, he leans over to tug one of the pillows towards himself, rising momentarily so he can reseat himself on it instead of the stone floor. Then he takes a bite of the stew, mulling over his words before he can pour them out all over everything.
"...he was playing with me, trying to take documents out of my hands. I'd get them back, but he said, um," and here he purses his lips, hating this part even if he's omitted most of the truly damning details, "...he said if he were my enemy, I'd be dead, and he'd already be rifling through the contents of the office." He lowers his spoon in favor of staring into the stew. "I told him to leave. But ...he was right, I think. And he said he's not my-- our enemy, but I probably shouldn't just. Believe him."
Taking things at face value is something he is trying to do less, these days.
where I pretend I’m not just threatening to hit myself repeatedly
“Then you ought report him. If you have doubts, if he threatened you, clear your name and draw a line between his actions and your own.”
It is furious. Thinly veiled, yes, but wholly obvious: there’s a restlessness mantling his stiff shoulders, a clear indication that he desires action, protective wrath as only he maintains.
“...or give me leave to deal with him. Immediately.”
"There's nothing to deal with," Bene insists, with a wave of his hand, nervously pretending he doesn't hear the fury in Gabranth's voice. He's calmed himself down since the fact, and the truth of the matter is, he never actually let slip anything sensitive.
"It was less that he threatened me." It seems wrong, sending Gabranth off like an attack dog when Benedict was at least half complicit in what happened, "...I didn't... well I didn't entirely discourage him." He tucks a strand of hair behind one ear.
His hackles aren't lowered, he hardly sinks into his seat when he moves to take what Benedict has brought before him in offering— but it is progress. Small. Slow. Quieter than before.
"You will not, or you risk your own neck as much as the organization you defend." The words are sharp, not barbed. As unyielding as Gabranth himself, and shadowed by the darkened edge of his brow where vivid consternation sits.
"You have sworn yourself to this cause. Limit your promiscuity— your foolishness— to the hours when it endangers nothing and no one else. That is no great, nor terrible burden to ask, Benedict."
Sullenness flickers across Benedict's face, but he nods, at least comprehending that the expectation has been spoken aloud and he'd do well to follow it. Even if, in the moment, he doesn't want to. But he had summoned Gabranth himself, and if for no other reason than he doesn't want to get lectured again, he decides it's best not to push the matter.
"Fine," he mutters, and, after a pause, nudges the second bowl closer to Gabranth. "...I brought you this."
"When you have spent a millenium barring yourself from human contact, you may return to me once more to complain over your plight."
He draws the bowl nearer to himself, his statement so uniquely dry that it might even paint the appearance of a near-joke, if Gabranth were capable of such things.
...is he capable of such things?
"Thank you." He's not yet had his rations today, but he supposes he can break early for this. For Benedict.
At least well-mannered enough not to speak with his mouth full, Benedict still has barely swallowed his next bite before he asks the question. "Why is it so important to keep yourself apart?"
He's a little upset by the notion, even, if not completely ready to explain why. "...human contact is nice."
"For the same reason you feel shame burning within you now: there is no clarity in wanting, and your lives— all lives— are fleeting. Fragile as glass."
Loss is not a balm. Loss is inevitable, and he is too tired to bear more of it.
Bene stares into the middle distance for several long moments as he considers it. Then, pursing his lips, he shifts his gaze back up to Gabranth's, meeting it seriously.
"What about Prince Larsa?" Speaking in the general sense, of course.
"But," Bene stammers, finding that this doesn't sit well with him at all. His whole life, he's reached for the seemingly unattainable reality of being loved; to love in return may have happened more quickly, now that he knows how to identify it. To be told now that none of it matters, that he shouldn't bother, troubles him more than he can articulate.
"...why live at all, then? If all life is, is just being alone until you're dead?"
“To instead guard that luxury, so that others might know it.”
His hands are idle, his gaze unfixed. He looks only towards some darker corner of the room, and it paints the weariness of his own expression as something true. Sincere.
“I am too old to desire anything more. Do not believe we are the same, or that I would ask the same of you.”
He knows where they both stand, and can still remember what it was like, to be so bold and filled with need in a world without mercy.
How unsatisfactory. Benedict continues to stare at him, seeming several times as though he might say something, and failing to do so, his mouth finally closing in a contemplative pout-- until, after a good thirty seconds of this, he speaks again.
Whatever he was expecting to hear, it doesn't come: and Benedict is ashamed of himself for anticipating an answer he already knew was false. He may be a protege to Gabranth, but is still more person than tool or a means to an end.
There's passion in Gabranth's words, making the next realization all the more poignant. "...I'll die someday," Benedict muses, "but you won't?" Perhaps the rules will change, here in Thedas.
“It is possible. Should a means to keep the anchors from consumption in totality arise, I believe I would continue on thusly.” The idea...does not appeal, and his voice carries such a sentiment as he shifts back slightly in his seat, shadows low across his eyes.
“But regardless, I shall seek out an end once this war is over. For surely rest in this world is within reach.”
Benedict flinches as though struck, but the reason why isn't immediately clear; it's only several moments later that he gives voice to where his instinct brought him. "Rifters... disappear," he says solemnly, "sometimes. One day they're here, and the next, they aren't."
He looks at Gabranth's face, his gaze soft, as if not committing it to memory now means he may lose his chance.
“So I have been told.” Spoken without any particular inflection, not even fear. Benedict's gaze is left to roam as it will, and he does not shy with it when he lifts his own stare to meet it fully. “Yet there is much to be learned about that process, and more to be done.”
“I have defied death before— do not discount my stubborn persistence just yet, Lord Artemaeus.”
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He waits there, in the room where they first encountered one another. The door unlocked (for now), his arms folded— helm in place.
Benedict will no doubt arrive when he is able, though the fact that Gabranth is left to worry in the interim does neither of them any favors.
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Carrying two bowls of the day's stew, Bene lets himself in and comes to set them down on a low table, his head ducked in a wince. This isn't going to be easy.
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Sullen, yes, but not deathly injured nor pale with fear: the fact that he's strolled in carrying food rather than clutching at his own arms or chest in dread is a sign this isn't nearly as disastrous in nature as he'd initially assumed.
Or if it is, Benedict is masking it remarkably well.
"Speak." He demands, already making to remove his helmet.
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"Um," he stammers, taking a seat on the floor by the low table, "there's someone... new to Riftwatch. Another Rifter. He came by the diplomacy office."
As an afterthought, he leans over to tug one of the pillows towards himself, rising momentarily so he can reseat himself on it instead of the stone floor. Then he takes a bite of the stew, mulling over his words before he can pour them out all over everything.
"...he was playing with me, trying to take documents out of my hands. I'd get them back, but he said, um," and here he purses his lips, hating this part even if he's omitted most of the truly damning details, "...he said if he were my enemy, I'd be dead, and he'd already be rifling through the contents of the office."
He lowers his spoon in favor of staring into the stew. "I told him to leave. But ...he was right, I think. And he said he's not my-- our enemy, but I probably shouldn't just. Believe him."
Taking things at face value is something he is trying to do less, these days.
where I pretend I’m not just threatening to hit myself repeatedly
It is furious. Thinly veiled, yes, but wholly obvious: there’s a restlessness mantling his stiff shoulders, a clear indication that he desires action, protective wrath as only he maintains.
“...or give me leave to deal with him. Immediately.”
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"It was less that he threatened me." It seems wrong, sending Gabranth off like an attack dog when Benedict was at least half complicit in what happened, "...I didn't... well I didn't entirely discourage him." He tucks a strand of hair behind one ear.
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"You are ashamed of your decision to encourage his behavior."
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His hackles aren't lowered, he hardly sinks into his seat when he moves to take what Benedict has brought before him in offering— but it is progress. Small. Slow. Quieter than before.
"And a mistake you'll not repeat once more, yes?"
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"...what if I... um. Do?"
Let's be realistic here.
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"You have sworn yourself to this cause. Limit your promiscuity— your foolishness— to the hours when it endangers nothing and no one else. That is no great, nor terrible burden to ask, Benedict."
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Even if, in the moment, he doesn't want to. But he had summoned Gabranth himself, and if for no other reason than he doesn't want to get lectured again, he decides it's best not to push the matter.
"Fine," he mutters, and, after a pause, nudges the second bowl closer to Gabranth.
"...I brought you this."
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He draws the bowl nearer to himself, his statement so uniquely dry that it might even paint the appearance of a near-joke, if Gabranth were capable of such things.
...is he capable of such things?"Thank you." He's not yet had his rations today, but he supposes he can break early for this. For Benedict.
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At least well-mannered enough not to speak with his mouth full, Benedict still has barely swallowed his next bite before he asks the question. "Why is it so important to keep yourself apart?"
He's a little upset by the notion, even, if not completely ready to explain why.
"...human contact is nice."
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Loss is not a balm. Loss is inevitable, and he is too tired to bear more of it.
"I need none of it."
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Bleak.
Bene stares into the middle distance for several long moments as he considers it. Then, pursing his lips, he shifts his gaze back up to Gabranth's, meeting it seriously.
"What about Prince Larsa?" Speaking in the general sense, of course.
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That was a different life, a different set of rules and rights and aspirations: had he lived, the end point of his own ruling might be different now.
Had Drace lived, it undeniably would be.
“There is no point in supposition. Nor pretending otherwise.”
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"...why live at all, then? If all life is, is just being alone until you're dead?"
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His hands are idle, his gaze unfixed. He looks only towards some darker corner of the room, and it paints the weariness of his own expression as something true. Sincere.
“I am too old to desire anything more. Do not believe we are the same, or that I would ask the same of you.”
He knows where they both stand, and can still remember what it was like, to be so bold and filled with need in a world without mercy.
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"Do you not care for me?"
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He holds no hesitation, no pause for fretful uncertainty— and Gabranth is not, by make or by trade, a liar.
"There is no end to what I would do to ensure your safety, your wellbeing."
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There's passion in Gabranth's words, making the next realization all the more poignant.
"...I'll die someday," Benedict muses, "but you won't?" Perhaps the rules will change, here in Thedas.
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“But regardless, I shall seek out an end once this war is over. For surely rest in this world is within reach.”
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Benedict flinches as though struck, but the reason why isn't immediately clear; it's only several moments later that he gives voice to where his instinct brought him.
"Rifters... disappear," he says solemnly, "sometimes. One day they're here, and the next, they aren't."
He looks at Gabranth's face, his gaze soft, as if not committing it to memory now means he may lose his chance.
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“I have defied death before— do not discount my stubborn persistence just yet, Lord Artemaeus.”
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