There’s a casual tilt to Benedict’s shoulder, a kind of affected nonchalance which belies the dreadfulness of what he’s saying. How fucking awful, to have your throat cut when you didn’t even have the knowledge to make the effort worth it. Just— what, another cog in the machine?

It feels like Strange should say more here, but he also can’t bring himself to keep parroting condolences nonstop. How many times can he say I’m sorry that happened, when the words already taste like ash on his tongue; when the young mage himself seems to be trying not to make a big deal out of it, either.

Tentative, then: “So— I’m assuming there’s no love lost between you and Tevinter, still.”