It's striking, seeing Benedict like this. Like a wild animal in a cage. He looks like he's given up. Is some of that resentment directed at Colin? Why?
"You came back," he says quietly. All the wretched things he can believe about this are blunted because Benedict came back.
What Colin reads as resentment is better explained as resignation-- this is a person who knows exactly why he's here, and, most likely, exactly where he's going. He nods once, a flicker of something on his face: distress, grief even, something he's keeping so firmly locked down that letting it out would be unthinkable.
Something in him is so conflicted now. He wanted to come down here and chew this man out, but there is no satisfaction in doing that to someone who is so completely defeated. And that look of grief causes a brief mirroring in Colin's eyes. He offers the pie again.
After a long pause, Benedict finally rises to shuffle over to Colin, from whom he accepts the pie with a nod, his lips twitching with that same look as before. He takes it to the bench, where he sits back down, takes a bite, and chews for what feels like an eternity before setting the rest down with a mild glance of apology. It's all ash in his mouth, at the moment.
"You should go," he all but whispers, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, eyes on the ground.
"Why?" Colin asks quietly. "You were a prisoner when I first met you. Then, you left. Went back to your own. Why should I have expected any different?"
It's a question as much for himself as for Benedict. Why did he think this man was a friend? Worthy of trust? He hadn't proved his own ability to be trusted. Maybe Riftwatch hadn't, either. They'd all decided that he'd been under their roof long enough that he was cured of, of whatever it was that made people serve Corypheus. Why had anyone thought that, given the chance, he wouldn't return to his own people, a family who loved him?
There is no satisfaction in rubbing this man's nose in it. He is already defeated, not even defending himself, which is strange to see. Benedict never really took punches very well.
"You call yourself a traitor, for one thing," Colin says mildly. "But mainly it depends on why you came back."
"I was expected to spy," Benedict answers dully, staring at his hands, "I wanted to come back. But only on their terms."
It seems pointless to try and explain himself now, least of all to Colin, who has no bearing on the final outcome. He's not going to care about the intricacies of it, the hows and whys of every decision; all that matters is how it looks.
"I'm going to be executed," he says next, before he can stop himself. "Tomorrow." Probably better that Colin hear it from him now, so he doesn't have to be surprised by the sight of him standing on the gibbet. Or whatever it'll be.
He presses his face into his hands and falls still.
Then Benedict says it, and it feels like a punch to the gut. His body feels numb and his mind starts racing. One hand slips through the bars to squeeze Benedict's shoulder.
They sent him, knowing he would probably die. He was a long shot, a gamble, and ultimately not important enough to keep alive. A pawn, one who came back and confessed, and is going to die for it.
As soon as Colin touches him, all hope of composure is lost. Benedict's body seems to crumple, heaving a muffled sob into his hands, all of the stiffly contained emotion fighting to get out at once.
Both arms reach through the bars and wrap tightly around Benedict, gathering him close. It's difficult and awkward, but necessary. Benedict is facing death and the least Colin can do is give him a hug, tears standing in his own eyes as he stares off blindly.
Benedict folds easily into the embrace, his face still covered, but his body thankful for the warmth that Colin provides even around the cold bars now pressing into his side. He doesn't answer right away, too overcome to speak. Then, he shakes his head.
"There's nowhere to go," he says, finally lowering his hands, but only to look at the floor again, "and you'd just... fuck yourself over too."
He's right. It's the worst feeling, to know he can't help, and march toward the morning knowing what's coming. He wipes tears from his face with a sleeve and makes a decision.
"Then I can at least stay with you tonight. I don't want you to be alone."
Benedict only nods, tears still falling freely, shivering against what he can reach of Colin. "I'm sorry," he says after a time, his voice quiet and tremulous, "I'm sorry for--" He searches for the words, and finds that none of them can quite capture the magnitude. "--everything."
Colin brushes hair out of Benedict's eyes before returning both arms to the task of holding him tightly.
"I forgive you," he says, and he means it. It's easy to forgive a crying, dying man, especially when one is hit with the realization of what there's nowhere to go really means.
"They wouldn't take you back, if you escaped," he says softly. "Would they?"
This is the most comfort Benedict has known for months, and it's at the expense of everything ending. He shakes his head to Colin's question, seems about to say something, and instead brings both arms up to grip his own hair, sobbing brokenly into his sleeves. Even his mother wouldn't protect him, this he knows deep down. She would be first in line to throw him to the wolves. She always has been.
Colin shushes him gently, feeling immediately guilty. Benedict's comfort is more important than Colin's curiosity.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." It's difficult, but he tries to gather Benedict closer. He doesn't think anyone would let him into the cell on a temporary basis. So Benedict was sent here and told not to return, and he went to the Division Heads to confess to them, and they decided to execute him. The only thing that could have prevented any of this was if Benedict hadn't left at all, and that's not helpful now.
And why did he return to Tevinter, if he was returning to people who would throw him out so readily? Colin spent long enough in the Circle to have a guess, but he won't pry. Whatever it was, they broke Benedict so badly he's tearing his hair and sobbing in Colin's arms.
Whatever the actual situation, Benedict is beyond the point of crying victim-- if anything, his despair seems to come from knowing just how instrumental he personally was in his own downfall. There are factors which one might argue led to the betrayal, but the most prominent one, as far as he or anyone else is concerned, was cowardice.
After several minutes, he starts to calm down, the abject distress beginning to give way to bleak exhaustion. He's cried himself out, and all that's left on the other side is reality looming, dawn creeping closer. It's agony.
"I don't," he says after a time, his voice congested, "...I don't want you to be there."
He hesitates, then nods. "...I don't want anyone to see me this way," he quavers, his voice dropping to a whisper, "they'll just..." He swallows hard. "They'll know they're right." If there's any dignity to be found, it's in hoping the last memory of him held by the one person in the world who isn't glad to see him die won't be convinced by everyone who is.
They'll know they're right. There are many things more important to Colin than being right. Everyone else will feel justified in their righteous anger. It's up to Colin to remember that traitor and coward are words, not summaries. There are many parts to Benedict, and he will remember the good ones so others are free to despise the bad ones. No judgment. They're right to be angry with him. That Colin isn't, or shows it differently, doesn't mean Benedict didn't fuck up. But knowing that doesn't lessen the pity he feels. It is torturous, to look back on your own mistakes when facing the consequences of them. Benedict had that revelation too late.
"All right," he agrees quietly. "I won't be there. Do you need anything else?"
Benedict nods, blinking slowly, at least comforted the tiniest amount by knowing he won't have to see Colin's face in whatever crowd amasses. Perhaps he can just close his eyes and forget about all of it, when the time comes. No one else will want a goodbye, not from him.
But Colin's question stirs something, and he furrows his brow. "Micaela," he whispers, another tear spilling, raw and hot on his already dried-out eye. "...we went to Tevinter to get her out," he murmurs, "and-- Kitty did. She wouldn't tell me where she is. But if you can just."
He ducks his head, nearly overcome again, "...find out, from Kitty. Send her a note. Tell her I died in Minrathous."
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"You came back," he says quietly. All the wretched things he can believe about this are blunted because Benedict came back.
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He nods once, a flicker of something on his face: distress, grief even, something he's keeping so firmly locked down that letting it out would be unthinkable.
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"Take it, please. For me."
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"You should go," he all but whispers, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, eyes on the ground.
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"Why should I go?" he asks softly.
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"Because I'm a traitor," he explains, in a low monotone.
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It's a question as much for himself as for Benedict. Why did he think this man was a friend? Worthy of trust? He hadn't proved his own ability to be trusted. Maybe Riftwatch hadn't, either. They'd all decided that he'd been under their roof long enough that he was cured of, of whatever it was that made people serve Corypheus. Why had anyone thought that, given the chance, he wouldn't return to his own people, a family who loved him?
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"...I don't know," he admits, and his voice quavers. "Why should you."
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"You call yourself a traitor, for one thing," Colin says mildly. "But mainly it depends on why you came back."
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It seems pointless to try and explain himself now, least of all to Colin, who has no bearing on the final outcome. He's not going to care about the intricacies of it, the hows and whys of every decision; all that matters is how it looks.
"I'm going to be executed," he says next, before he can stop himself. "Tomorrow." Probably better that Colin hear it from him now, so he doesn't have to be surprised by the sight of him standing on the gibbet. Or whatever it'll be.
He presses his face into his hands and falls still.
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They sent him, knowing he would probably die. He was a long shot, a gamble, and ultimately not important enough to keep alive. A pawn, one who came back and confessed, and is going to die for it.
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"I can get you out," he whispers.
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"There's nowhere to go," he says, finally lowering his hands, but only to look at the floor again, "and you'd just... fuck yourself over too."
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"Then I can at least stay with you tonight. I don't want you to be alone."
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"I'm sorry," he says after a time, his voice quiet and tremulous, "I'm sorry for--" He searches for the words, and finds that none of them can quite capture the magnitude. "--everything."
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"I forgive you," he says, and he means it. It's easy to forgive a crying, dying man, especially when one is hit with the realization of what there's nowhere to go really means.
"They wouldn't take you back, if you escaped," he says softly. "Would they?"
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Even his mother wouldn't protect him, this he knows deep down. She would be first in line to throw him to the wolves. She always has been.
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"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." It's difficult, but he tries to gather Benedict closer. He doesn't think anyone would let him into the cell on a temporary basis. So Benedict was sent here and told not to return, and he went to the Division Heads to confess to them, and they decided to execute him. The only thing that could have prevented any of this was if Benedict hadn't left at all, and that's not helpful now.
And why did he return to Tevinter, if he was returning to people who would throw him out so readily? Colin spent long enough in the Circle to have a guess, but he won't pry. Whatever it was, they broke Benedict so badly he's tearing his hair and sobbing in Colin's arms.
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After several minutes, he starts to calm down, the abject distress beginning to give way to bleak exhaustion. He's cried himself out, and all that's left on the other side is reality looming, dawn creeping closer.
It's agony.
"I don't," he says after a time, his voice congested, "...I don't want you to be there."
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"...I don't want anyone to see me this way," he quavers, his voice dropping to a whisper, "they'll just..." He swallows hard. "They'll know they're right."
If there's any dignity to be found, it's in hoping the last memory of him held by the one person in the world who isn't glad to see him die won't be convinced by everyone who is.
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"All right," he agrees quietly. "I won't be there. Do you need anything else?"
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But Colin's question stirs something, and he furrows his brow. "Micaela," he whispers, another tear spilling, raw and hot on his already dried-out eye.
"...we went to Tevinter to get her out," he murmurs, "and-- Kitty did. She wouldn't tell me where she is. But if you can just."
He ducks his head, nearly overcome again, "...find out, from Kitty. Send her a note. Tell her I died in Minrathous."
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