he does have a lot of meetings, as clĂŠo points out, both illicit and otherwise. they also concern a bit more than himself. the thought focuses his mind some. ben couldn't help but notice that clĂŠo hasn't blamed him for this massive, obvious fuck-up, for which he has no one but himself to blame. but clĂŠo's blame has skipped him entirely, like a flat stone skidding across water. instead, she has locked her eyes on solving the problemâthe walking, breathing, hopefully not yet talking, ex-military shaped problem ben has created.
"...right." ben takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm. then pulling up a chair with its back towards clĂŠo, straddling it to sit across from her. "not kirkwall. starkhaven then? ...or redcliffe." ventus is significantly larger than redcliffe. but if they're speaking of urgency, and the potential consequences, redcliffe is the right shorthand.
they have plenty of thoseâshorthand. code word. turn of phrase. small signals and cues that few understand besides each other. he's known clĂŠo for too long, ben considers this vaguely sometimes. has been through too much together, it's really getting into his bones.
ben had been 15 years of scrawny limbs and too clever for his own good when he landed at clĂŠo's trailer door. he didn't know at that time, of course, that he was walking into anything more illicit than the business of entertainment itself. he had wanted a job as a custodian or usher where he could unobtrusively move around wealthy patrons and their pockets, or charming up a lonely older woman for a free meal or two. the scheme he ended up in was something bigger, and clĂŠo had been at the helm of that for the better part of three years. until his father's passing.
it was unexpected, but not entirely surprising.
his father was a manâa city elfâof absolutely no means. which made his honesty and optimism less endearing and more painfully embarrassing. ben couldn't remember the number of times he found his father dejected, in a state of devastation after he had, once again, been cheated out of his money, labor, belongings or all of the above.
ben couldn't understand then, how his father could do this: let himself trust and get betrayed, hope and be let down, confide and be humiliated, again and again and again. it wasn't until one day, watching his father hunched over the bare kitchen table, head in his hands (âwhy? how could they do this to me?) that ben realized.
his father had expected to be treated decently.
the realization burnt ben's face like no other shame. his father had not just wanted to be treated decently, wanted to hope and dream and have true friendsâhe had thought he had a right to it. that he was entitled to respect, care, and sincerity; that he had expected to be considered as a man with dignity and pride, a thinking, feeling, unique individual. like a human.
he had been so mortified that he stumbled as many lines in one night as he did the entire season. he wondered how clĂŠo didn't kick him out during the intermission. but clĂŠo didn't kick him out. and ben learned something about himself that day: it might sting to be put down or scorned, but to expect better would utterly destroy him.
and he has nearly gone down that road, just then. what was he expecting, if he found tarquin? that the man would listen to him, excuse or reason, and offer him understanding or confidence? for what? because they served together? rolled in the same muck and perhaps shared one or two drinks of horrible liquor? foolish thoughts. of course, there is the small matter of tarquin's own secret life; the soldier was not nearly as discreet as he thought in his affair with his tent mate. not to ben anyway, who was looking for things worthy of noticing. it's no use anyway. he doubts he could blackmail a man with his sexual proclivity when he is already disgraced and no longer expected to produce an heir. and the whole idea does twist at something in ben's stomach.
better a knife then. damn.
"...what in the revenant's cock is he doing back here..." he couldn't help but hiss again, though it sounds more like a groan. he looks up at the bard. "ugh, clĂŠo. what can i do? lord quintus' first engagement isn't until tomorrow eveâin fact, he's not even supposed to return 'til past noon. i've got time. put me to work. i can't just sit and do nothing. it will drive me mad and i would act unusual. what do you need?"