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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"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.