"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."
He has to stop to wipe at his own eyes. Maybe he can go to the Division Heads and plead for mercy...on what grounds? The grounds that Colin doesn't want them to do this? Because that's the only new information he has to offer.
"Why did you go?" he asks softly. "You don't have to answer. I still forgive you. I just want to know why."
"To get Micaela," Benedict clarifies, adding with some hesitation, "...the woman who raised me." He leans into Colin as much as he can, still shivering, but he seems to be turning inward. "My mother sold her. I asked Kitty to help me find where she'd gone, so I could buy her back. And she did, and we did. ...but it was. Set up."
He blinks heavily, squeezing out a bit more moisture. "My mother knew she could get me to come home, and had the seller direct me to her. So we went for a quick visit, and it went." He pauses to push his hair out of his face. "...wrong. I sent Kitty back with Micaela, and stayed with my mother." His mother, who turned out to be exactly the person he's been cautioned against for going on years now, which he refused to see until far too late. She probably hasn't lost a wink of sleep, and somehow knowing this makes the pain all the greater.
Colin takes over the task of brushing hair away from Benedict's face, tucking it behind his ear. So Benedict went for a good reason and stayed for a bad one.
Benedict thinks for a moment. It was months ago, and tensions got very high over the course of an evening, so the details have muddied somewhat. "...Kitty was listening to us," he says quietly, "Mother got angry. She tried to take her captive, for her shard. She would've killed her otherwise. But I helped her escape." His brow twitches. "Mother was hurt. I don't remember why. I stayed with her, so she wouldn't go after them. ...and then I couldn't leave." His hands have begun to shake as he sorts through the memories.
"Since we didn't have Kitty's shard to bring to Corypheus, Mother insisted we use mine. Telling them no, trying to leave, it... it wouldn't have worked."
He opens and closes his left hand, making the green light of the anchor shard flicker. "I wonder how long it'll stay."
Somehow, the story isn't as damning as Colin had dismissively believed during these months. He'd assumed Benedict stayed in Minrathous because he managed to get away from Riftwatch. That his connections here weren't strong enough for him not to return to his own kind. That he didn't like Colin as much as Colin liked him.
When Benedict calls attention to the shard, Colin reaches out to take his hands and steady them.
"I don't think I like your mother much," he says coolly.
This actually almost elicits a laugh, but it's more like a wheeze, a grimacing smile that turns into a rictus of pain. If he had listened to even one single person who told him how awful his mother is, he wouldn't be here. He covers his mouth with his hand, gripping it, pressing the muscles of his face that have become sore from weeping. "I think," he says weakly, "when she finds out what happened, she'll just." Another tear, which he wipes away quickly. "...she'll be angry with me, for failing. Again."
"You...you built a life here. You started out a prisoner and worked your way up from it. You made friends. You even seemed a bit happy, sometimes. You were willing to give it up for her because she's your mother. So you went with her. I'm guessing you're not in here for nothing, so you must have given them something besides your shard. Now here you are, paying your share and hers, and she's done nothing to stop it. Nothing to protect you."
Colin leans in, and his diction sounds uncharacteristically edged.
Falling silent to listen, Benedict's face is morose, his elbows folded over his drawn-up knees. His mother is a monster. He knows this, he's known it for a long time, even if he couldn't admit it. Typically, the only time he can is when it's put him in trouble.
Most telling, she isn't here. He may be stupid, but she isn't.
He sighs in resignation, angling his head as much against Colin's shoulder as he can, though the bars largely block it. What is there to say? He's been had. His whole life. And now it's over.
There's no way to press a kiss to the top of Benedict's head the way he wants to. What does he have to say that could make a difference now? Encouraging resentment against the person who put him in this situation won't help him go into the next world with peace. Or will it?
It's the first time in many years Colin has considered praying. Except he wants to pray that the Maker is real and merciful, and he's not sure to whom he should direct that prayer. He wants to go to the Maker and ask what He is, and tell him he's no good to anyone if he sends people into oblivion based on a technicality of borders and stupid mistakes, rather than important things like being evil. He'd trade a lot if he could just put his arms around Benedict properly for the next few hours.
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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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He has to stop to wipe at his own eyes. Maybe he can go to the Division Heads and plead for mercy...on what grounds? The grounds that Colin doesn't want them to do this? Because that's the only new information he has to offer.
"Why did you go?" he asks softly. "You don't have to answer. I still forgive you. I just want to know why."
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"My mother sold her. I asked Kitty to help me find where she'd gone, so I could buy her back. And she did, and we did. ...but it was. Set up."
He blinks heavily, squeezing out a bit more moisture. "My mother knew she could get me to come home, and had the seller direct me to her. So we went for a quick visit, and it went." He pauses to push his hair out of his face.
"...wrong. I sent Kitty back with Micaela, and stayed with my mother." His mother, who turned out to be exactly the person he's been cautioned against for going on years now, which he refused to see until far too late. She probably hasn't lost a wink of sleep, and somehow knowing this makes the pain all the greater.
"I was an idiot," he whimpers.
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"What went wrong?"
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"...Kitty was listening to us," he says quietly, "Mother got angry. She tried to take her captive, for her shard. She would've killed her otherwise. But I helped her escape."
His brow twitches. "Mother was hurt. I don't remember why. I stayed with her, so she wouldn't go after them. ...and then I couldn't leave." His hands have begun to shake as he sorts through the memories.
"Since we didn't have Kitty's shard to bring to Corypheus, Mother insisted we use mine. Telling them no, trying to leave, it... it wouldn't have worked."
He opens and closes his left hand, making the green light of the anchor shard flicker. "I wonder how long it'll stay."
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When Benedict calls attention to the shard, Colin reaches out to take his hands and steady them.
"I don't think I like your mother much," he says coolly.
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"I think," he says weakly, "when she finds out what happened, she'll just." Another tear, which he wipes away quickly. "...she'll be angry with me, for failing. Again."
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Colin leans in, and his diction sounds uncharacteristically edged.
"She failed you. Fuck her."
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His mother is a monster. He knows this, he's known it for a long time, even if he couldn't admit it. Typically, the only time he can is when it's put him in trouble.
Most telling, she isn't here. He may be stupid, but she isn't.
He sighs in resignation, angling his head as much against Colin's shoulder as he can, though the bars largely block it. What is there to say? He's been had. His whole life. And now it's over.
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It's the first time in many years Colin has considered praying. Except he wants to pray that the Maker is real and merciful, and he's not sure to whom he should direct that prayer. He wants to go to the Maker and ask what He is, and tell him he's no good to anyone if he sends people into oblivion based on a technicality of borders and stupid mistakes, rather than important things like being evil. He'd trade a lot if he could just put his arms around Benedict properly for the next few hours.
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