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.”
"I just," Bene stammers, and feels like an idiot doing so. He looks down at his bowl, finds he's lost his appetite, and nudges the bowl away to rest his elbows on the table, chin in hands.
"I don't know if it's something you really defy. I don't know that we... know what happens." It's probably one of his least favorite topics, as evidenced by how pale he's gone. "...I don't think I could take it, if you vanished."
D'Artagnan alone would've been bad enough, on top of Kit's death: but Kitty and Lakshmi proved almost too much.
“If it is unavoidable, it is unavoidable. But you cannot fear it, for it may also never come to pass.”
Like so many things in his experience, there is no foresight, no path that doesn’t twist itself into strange, unknowing knots. Yet he understands that Benedict has need of him— perhaps that will never change, no matter how he fights to see the man made independent, and so he adds, carefully:
“I would not leave you by choice. And should that choice not be given, I would not hesitate to find my own way back. Place faith in that.”
Oh, he can fear it all right. He can and he will. Who would he be, if he didn't? But Gabranth's answer is enough to soothe Benedict at least slightly, even as he lets his face slip down between his hands until he's cupping his cheeks. It's impossible to convey the intensity of desolation one feels when one's close connections simply dissolve without a trace, without even a goodbye. If there's a way back, would they not have found it by now?
But he nods, because he can hardly ask more than what Gabranth can physically give. And, if most people were asked, that's already far more than Benedict deserves. "I'll try," he murmurs, wishing he could find more confidence in it. But he may as well appreciate what he has, while it's here.
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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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"I don't know if it's something you really defy. I don't know that we... know what happens." It's probably one of his least favorite topics, as evidenced by how pale he's gone.
"...I don't think I could take it, if you vanished."
D'Artagnan alone would've been bad enough, on top of Kit's death: but Kitty and Lakshmi proved almost too much.
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Like so many things in his experience, there is no foresight, no path that doesn’t twist itself into strange, unknowing knots. Yet he understands that Benedict has need of him— perhaps that will never change, no matter how he fights to see the man made independent, and so he adds, carefully:
“I would not leave you by choice. And should that choice not be given, I would not hesitate to find my own way back. Place faith in that.”
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But Gabranth's answer is enough to soothe Benedict at least slightly, even as he lets his face slip down between his hands until he's cupping his cheeks. It's impossible to convey the intensity of desolation one feels when one's close connections simply dissolve without a trace, without even a goodbye. If there's a way back, would they not have found it by now?
But he nods, because he can hardly ask more than what Gabranth can physically give. And, if most people were asked, that's already far more than Benedict deserves.
"I'll try," he murmurs, wishing he could find more confidence in it. But he may as well appreciate what he has, while it's here.