The trouble, such as it is, had began innocently enough.
Upon finishing the second page of a three page reply to the Revered Mother of Montsimmard's latest latter, it had been necessary to open a new packet of paper in order to continue. Only the coloring of the papers included in that packet had been so painfully out of tone with those on which the correspondence had been started on that Cassius had found himself spending some minutes sorting through the whole of the stack by candlelight, his frown growing persistently deeper as he turned through it to no relief.
And so two options lay before him. Either he might begin again despite the lateness of the hour and the extreme length of the reply, or he might swallow his pride in writing to a dear friend of influence (read: rich, insofar as any Chantry Mother is permitted to be - which is to say, extremely) and send along something closer resembling a patchwork quilt than important mail.
In the quiet of his room - small, but as excellently appointed as Skyhold might permit under the management of a particularly resourceful man - Cassius had stared for a long moment at the two sets of pages side by side on the slant of the writing desk before announcing, "Fuck," to no one in particular.
And so in the dead of night, with a page from his letter in one hand and a candle on a plate in the other, Cassius has the questionable good fortune of being present in the Skyhold libraries (rifling through stocks of paper on the third floor) when a certain pair of individuals abscond to the ramparts via the ground floor.
Does he note any detail of the large burden they carry between them, or does he only overhear a selection of furtive whisperings? Does he mark their identities as they go, or only just perceive shapes shuffling in the lightless dark? Or perhaps he sees and hears nothing at all and it is simply by chance that when Benevenuta Thenevet next passes this way again, Enchanter Cassius Black is seated at the edge of expansive table which once served as the workspace of a certain egotistical elf.
He certainly feigns surprise well enough in that weak circle of light cast by that single candle.
"My, the guard truly must be stretched thin if they're pressing us into rotation on the ramparts."
Oh, if it isn't the ghost of Satinalia past, still living in it. Benevenuta considers, for a moment, sneaking past him—out of the question, he has clearly already seen and recognized her. She considers, more seriously, outright snubbing him: the likelihood of ever having to deal with the man again after this evening is remarkably low, and farewelling him with his own irrelevance has a certain je ne sais quois. He is so determined to be relevant—
but not too much so.
It irritates her the way a loose tooth might, a gap where her tongue must press and investigate. Like a cat presented with something to bat between her claws,
Benevenuta joins him. It is very easy to lift herself very slightly onto the edge of the table where he's sitting, and she steadies her balance with one slippered foot on the edge of his chair. (She had not wished to have to explain wearing her boots to anyone they might come across before leaving; that will be among the last things she does tonight, before they leave.)
“Commander Rutherford merely appreciates my unique perspective, Cassius. You might consider it.” Appreciating her. Getting some perspective. Etcetera. Her smile is as trustworthy as ever, which is to say: not at all and all the moreso for having no perceptible flaws to its façade. The problem is that the sweetness is as sincere as the rest, and the rest is a great deal. “Don't you feel safer knowing I might be out there?”
He does her the consideration of shifting his papers (page two of the letter and a sheaf of satisfactorily matching quality ransacked mere moments ago) before she might sit on them.
"Safer? In this stronghold at the top of the Frostbacks fortified by a confluence of Templars and Mages both? Why Speaker, I had hardly thought to be worried in the first place. In which case, perhaps your point is thoroughly proven for lack of any alternative," he says mildly, settling back into his chair so he might observe her in full there before him.
Given the circumstances to hand, that examination might be quite cold indeed from a particularly rigid sort of man. But Cassius does, for the record. Appreciate lovely things. His façade however is markedly less perfect than hers, and the gleam in his eye has very little to do with that particular aspect of the pleasure in being shocked—shocked, he might say!—by her company.
"Tell me, how is the Commander at this late hour?"
From this particular angle, there is much to appreciate about a woman who has never considered living in the Frostbacks any sort of reason to stop dressing to best show off her navel. Her silver, fur-edged silk dressing gown is knotted loosely at the waist, and the matched night-gown beneath it catches the candlelight on silver thread, and when she says: “Snug abed,” very warmly, it is not without being perfectly aware what conclusions someone might draw.
Now, if someone had seen Dorian with her as well, those conclusions get rather more exciting—but then, those saucy Northern mages have always stirred rumor in their wake. Ayse Thevenet had so successfully shed all vestiges of Tevinter only for their heritage to be thrown in sharp relief by her daughter's insistence on becoming joined at the hip with that Vint in the Inquisition.
"Would that we might all be so lucky," is as easily an allusion to bed partners as it is morose opining regarding an extremely important workload keeping certain other industrious individuals away from the simple comfort of their pillows. Why choose just one point when one can just as easily make two?
"Though I am surprised. The man always struck me as the type slow to settle, and I might have sworn I saw yourself and Lord Pavus pass that way not a full half hour ago."
Benevenuta sets her fingertips down upon his little pile of papers, as if reminded, which might be marginally less irritating if it were accompanied by, say, an illicit glance down. Some measure of interest in what might have dragged him from the comforts of his bed, and kept him up in the rotunda at this late hour.
It is not. Her foot settles more fully against the outside of his thigh, the other—knees elegantly crossed—tapping the heel of her slipper on and off as she considers her answer, smiling at him.
“We didn't wish to disturb him, in the end. But I feel certain he will appreciate the gesture.”
Or feel awkwardly obliged to leave it hanging in his office for a lack of anything else to do with it that doesn't sort of make him feel bad, whichever.
His attention flickers briefly to the pages under her hand, and then sweeps back up the length of her arm and to her face. That's fine; though for the record, that side of page two has some rather clever thoughts regarding what the Chantry's role might be at the fighting front line regarding the evident temptation of desertion among the mages working there—
But no matter. Should they bear fruit, he might later say to her 'But of course you recall the night I was working late in the library...'
He shifts his leg absently against the line of her foot. Leans very slightly forward as if to say something in confidence, though surely they have rarely together been so alone as they are now.
"It must be rather a grand one if it's pressured you into such restraint. You won't just satisfy my curiosity?"
Come now, Benevenuta. A little shamelessness hardly kills anyone these days.
“I have never taken you for a curious man, Cassius,” is not something, delivered so amiably to him slightly nearer to her now, that sounds like a criticism besides her habitual disinclination to call him Enchanter and ongoing failure to suggest that he, in turn, simply call her Benevenuta if he'd like. (It is perfectly acceptable to call her Speaker, because the Mortalitasi have not fallen with the Circles. And it is perfectly acceptable to her to call many mages by the defunct titles of the defunct Circles, but not this one.)
The tilt of her head has an air of speculation to it. As if she might in the next breath lean back and frame him with her fingers—
“I rather like it on you. No, I don't know that I shall.”
His tsk of disappointment is one of those played at things, like this is a joke they have shared with one another and not a series of little insults traded with all the effectiveness of trying to bring down a stone wall by flicking bits of gravel at it. Everyone knows there is no progress be to made with the strategy, and yet occasionally the urge to hurl even the smallest stone is a persistent one.
"What a philosophical problem. Is it preferable to be disappointed or disappointing? —I have never taken you for such a theorist."
He has not, in the entire history of their acquaintance, even once corrected her regarding the oversight she gives his title. Why, it has even stopped making his brow wrinkle. Never mind that he might as well sign his letters First Enchanter if he cared to for as long as the previous owner of the Perendale Circle's title sees fit to continue to be missing, presumed dead. That being a fact he rarely has reason to remind much of anyone of—in so many words at the very least.
(Surely it is better in some cases to simply do rather than to put such a fine point on the thing.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
benny.
Upon finishing the second page of a three page reply to the Revered Mother of Montsimmard's latest latter, it had been necessary to open a new packet of paper in order to continue. Only the coloring of the papers included in that packet had been so painfully out of tone with those on which the correspondence had been started on that Cassius had found himself spending some minutes sorting through the whole of the stack by candlelight, his frown growing persistently deeper as he turned through it to no relief.
And so two options lay before him. Either he might begin again despite the lateness of the hour and the extreme length of the reply, or he might swallow his pride in writing to a dear friend of influence (read: rich, insofar as any Chantry Mother is permitted to be - which is to say, extremely) and send along something closer resembling a patchwork quilt than important mail.
In the quiet of his room - small, but as excellently appointed as Skyhold might permit under the management of a particularly resourceful man - Cassius had stared for a long moment at the two sets of pages side by side on the slant of the writing desk before announcing, "Fuck," to no one in particular.
And so in the dead of night, with a page from his letter in one hand and a candle on a plate in the other, Cassius has the questionable good fortune of being present in the Skyhold libraries (rifling through stocks of paper on the third floor) when a certain pair of individuals abscond to the ramparts via the ground floor.
Does he note any detail of the large burden they carry between them, or does he only overhear a selection of furtive whisperings? Does he mark their identities as they go, or only just perceive shapes shuffling in the lightless dark? Or perhaps he sees and hears nothing at all and it is simply by chance that when Benevenuta Thenevet next passes this way again, Enchanter Cassius Black is seated at the edge of expansive table which once served as the workspace of a certain egotistical elf.
He certainly feigns surprise well enough in that weak circle of light cast by that single candle.
"My, the guard truly must be stretched thin if they're pressing us into rotation on the ramparts."
no subject
but not too much so.
It irritates her the way a loose tooth might, a gap where her tongue must press and investigate. Like a cat presented with something to bat between her claws,
Benevenuta joins him. It is very easy to lift herself very slightly onto the edge of the table where he's sitting, and she steadies her balance with one slippered foot on the edge of his chair. (She had not wished to have to explain wearing her boots to anyone they might come across before leaving; that will be among the last things she does tonight, before they leave.)
“Commander Rutherford merely appreciates my unique perspective, Cassius. You might consider it.” Appreciating her. Getting some perspective. Etcetera. Her smile is as trustworthy as ever, which is to say: not at all and all the moreso for having no perceptible flaws to its façade. The problem is that the sweetness is as sincere as the rest, and the rest is a great deal. “Don't you feel safer knowing I might be out there?”
no subject
"Safer? In this stronghold at the top of the Frostbacks fortified by a confluence of Templars and Mages both? Why Speaker, I had hardly thought to be worried in the first place. In which case, perhaps your point is thoroughly proven for lack of any alternative," he says mildly, settling back into his chair so he might observe her in full there before him.
Given the circumstances to hand, that examination might be quite cold indeed from a particularly rigid sort of man. But Cassius does, for the record. Appreciate lovely things. His façade however is markedly less perfect than hers, and the gleam in his eye has very little to do with that particular aspect of the pleasure in being shocked—shocked, he might say!—by her company.
"Tell me, how is the Commander at this late hour?"
no subject
Now, if someone had seen Dorian with her as well, those conclusions get rather more exciting—but then, those saucy Northern mages have always stirred rumor in their wake. Ayse Thevenet had so successfully shed all vestiges of Tevinter only for their heritage to be thrown in sharp relief by her daughter's insistence on becoming joined at the hip with that Vint in the Inquisition.
no subject
"Though I am surprised. The man always struck me as the type slow to settle, and I might have sworn I saw yourself and Lord Pavus pass that way not a full half hour ago."
no subject
It is not. Her foot settles more fully against the outside of his thigh, the other—knees elegantly crossed—tapping the heel of her slipper on and off as she considers her answer, smiling at him.
“We didn't wish to disturb him, in the end. But I feel certain he will appreciate the gesture.”
Or feel awkwardly obliged to leave it hanging in his office for a lack of anything else to do with it that doesn't sort of make him feel bad, whichever.
no subject
But no matter. Should they bear fruit, he might later say to her 'But of course you recall the night I was working late in the library...'
He shifts his leg absently against the line of her foot. Leans very slightly forward as if to say something in confidence, though surely they have rarely together been so alone as they are now.
"It must be rather a grand one if it's pressured you into such restraint. You won't just satisfy my curiosity?"
Come now, Benevenuta. A little shamelessness hardly kills anyone these days.
no subject
The tilt of her head has an air of speculation to it. As if she might in the next breath lean back and frame him with her fingers—
“I rather like it on you. No, I don't know that I shall.”
no subject
"What a philosophical problem. Is it preferable to be disappointed or disappointing? —I have never taken you for such a theorist."
He has not, in the entire history of their acquaintance, even once corrected her regarding the oversight she gives his title. Why, it has even stopped making his brow wrinkle. Never mind that he might as well sign his letters First Enchanter if he cared to for as long as the previous owner of the Perendale Circle's title sees fit to continue to be missing, presumed dead. That being a fact he rarely has reason to remind much of anyone of—in so many words at the very least.
(Surely it is better in some cases to simply do rather than to put such a fine point on the thing.)