[ Byerly's midday appointment, one of these days: his assistant and his boyfriend, the former arriving with lists and files, the latter arriving with a pitcher of water muddled with lemon and mint.
The fact that Bastien doesn't go around the desk to kiss By on the head doesn't have anything to do with Benedict's presence. He's surely walked in on worse by now. More than once. Enough for Bastien to have given up. No, he doesn't go around to kiss him on the head (or rub his neck, or sit on his lap instead of in one of the chairs across the desk) because this is business—though not business enough that he doesn't throw in a jaunty little wink as he takes his seat. ]
[Benedict is returning from lunch with a folio that he's collected; he was here in the morning before Byerly arrived, then absconded to the library around the time his boss usually crawls out of bed, so as not to be distracted by the fallout from their conflict the previous day.
He's all business as he stands just behind Bastien, letting him do the talking while he watches Byerly with quiet solemnity.]
[ The atmosphere, at first - two unlikely people arriving together, laden with supplies for something, Benedict looking pouty - makes By wonder if this is going to be one of those we're-worried-about-you sorts of ambushes. By has never been the target of one of those before (of course; he's been far too skilled at deflecting worry and avoiding care), but he's participated before, usually as a body to fill out the room. Sometimes earnestly as a friend.
To be fair, he's not really in a good state. Foolishly, idiotically, this whole thing has sliced into his soul in a way that's surprising even to him. Discovering that the other department heads - whom he's squabbled with, insulted, who have insulted him back, but whom he fundamentally assumed were loyal to him - are willing to throw him overboard is...Well. His sleep is off, his eating is off, he's distracted, and all while they have the Chantry mother in their midst.
But: Bastien calls him Monsieur l'Ambassadeur, which signals that this isn't about something personal. Something professional, instead. So Byerly rubs at his mouth and asks: ]
For whatever you need to discuss, about the work and your plans, to have another perspective or some advice.
[ Because they should have been doing this, shouldn't they have, a long time before things came to this point.
The concept would be improved by adding, at minimum, a rifter. Perhaps not one from within the division, as that intersection includes—exactly—Madame de Cedoux, whose disinterest in working with Byerly and preference for delivering her advice to him in the form of public scolding have both been made very clear. But someone—
Something to decide later.
He glances back at Benedict. So solemn. And at Byerly. Also solemn.
He smiles. ]
Today that seems to be discussing what has happened with the other division heads and what you want to do about it.
[ A sideways lean; he pushes and angles another chair to invite Benedict to sit in it. He's not only here as a file-handler. ]
But after that we can go over how Mother Pleasance's visit has been going, the Landsmeet— [ upcoming as soon as I write my part of that plot I am SO SORRY ] —and whatever else you want.
I didn’t track this because I’m a dummy, mea culpa
[Benedict sits primly, watching Byerly’s face much in the manner of one eyeing a wild animal known to be unpredictable— not making any sudden movements or saying anything that might invoke a diatribe.
He does, however, open the folio to show what’s inside it: reports, or more specifically, diplomacy mission reports.]
[ Byerly starts, then falters. His first instinct is to feel angry, insulted. He's done everything to this point by himself - or nearly by himself - Benedict simply supporting with paperwork and standing guard against the door, Bastien gossiped with but never properly consulted. It feels like it ought to be a slight, a silent alliance with the people who were saying he wasn't good enough, that he didn't deserve this position. Why the change now? he wants to snap. Decided I can't handle it?
But he can't be cruel to Bastien. Beloved Bastien, who wouldn't hurt him - or if he did, only with good cause. And Artemaeus -
Well, he can be a bit cruel to Artemaeus. ]
I thought I brought this all on myself. Isn't that what you said? [ His manner is muted when he speaks to Benedict. Still hostile, sure, but without any great energy - a growling dog, not a snapping one. ] Shouldn't I be solving it all myself?
[ Bastien’s smile recedes into something smaller, without entirely vanishing, and he cuts in rather than leaving the answer up to Benedict. ]
You will have to. In the end.
[ Not cold. But cool, maybe, especially compared to the gentle sympathy that he’s capable of. That he prefers, actually. He’ll have to make up for it later, for both of them. But right now it’s business. ]
You cannot bring us into the room with you when you deal with them. The decisions are yours. But we are resources at your disposal, and you aren’t going to waste us, [ especially not out of sulky self-pity and ego. He would say it if he didn’t love the man. ] D’accord?
The first thing this little bastard said to me is what did you do. Not what happened, but - [ He cuts himself off with a frustrated little growl. And, to Benedict: ] It's just a fine way to treat someone who's stuck his neck out for you.
[ But: fine. He lets out a breath, and rubs at his eyes, and says: ]
[ If Bastien's peripheral vision is good enough to pick up on the eye rolling, he ignores it. Generously. ]
Good. Benedict has pulled some of the files on the work the division has done since you took the office—the successes. That was his idea.
[ He unstacks cups and pours water while he talks. One for each of them, whether they like it or not. They need to hydrate. ]
But I think we need to start by reviewing what exactly the current issue is. What happened in that meeting, line by line, as well as you can remember it. We have to try to understand their perspectives before we can think about how to address them.
[ He lets out a long breath and rubs at his mouth. ]
Yes. So.
[ What even did happen? In the haze of sleeplessness and the sharpness of emotion, he can hardly recall. But, as best he can: ]
We were discussing who ought to be sent away to keep distance from Mother Pleasance's visit, since there are some among our number who would - you know - spill secrets, offend unduly, so on. The question came up of Templars, and we got into quite a cul-de-sac: the Division Heads wished that at least one Templar stay around so that the Mother would not know that we'd hidden all of them, Derrica kept insisting that they all must go away, that they're all traitors, so on and so forth. The question came up of Redvers, who sends correspondence to people within the Chantry - we went back and forth again and again on him, Derrica insisting that he must be sent away, the rest of us pointing out that he would then notify his contacts that the Mother had had things concealed during her visit - so I suggested that, to conceal our purposes, we simply tell him that he's actually being assigned to watch over the mages and ensure nothing goes wrong.
[ A sigh. He scratches his ear. ] It was an idiotic suggestion. I honestly don't know if I was saying it to provoke her because she was being so unreasonable, or if I was just so desperate to move on that I forgot the audience. Well, needless to say, they all turned on me, and - we finished the conversation, somehow, and sent her away. And then Flint began laying into me, and the others, as well, and I pointed out that they could have scored points by turning against me, and then it came down to - well - maybe they could curry even more favor by firing me. I say that there's no one else to take my place, Stark I believe decides that I'm up my own ass about thinking I'm irreplaceable, they all storm out. And here we are.
[ He grimaces down at the desk, ready to hear contempt from fucking Benedict, of all people. To keep hearing Bastien's clinical, dispassionate tone. He feels so - humiliated. So ashamed. To have done all of this thoughtlessly, stupidly...He feels like a child. Too stupid to fully comprehend just what he's done to earn this hatred. ]
[The contempt Byerly is expecting never arrives: Benedict’s manner returns to one of dutiful wariness once Bastien points out his role in their scheme. There, you vicious egotist, he wants to be here.
He can’t help but flinch at least once as Byerly recounts the conversation, and at its conclusion finds himself staring down at the folio, empathizing far too deeply. To think he almost threw himself in front of them— how much worse that would’ve made things.
All that can be done now is to hope that somehow, the three of them can mend this.]
[ Were it someone else, Bastien might make a show of taking notes. But Byerly knows him better than that. His unwavering look and occasional nod are the real signs of attentiveness.
No flinching. He isn't particularly surprised by any of it. The same defenses he might make of Byerly—that none of them have been sleeping well for months, tension is high, even the locals are on edge—apply to all of them. ]
Lay into you how?
[ He finds it hard to believe an idea—even an insensitive one—voiced in a private meeting might be the cause of anyone being removed from their position. That's the entire point of private meetings. Working out which ideas are stupid and which aren't. ]
Who said they could curry more favor by firing you? Do you remember?
[ Perhaps not. He's plenty familiar with the way people's memories blur when they're upset. ]
[ Byerly's eyes flick up to Bastien, over to Benedict, back to Bastien, down at his desk again. At least no sneer from Artemaeus about how he, personally, by being stupid, has imperiled the boy. Like he doesn't know it. Like he doesn't feel that guilt. Even so, he still looks weighted down - almost physically weighted down, his shoulders stooped, his neck low. ]
Truthfully, I might have been the one to bring up the prospect. I don't fully recall. It was - [ Well. They both know. Emotionally charged. Miserable. A muddle of anger and shame. ] I think I might have suggested it as the extreme extension of what they might do if they were so afraid of the mages' displeasure - make a grand show of firing me, humiliate me to score some points with them. And their response was yes, let's. [ A look up to Bastien. Remembering their trip through that temple, him and Bastien and Josias and Sidony. The way Bastien had looked at him like I know what you're going to offer. ] Perhaps I've become too accustomed to people who are horrified at the idea of someone martyring themselves.
I think it was Flint that jumped on the idea. Which is odd, in retrospect, knowing -
[ Byerly gestures to Bastien, an unspoken indication of what he's shared with him. Knowing that he and Flint are in their strange little alliance. ]
[All his sneering left to the previous day, Benedict, for the moment, only looks concerned; it’s in his prim and proud way, trying not to show weakness, but there’s a flutter of it anyway, here and there.]
Knowing…? [he prompts, speaking for the first time as he looks between them. Whatever’s being referenced, he hasn’t been privy to it.]
[ Wheels are turning. But while they turn, Bastien says, ]
They fucked,
[ with a pleasantly straight face—the same way he would have an straight face if it were a joke requiring a straight face, instead of half true. Also the way he would have a straight face if it were true. It's a multipurpuse expression.
It can be a joke if Byerly wants it to be. Or it can be the secret he would rather Benedict have than the one he actually means. Either way, a minute twitch of Bastien's eyebrows in his direction means lighten up. ]
[ He doesn't want to lighten up. He wants to steep in misery, like a sad little juniper berry floating atop rotgut moonshine that someone's going to pass off someday as gin. He wants to crawl on his belly through shit. ]
He's surprisingly gentle.
[ Is Byerly's semi-sullen contribution to the joke. But it's a contribution. ]
But he likes to be called sir.
[ Then - a breath blown out, a scrub of his fist across his cheek. Lighten up. ]
Flint and I have an informal sort of agreement in areas where our interests align. Around...Using some of the uncertainty of war to try to pull down certain unjust structures. Slavery in the North being a prime example of this, though there are certainly other targets that could be named.
[His attempt to remain inscrutable is disrupted by the horrified fascination crossing Benedict's face at the bluntness with which the statement is made, and it takes him several more of Byerly's sentences to realize he's being had.
Maybe it'll cheer Byerly up a bit more, at least, to see that thought process move from Shocked to Comprehending to Disgusted (by his own gullibility, if nothing else) before Benedict focuses himself back on the task at hand.]
So he has reason to keep you around, [he clarifies. His hand twitches with his own desire to take notes, but this is the sort of conversation best kept off-record.]
Around, [ Bastien says, ] but not in this office, if he thinks he can install another ally here and get what he needs out of Byerly anyway, without the position. Not that threatening to withhold help is a good idea,
[ He swirls his water. He's considering putting his feet on the desk. It is a game, if he can convince these two dramatic doom-cycle-loving men to see it that way: puzzles of motivation and personality, exercises in imagining viewpoints. ]
because anyone with a cause like that wants a true believer. And you would never threaten to withhold his help with something like that over something like this.
No. Truthfully, I was - immediately very anxious about how my removal might impede those plans, and rushed to think of ways in which I could still help even in a reduced position.
[ He grimaces. It's very like a Fereldan to give away his heart so completely, isn't it? ]
Like a complete rube.
But the only one I can imagine he'd be angling to get into that position is Silver. Which Yseult and Stark would never allow. Silver is too obviously Flint's creature; they'd just be doubling the man's weight. [ Well. He amends: ] Increasing by three-quarters or so.
[Byerly calling himself a rube merits himself a knowing and not unfriendly smirk from Benedict: yeah, it’s like that sometimes, try as one might to be above it.]
Even if Commander Flint knows where you stand, [he chimes in carefully,] the other mages don’t.
The mages have not shown a great deal of interest in where anyone stands on anything except their own cause. Which is to be expected. [ Meant for Benedict, mostly, to soften the criticism of this group he half belongs to—mage yes, rebel no—but with a look at Byerly too. Have some sympathy. ] If you are on fire yourself it is hard to worry about putting out your neighbor.
And whether Flint has a replacement for you in mind or not, By, he's clearly willing to entertain the possibility of finding one.
[Benedict cuts in gently, leaning forward to rest his weight on his folded hands atop the folio.]
--if they were to learn where you actually stand, which is to say, where I know you stand, it wouldn't necessarily hurt your cause.
They may not all see by your exact reasoning, [he gestures toward Bastien; what he said,] but there's a chance of lessening how adversarial the conversation is. Saying one stupid thing doesn't define a whole philosophy.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action, + benedict.
The fact that Bastien doesn't go around the desk to kiss By on the head doesn't have anything to do with Benedict's presence. He's surely walked in on worse by now. More than once. Enough for Bastien to have given up. No, he doesn't go around to kiss him on the head (or rub his neck, or sit on his lap instead of in one of the chairs across the desk) because this is business—though not business enough that he doesn't throw in a jaunty little wink as he takes his seat. ]
Monsieur l'Ambassadeur. We are your council.
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He's all business as he stands just behind Bastien, letting him do the talking while he watches Byerly with quiet solemnity.]
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To be fair, he's not really in a good state. Foolishly, idiotically, this whole thing has sliced into his soul in a way that's surprising even to him. Discovering that the other department heads - whom he's squabbled with, insulted, who have insulted him back, but whom he fundamentally assumed were loyal to him - are willing to throw him overboard is...Well. His sleep is off, his eating is off, he's distracted, and all while they have the Chantry mother in their midst.
But: Bastien calls him Monsieur l'Ambassadeur, which signals that this isn't about something personal. Something professional, instead. So Byerly rubs at his mouth and asks: ]
Council for what?
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[ Because they should have been doing this, shouldn't they have, a long time before things came to this point.
The concept would be improved by adding, at minimum, a rifter. Perhaps not one from within the division, as that intersection includes—exactly—Madame de Cedoux, whose disinterest in working with Byerly and preference for delivering her advice to him in the form of public scolding have both been made very clear. But someone—
Something to decide later.
He glances back at Benedict. So solemn. And at Byerly. Also solemn.
He smiles. ]
Today that seems to be discussing what has happened with the other division heads and what you want to do about it.
[ A sideways lean; he pushes and angles another chair to invite Benedict to sit in it. He's not only here as a file-handler. ]
But after that we can go over how Mother Pleasance's visit has been going, the Landsmeet— [ upcoming as soon as I write my part of that plot I am SO SORRY ] —and whatever else you want.
I didn’t track this because I’m a dummy, mea culpa
He does, however, open the folio to show what’s inside it: reports, or more specifically, diplomacy mission reports.]
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[ Byerly starts, then falters. His first instinct is to feel angry, insulted. He's done everything to this point by himself - or nearly by himself - Benedict simply supporting with paperwork and standing guard against the door, Bastien gossiped with but never properly consulted. It feels like it ought to be a slight, a silent alliance with the people who were saying he wasn't good enough, that he didn't deserve this position. Why the change now? he wants to snap. Decided I can't handle it?
But he can't be cruel to Bastien. Beloved Bastien, who wouldn't hurt him - or if he did, only with good cause. And Artemaeus -
Well, he can be a bit cruel to Artemaeus. ]
I thought I brought this all on myself. Isn't that what you said? [ His manner is muted when he speaks to Benedict. Still hostile, sure, but without any great energy - a growling dog, not a snapping one. ] Shouldn't I be solving it all myself?
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You will have to. In the end.
[ Not cold. But cool, maybe, especially compared to the gentle sympathy that he’s capable of. That he prefers, actually. He’ll have to make up for it later, for both of them. But right now it’s business. ]
You cannot bring us into the room with you when you deal with them. The decisions are yours. But we are resources at your disposal, and you aren’t going to waste us, [ especially not out of sulky self-pity and ego. He would say it if he didn’t love the man. ] D’accord?
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He returns to observing, aloof and serious, but at least not overly hostile.]
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The first thing this little bastard said to me is what did you do. Not what happened, but - [ He cuts himself off with a frustrated little growl. And, to Benedict: ] It's just a fine way to treat someone who's stuck his neck out for you.
[ But: fine. He lets out a breath, and rubs at his eyes, and says: ]
Fine. I - accept. I accept.
jumps in just to be stupid
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Good. Benedict has pulled some of the files on the work the division has done since you took the office—the successes. That was his idea.
[ He unstacks cups and pours water while he talks. One for each of them, whether they like it or not. They need to hydrate. ]
But I think we need to start by reviewing what exactly the current issue is. What happened in that meeting, line by line, as well as you can remember it. We have to try to understand their perspectives before we can think about how to address them.
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Yes. So.
[ What even did happen? In the haze of sleeplessness and the sharpness of emotion, he can hardly recall. But, as best he can: ]
We were discussing who ought to be sent away to keep distance from Mother Pleasance's visit, since there are some among our number who would - you know - spill secrets, offend unduly, so on. The question came up of Templars, and we got into quite a cul-de-sac: the Division Heads wished that at least one Templar stay around so that the Mother would not know that we'd hidden all of them, Derrica kept insisting that they all must go away, that they're all traitors, so on and so forth. The question came up of Redvers, who sends correspondence to people within the Chantry - we went back and forth again and again on him, Derrica insisting that he must be sent away, the rest of us pointing out that he would then notify his contacts that the Mother had had things concealed during her visit - so I suggested that, to conceal our purposes, we simply tell him that he's actually being assigned to watch over the mages and ensure nothing goes wrong.
[ A sigh. He scratches his ear. ] It was an idiotic suggestion. I honestly don't know if I was saying it to provoke her because she was being so unreasonable, or if I was just so desperate to move on that I forgot the audience. Well, needless to say, they all turned on me, and - we finished the conversation, somehow, and sent her away. And then Flint began laying into me, and the others, as well, and I pointed out that they could have scored points by turning against me, and then it came down to - well - maybe they could curry even more favor by firing me. I say that there's no one else to take my place, Stark I believe decides that I'm up my own ass about thinking I'm irreplaceable, they all storm out. And here we are.
[ He grimaces down at the desk, ready to hear contempt from fucking Benedict, of all people. To keep hearing Bastien's clinical, dispassionate tone. He feels so - humiliated. So ashamed. To have done all of this thoughtlessly, stupidly...He feels like a child. Too stupid to fully comprehend just what he's done to earn this hatred. ]
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He can’t help but flinch at least once as Byerly recounts the conversation, and at its conclusion finds himself staring down at the folio, empathizing far too deeply. To think he almost threw himself in front of them— how much worse that would’ve made things.
All that can be done now is to hope that somehow, the three of them can mend this.]
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No flinching. He isn't particularly surprised by any of it. The same defenses he might make of Byerly—that none of them have been sleeping well for months, tension is high, even the locals are on edge—apply to all of them. ]
Lay into you how?
[ He finds it hard to believe an idea—even an insensitive one—voiced in a private meeting might be the cause of anyone being removed from their position. That's the entire point of private meetings. Working out which ideas are stupid and which aren't. ]
Who said they could curry more favor by firing you? Do you remember?
[ Perhaps not. He's plenty familiar with the way people's memories blur when they're upset. ]
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Truthfully, I might have been the one to bring up the prospect. I don't fully recall. It was - [ Well. They both know. Emotionally charged. Miserable. A muddle of anger and shame. ] I think I might have suggested it as the extreme extension of what they might do if they were so afraid of the mages' displeasure - make a grand show of firing me, humiliate me to score some points with them. And their response was yes, let's. [ A look up to Bastien. Remembering their trip through that temple, him and Bastien and Josias and Sidony. The way Bastien had looked at him like I know what you're going to offer. ] Perhaps I've become too accustomed to people who are horrified at the idea of someone martyring themselves.
I think it was Flint that jumped on the idea. Which is odd, in retrospect, knowing -
[ Byerly gestures to Bastien, an unspoken indication of what he's shared with him. Knowing that he and Flint are in their strange little alliance. ]
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Knowing…? [he prompts, speaking for the first time as he looks between them. Whatever’s being referenced, he hasn’t been privy to it.]
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They fucked,
[ with a pleasantly straight face—the same way he would have an straight face if it were a joke requiring a straight face, instead of half true. Also the way he would have a straight face if it were true. It's a multipurpuse expression.
It can be a joke if Byerly wants it to be. Or it can be the secret he would rather Benedict have than the one he actually means. Either way, a minute twitch of Bastien's eyebrows in his direction means lighten up. ]
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He's surprisingly gentle.
[ Is Byerly's semi-sullen contribution to the joke. But it's a contribution. ]
But he likes to be called sir.
[ Then - a breath blown out, a scrub of his fist across his cheek. Lighten up. ]
Flint and I have an informal sort of agreement in areas where our interests align. Around...Using some of the uncertainty of war to try to pull down certain unjust structures. Slavery in the North being a prime example of this, though there are certainly other targets that could be named.
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Maybe it'll cheer Byerly up a bit more, at least, to see that thought process move from Shocked to Comprehending to Disgusted (by his own gullibility, if nothing else) before Benedict focuses himself back on the task at hand.]
So he has reason to keep you around, [he clarifies. His hand twitches with his own desire to take notes, but this is the sort of conversation best kept off-record.]
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[ He swirls his water. He's considering putting his feet on the desk. It is a game, if he can convince these two dramatic doom-cycle-loving men to see it that way: puzzles of motivation and personality, exercises in imagining viewpoints. ]
because anyone with a cause like that wants a true believer. And you would never threaten to withhold his help with something like that over something like this.
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No. Truthfully, I was - immediately very anxious about how my removal might impede those plans, and rushed to think of ways in which I could still help even in a reduced position.
[ He grimaces. It's very like a Fereldan to give away his heart so completely, isn't it? ]
Like a complete rube.
But the only one I can imagine he'd be angling to get into that position is Silver. Which Yseult and Stark would never allow. Silver is too obviously Flint's creature; they'd just be doubling the man's weight. [ Well. He amends: ] Increasing by three-quarters or so.
[ Ha ha ha funny amputation joke. ]
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Even if Commander Flint knows where you stand, [he chimes in carefully,] the other mages don’t.
your**** help
And whether Flint has a replacement for you in mind or not, By, he's clearly willing to entertain the possibility of finding one.
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So the one person who might be rather ally-like is nothing of the sort.
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[Benedict cuts in gently, leaning forward to rest his weight on his folded hands atop the folio.]
--if they were to learn where you actually stand, which is to say, where I know you stand, it wouldn't necessarily hurt your cause.
They may not all see by your exact reasoning, [he gestures toward Bastien; what he said,] but there's a chance of lessening how adversarial the conversation is. Saying one stupid thing doesn't define a whole philosophy.
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u can skip me for a bit, just assume he’s listening/processing
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stung** dangit
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