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platinumshawnn · 4 months ago

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Bound by Blood and Fire | Benjicot Blackwood — pt viii

Synopsis: Serra and Benjicot's newly-wed bliss is interrupted by news from the Battle of Burning Mill, leaving Raventree in a state of grief amidst changes. Serra attempts to comfort Benjicot and better understand him in the early days of marriage.

Content warnings: MDNI 18+ — adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexual content (smut — I.e. female oral/cunnnilingus, implied p/v intercourse), mild depictions of family based violence, implied suicide ideation, mention of major character death.

masterlist | audio playlist | backwards — 7 | forwards — 9

A/N: hi this ain’t my best work but we’re here — sorry to disappear and have no updates for scheduling, I have returned to university as of this week and in that same time, had my wisdom teeth removed so am recovering/getting settled in so editing may be worse than usual

Word count: 8.4K

His ribs pressed against hers as the sun cast in through the window, his eyes closed and lashes fluttering against his cheeks as she lay naked beneath him; waist between her thighs. The bed sheets had been since replaced after the night’s endeavours, where the white ones had not been seen since the feast, grateful when they had returned to find the red silk ones that now hung low around her husband’s hips and bunched underneath him to provide her with some coverage as he slept — his mouth partially ajar and his cheeks pinkened with warmth; Serra didn’t have it within her to wake him from the peaceful slumber as his head rested against her bare chest, instead taking the opportunity to observe his youthful features, free of any of the daily stressors that often exasperated the frown lines between his brows and creased around his mouth. His hair had grown out in the past weeks, nearly in his eyes now as she brushed it back from her forehead with the tips of her fingers — she found he radiated a warmth that protected her from the cool nip of the morning as his body easily covered hers.

She had woken to the sun on her face hours prior, unable to sleep as the sound of horses whinnying kept her up most of the night after the tense events of the night’s feast; but Benjicot…he found sleep like it did not require even an ounce of thought, and kept it like a child did their childhood toys, unmoving and dreaming even after sleep had long-since abandoned her. She found peace and enjoyment in just watching him, however, unable to hold a grudge for the lack of sleep she had achieved — it seemed the only comforting thing in the night.

Once again, she had been haunted by dreams of her mother, longing for her to be present and guide her through what marriage had in store for her, and offering her wisdom on the quarrels of men that lingered; tense in the air even after the group had dispersed, Emrys skulking off with Henry in tow, pleading for him to come back -- she had seen the glare on Kermit’s face, rolling his eyes as he brushed past her and muttered a comment of, “Do you still defend him?”

The feast was tense and uncomfortable, catching pitiful stares as she wandered around the room, a hushed whisper following her with every step — even as the aftershocks of the confrontation had subsided, she was still followed by the reminder that they had yet to forgive the claims against her husband’s role in the death of Rodrik Bracken and his temper that never seemed to know peace; constantly simmering beneath the surface. A trait that was not comforting, to say the least, while his father was away on the frontlines of a battle, causing tension that was only further exasperated by the war for the Iron Throne. A boy who was also yet to be forgiven for the possibility that he — a nobleman who was to be lord of Raventree — fathered a bastard before he’d even had a chance to break free from the confines of their doubts. She’d heard a whisper the night prior, muttering about the disgrace their union brought, averting eyes of Lord Robbard as he watched her move past him and towards the doors where Benjicot never seemed to leave. She had heard the reply that Benjicot had been only a boy who followed the path of his grandfather before him, having an uncle who was a bastard too. She was miserable that her wedding had been dampened by the clouds that lingered over the room of men and women who seemed to sober up following the news of Samwell’s whereabouts.

Benjicot was silent after that, tense with his jaw clenched as he hung near the wall; she was unable to find it in herself to even fight to convince him otherwise, as she was drained and exhausted after the long day it had turned out to be — she always knew that her wedding would be a long, exhausting feat but she had never considered the amount of fighting that had entailed, her joints sore from holding all that tension inside of her for hours on end. Willem continued to circle the room, and every so often, she felt his eyes on them; fixedly watching Benjicot in particular who deliberately made it his night’s mission to avoid his uncle’s eyes as he visibly swallowed and kept that same blank, emotionless look for the remainder of the evening and stared off out the windows. He hardly argued when she insisted they retire for the night, only giving her a quiet grunt as she took his hand, met by her father’s announcement as he and their guests bid them a final congratulations as a series of blessings was offered -- Serra had never felt so many hands on her shoulders as they exited the hall and ascended the stairs back towards their shared room where they had only left some short time earlier.

She had practically collapsed into bed the minute they closed the doors, his heavy footsteps behind her and lingering by the door. It was only then did she witness that tension melt away, his expression softening as he touched her face, allowing her to help him strip down to his underclothes and ready himself for bed; his eyes watching her every move as he sat at the foot of their bed, whilst she rushed around the room, taking a cloth to his face and wiping the sweat from his brow. It then, too, had been by her lead as she brought his hands back on her body, eager to feel his skin on hers once more.

The only singular thought that had not been consumed by the memory of his distraught eyes at the news regarding his father and the dreams of her mother was the embarrassment she felt when she had woken; her body sore from the remembrance of him between her thighs, her body moulded to fit his perfectly as the soft sighs of pleasure echoed throughout the room and down the halls well into the night — the perfect distraction from the feast’s events and the growing remorse in her chest and resentment that gnawed that her. She envied her lord husband who was oblivious to knowing such shame, as he laid against her, an arm finding itself around her in his sleep and clinging to her.

Her thoughts were disturbed by the low groan that rumbled from his chest, the sound vibrating against her collarbone as her fingers carded through the roots of his hair, “How long have you been awake?” He grumbled.

“Not too long,” She lied, her thumb brushing his forehead.

His head lifted, turning to look up at her through squinted, tired eyes that were only half-open, “You’re a terrible liar, wife,” He softly teased, voice thick with exhaustion and gruff as he spoke, “Did you sleep at all?”

She knew there was no sense in trying to lie again — he had seen right through her and hadn’t even hesitated to call her bluff as he slowly moved to sit up on an elbow that was planted against the mattress by her waist, “I did— only a few hours,” Serra confessed.

He hummed, visibly discomforted by the fact as his hand stretched up to brush along her arm, “What kept you awake?”

The urge to lie once again arose, heavy in her chest with a relentless sense of anxiety as she contemplated her answer, “It’s just not been easy to find sleep lately,” she admitted, his chin propped against her chest as he looked up at her, “Do you think…your parents cared for each other?” She asked suddenly, her eyes narrowing as she slowly enunciated each word.

His mouth twitched, a frown etching itself into her brows — she had to fight back the urge to massage the lines from his forehead with her thumb and smooth it away, “In what way?”

She felt it seemed a straightforward question, “As husband and wife, did you ever think they cared for each other?”

Benjicot’s mouth opened, letting out a sigh after he hesitated for words, “I suppose in some ways they did, yes,” he answered, his hand lifting from her arm to brush back the hair from her face as a strand had fallen into her eyes, “why do you ask?”

“I have been thinking about my mother lately,” she admitted, pausing — his features softened at the words, “I realise we have never talked much about yours. I remember your father as a child and what he was like, but I’ve come to the conclusion I don’t remember your mother. I don’t remember what it was like to see them together.”

“They never spent much time together,” he quickly pointed out.

Her eyebrows furrowed, “didn’t they?”

“They hadn’t since I was young,” he said, “not since I was seven.”

“How do you know they cared for each other then?”

He moved to prop himself up on his elbow, the joint pressed above her hip as his head rested against his palm, “I’m not sure, a feeling I’ve had I suppose,” Benjicot explained, “She pulled away after my brother died in the cradle, my father tried hard to pull her out of her grief…but I think it was too much for her. I remember she felt…things much greater than anyone could ever understand, he used to get angry with me because he said I took after her as a boy in that way, and boys were not supposed to be so soft. He sat by her door for weeks though, despite that he couldn’t understand.”

Her hand rested on his shoulder, fingers brushing over the bare skin as he spoke, “When we lost her, he sat there for days. He wouldn’t let them touch her belongings or take anything away— still to this day, he hasn’t let them touch her room,” he rambled, “I think the only time I ever saw her relax or snap out of it was whenever he came by to visit. They didn’t do much talking, I think they were just content being near each other some days…I was angry with her for a long time, for pulling away and never quite being like your mother— yours loved you so openly, I remember she was willing to fight so fiercely for her children if she’d had to, all to protect you.”

“And now?”

He inhaled sharply, sighing, “I’ve forgiven her, I think. She did as best she could manage,” he said, his shoulder shrugging, “You remind me of her in some ways. From what I remember her for at least, which scares me at times.”

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“Your ability to feel things much greater than the rest. You are nurturing and kind,” He said, his head turning to allow his mouth to press a kiss to her shoulder, “your ability to be kind to a man like me.”

She reached out, her hand tracing the outline of his face, fingers brushing his hair from his brow for a moment and delicately exploring the shape of his high cheekbones; her thumb skimmed over the skin, a shy smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “It’s not always as hard as you think.”

Benjicot snorted, “Always?”

“Some days you’re insufferable,” She replied, her hand dropping to grab his shoulder and encouraging him up to her face. The sheets rustled with the move, his chest landing over hers and his face coming to hers with a grin. Her hand found the planes of his back, wrapping underneath his arm and coming around his shoulder as her thighs dropped to accommodate his waist, welcoming him with open arms.

Serra’s fingers continued to trace Benjicot’s jaw, her touch light yet purposeful. She watched him closely, sensing the weight of his memories and his carefully chosen words. There was a softness in his gaze, one that surprised her, as if he had unlocked a piece of himself that he rarely let surface — a glimmer of who he once was as a boy.

“Does it scare you?” Serra asked, her voice barely above a whisper, “That I remind you of her?”

Benjicot’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as though her question had struck a chord. “Sometimes,” he admitted, the honesty in his tone sending a shiver through her. “Because I watched her break. And I know… I wouldn’t know what to do if you ever felt that way.”

Serra’s brow furrowed as she absorbed his words, her heart aching for the boy he must have been—watching his mother disappear into grief. “I’m not your mother, Benjicot,” she said softly, brushing her lips against his temple. “I won’t leave you to bear the weight alone.”

His arms tightened around her as though he feared she might slip away at that very moment. “It’s not easy,” he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. “Sometimes I fear I don’t know how to… be the kind of husband you deserve.”

Serra let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, pressing her forehead against his. “You’re already more than enough,” she murmured, her thumb stroking along his cheek. “You listen. You care. That’s more than many could say about their husbands.”

Benjicot’s lips twitched into a faint smile, but the shadow of doubt still lingered in his eyes. “Do you think we’ll be different?” he asked, the question heavy with uncertainty. “From my parents?”

Serra tilted her head, considering his words carefully. “I think we already are,” she answered, her fingers running through his hair as she spoke. “We’re talking, aren’t we? We’re here, trying to understand one another, and that’s more than some ever do.”

He let out a soft chuckle, his forehead pressing against hers. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, though his tone held a quiet hope as if he wasn’t quite ready to believe it yet.

Serra’s hand found its way to his back, drawing gentle circles against his skin. “We don’t have to be perfect,” she said, her voice steady and reassuring. “We just have to try.”

Benjicot’s smile widened, his gaze softening as he looked down at her. “I’m lucky,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “to have you.”

Serra’s lips curved into a playful smile as she tugged him closer. “I suppose I’m lucky too.”

He laughed, the tension between them dissolving as he leaned in to capture her lips in a slow, tender kiss. The sheets rustled again as he shifted, his weight pressing her further into the bed, and for a moment, the world outside of them disappeared. Serra’s heart swelled as she felt the warmth of his skin against hers, her breath hitching as she then felt his right hand creep up along the length of her leg, his knuckles pressed to the inside of her knee and gliding up until he reached the apex of her thigh and stopping to rest there — the breath she took was shaky, her lips parting and finding the nape of his neck as he craned up and into her; his chest pressed against hers, “Ben…” She quietly muttered against his lips.

“I could stay here all day…” he replied, his free hand lifting to cradle her face against his palm, his other finally moving over her mound; his fingers dipping into her with an eagerness that shared a likeness to a bear drawn to honey that drew a soft gasp from her mouth, “just…like…this.”

Her head leaned back, pressing into the pillow behind her as his fingers sank into her, pressing up into her walls with slow meticulous in-and-out movements that orchestrated a slew of soft moans with such ease — Benjicot leaned forward, pulling the sheet down and away from her body until she was bare to him and him alone. His lips found the curve of her breast, pressing a soft kiss to the skin before lowering his head; ducking to bring his mouth over her nipple, his teeth dragging along the sensitive peak. Her chest instinctively pressed up into his kiss, mouth falling open with a low whine as she found hold by his hair, “Oh good Gods…” she cried out.

Her walls clenched around his fingers, warm and wet as her womb welcomed him, “We needn’t see anyone today,” he muttered, shifting down her body enough that his lips brushed her ribs. He once again yanked the sheet away from their bodies, further bunched low around his hips and leaving her exposed to the cool Spring air that trickled in through the windows that were left open. He spoke in between kisses to her belly, “could stay here in bed…performing our duty. Creating a babe to rule Raventree.”

“We…have other duties to attend to, m’lord,” She panted, a hand again finding the crown of his head and fisting the locks of hair between her fingers.

Benjicot’s mouth found her hip, using his shoulders to force her thighs apart for him as his hand continued its slow ministrations, “Oh, so formal,” he teased, “those duties will still be there later, the council can spare us a moment more.” His words were muffled by flesh, his voice a low timbre that sent a shiver up her spine as he looked up through thick, dark lashes.

“But breakfast…” she gasped, his fingers curling up into her, “the gift ceremony— you have meetings and…and— dear gods.”

“Sh, my love,” He said as his mouth turned up into a grin. He pressed a final kiss to her pelvis, his mouth then finally closing around her clit and lapping at her with such fervour she felt as though she was burning from within, pleasure surging through her veins; she felt her breath catch in her throat, letting out a high-pitched moan. She was quickly overwhelmed by her peak, her skin ablaze and clutching to the roots of his hair like life alone depended on it, her hips desperately grinding into his face as he coaxed her through it. Her body tensed above him, a tremor settling into every bone as her head pressed as far back as the mattress would allow clenching her thighs around his head.

“Ben,” she finally whined aloud.

—

Benjicot was never quite fond of the idea of marriage — he always imagined that when the day came that he did marry, he would be miserable and only do it solely for the sake of duty. He’d pictured it would be some round faced Perryn girl that he had never paid any mind to, avoiding her gaze during their wedding and throughout the feast, disgusted as he’d bedded her — he had long since settled that he probably would only bed her once or twice a month and hope for the best. Hope that she would be with child quickly as to not have to bear another moon of the tiring routine; hopeful that the old gods would spare him the mercy of a wife who was slow to come with child and put him through that experience time and time again — if the prospect of marriage and his wife-to-be was not going to be by his choice, he at least hoped they would spare him that at least. He’d experienced that once before when his older cousin had dragged him to a pleasure house in the Street of Silk as a boy of ten-and-six, citing that he’d come of age and as a man grown, there came a certain appetite for women — he’d been plunged into the room of a woman who feigned arousal and had done her best to put on a show for him, exaggerated moans and just too much touching him. He had been grateful for the entire experience to be done with, awkwardly dismissing her after he struggled to…be present and perform. There had been no missing Kermit’s snort when he compared her to having horse-like features, eager to return to Raventree and scrub himself raw. He swore he would never step foot in that place again after that.

He’d always pictured a version of marriage that was cold and distant, not something that was born out of love but rather obligation — and yet, surprisingly, he felt lighter that morning. He did not feel shame embracing the touch of his wife, and he didn’t feel the urge to avoid her eyes and feign love for her out of said obligation — it had taken every ounce of willpower to tear himself from their chambers that morning; wanting nothing more than to delay his other duties for another day. He felt at ease with her, and like maybe he could be absolved of any sins he wore like marred scars on his skin; she was a breath of fresh air that Benjicot had not known in a long time, especially in his home.

He had only left after another hour at her insistence, her handmaiden waiting outside the door to enter and draw her a bath, ready to start anew as the morrow stretched into midday. She had practically dragged him out of bed, her robe scarcely clinging her her shoulders as he protested, her face flushed and having to flick back the hair from her eyes as she bid him a final goodbye for the time being with a kiss to his cheek, insisting he go bathe as well, “I will see you tonight.”

It was a relief to hear, something to look forward to. He would see her tonight and she would only be on the other side of the hall, just at an arm's length where he could find her at any moment should he need to — he had sighed and agreed, cupping her face to give her one last kiss before he retreated towards his private rooms. He would die before he admitted that she was right in saying that a bath and some supper would do him wonders — he felt better prepared to face the council that afternoon, at ease as he took the head of the table, all eyes on him the minute he had stepped into the room.

If anything, Benjicot radiated a newfound confidence as he sat down, slowly addressing each member who took a seat after him.

After the pleasantries and greetings, some further congratulations on his marriage, the meeting had been tense and brief, “Have we heard anything from the Red Fork this morning?” Benjicot asked.

There was a pensive silence, Benjicot’s uncle Willem speaking up when the silence stretched too long, “No, we’ve yet to hear anything from your father or Alysanne. They arrived before midnight, according to a messenger.”

Benjicot nodded, though his thoughts momentarily drifted back to the morning he'd shared with his wife. Her warmth lingered with him, even now, as he returned to the pressing matters at hand. The mention of his father and sister, absent from Raventree, only sharpened his focus. His duties as lord could not be delayed any longer, even if the idea of returning to her chambers tempted him far more than facing another day of conflict.

“They’ll send word soon,” Willem continued, noticing Benjicot’s silence. “I trust your father will have it handled.”

Benjicot nodded, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. The tension near the Red Fork had been escalating, and while his father was a seasoned hand at dealing with disputes, there was a sense that this time things might go too far. The Brackens were a thorn in their side, and with every passing day, it seemed more likely that words alone would not suffice to settle the rising disputes.

“We need to be ready,” Benjicot said, his voice steady as he addressed the rest of the council. “If we hear nothing by dusk, I’ll ride out myself.”

His uncle frowned but did not object, biting his tongue with a tense nod that was short and curt. Benjicot’s newfound confidence, paired with his sense of responsibility, was undeniable. It was clear he was no longer the young boy who had once sought to avoid such burdens. Something had changed, and the men around him could see it.

The meeting had spiralled into further updates from the west, an empty him of sound that Benjicot had only half-listened to as he absentmindedly found himself twirling his dagger; his fingers tracing over the intricate digit and blade as he nodded, offering very little to the conversation — there did not feel as though there was much to say. He had grown weary of the dry talk that was often followed by long silences, pausing and exchanging looks with the few lords who surrounded the table, growing restless quickly and dismissing them until the morning after three gruelling hours of staring back at their uncertain expressions.

He sheathed his blade as he stood, ensuring it was secure there as the room emptied — amidst the tense silence that followed the men out of the room, he had found the back of Kermit’s head, slotted between Oscar and Elmo as they trickled out behind the crowd; as angry as he was still, he could not find it in himself to hold that resentment against the boy he’d long since considered a brother.

—

“Do you mind if I join?” He asked, watching as Kermit tensed, freezing mid-swing on the training dummy in front of him.

The sword dropped, and turning to look back at him — he could see his shoulder slump, his jaw clenching as he fully turned to face him from his place in the centre of the training circle, “If that is what you wish, my lord.” He stiffly replied.

Benjicot nodded, blinking rapidly and approaching him, his sword held underneath his arm as he made work of shrugging off his cloak and dropping it into the grass at the edge of the dirt circle. He unsheathed his sword, “I take it you knew of my father’s intentions?”

“I can’t say I didn’t,” He curtly replied.

He slowly approached him again, Kermit’s body still radiating his annoyance as he stepped back, lifting his weapon again, “And you did not think to warn me?”

“It was not my place to, My Lord,” he said through gritted teeth. Silence befell them again.

“You’re still angry with me,” Benjicot said, his gaze going towards Kermit’s feet as circled him, averting his eyes away towards the treeline. He heard as he sighed, his sword dragging across the dirt for a moment.

“You’re not particularly the face I’d wish to see right now,” He admitted.

“Would you rather it be Serra’s?”

Kermit snorted and rolled his eyes, stopping on his right and looking down at the weapon in his hand, “No, she wouldn’t even step within this circle anyways. You know that.”

They quieted, the air filled with the soft sound of birds as dusk slowly approached.

“You know, I never really thought about it— how hard it would be to look you in the eye afterwards,” Kermit started to complain, squinting as the sun struck his eyes. His friend panted, shifting his stance and shuffling back a few steps, an inquisitive look on his face as he adjusted his grip around the hilt of his sword, “knowing you’ve bedded my sister and all. Bit weird, innit?” He finally explained, visibly uncomfortable, trying to make conversation the longer they paced in circles.

Kermit’s sword suddenly lunged forward, swinging towards Benjicot; quickly deflecting it with a clash and releasing a breathless laugh, “Surely you had to have considered it, it’s part of the martial duty,” He huffed. Kermit swung again, their blades meeting halfway and straining as he attempted to overpower his, “marriages and the marital act, it brings children -- heirs. You’re familiar with the marital act, aren’t you, Kermit?” He taunted, shoving his sword and him back suddenly.

He stumbled back a step, sword by his side as he heavily breathed, eyeing him, “I’m familiar with it. I considered that there might be heirs, that was partly the intention,” He said, voice laced with disgust, “but the thought of you—” he said, lunging at him again, his sword being swatted away by skilful hands, “—and my sister makes me sick.”

Benjicot twirled the weapon, swinging it at his side, a wild grin on his face, “Would you rather I bed you instead?” He goaded, taking a few slow steps to his right. “Though I’m sure your father might have some reservations about the idea.”

Kermit scoffed in disgust, letting out a sudden yelp when his friend lunged forward; quickly reacting in time to deflect his blade, his hands coming up to his shoulders to shove him back a step, “You’re fucking vile, you know that?” Kermit said, a laugh slipping from him as he caught himself from tumbling backwards.

“Oh come now, I only jest,” Benjicot said, stepping back to bounce on his toes as his eyes followed the Tully heir’s movements, “but don’t worry, I plan to make you a proud uncle sooner than not.”

Kermit charged forward, blade swinging up and just missing his chin, twisting his arm and bringing it down quickly -- the movement stunned Benjicot, tripping backwards over his foot and scarcely catching himself with a flail of his arms. He took the opportunity presented in front of him, kicking his foot to slide back and bringing the sword tip to his throat, just touching as his partner stared at him with a wide-eyed stare; mouth opening. Benjicot stuttered for a moment before he grinned, tongue pressing to the corner of his mouth as he panted for air, his chest heaving, “Is this what you have come for? To brag to me about bedding my sister?” Kermit asked between breaths, “Because for once, I find myself rather disinterested in the details of the women you bed.”

He dropped the sword suddenly, stepping back a few steps and allowing him to compose himself again as Benjicot wiped his blade against the fabric of his tunic, his arm holding it against his side with the move, “You owe me.”

His head lifted, confused as Kermit stared at him expectantly, “What?”

“You owe me,” Kermit repeated. His words suddenly clicked in, his mouth opening but shutting and deciding on silence, “As boys, if one bested the other, the winner was owed a favour— I need a favour of you.”

Benjicot eyed him, already suspecting the direction the conversation was going as he sheathed his sword against his side and nodded, “Alright. I’ll bait,” He said, “What is your favour?”

“The truth,” Kermit replied.

The training yards were silent as the two men stared at one another, Benjicot’s heart racing as he blinked a couple of times before he nodded again in response to his request, “I noticed, you know…” Kermit began to state, tone hinting he had yet to get to his question and would drag things out to make a point first — Benjicot had become familiar with the routine when he was procrastinating getting to the point.

He sighed, “Noticed what?”

He glanced down at his feet as his sword was dragged through the dirt, disturbing the rocks as it was moved with a grinding sound as the dirt was overturned, “You left every time we went on hunts,” He admitted, “I never thought anything of it at the time, I just assumed you were being stubborn and went hunting on your own after the rest had retired for the night. I noticed how close you always insisted on hunting towards the Brackens.”

Benjicot clenched his jaw, swallowing, “What is your question, Kermit?”

He looked up at him, blue eyes fixed on him as though he was trying to see right through him and dig out every secret Benjicot held in his body, “I know maybe you will never admit it out loud, I know you will never claim the babe as your own,” He said, his voice low, “but did you ever think to come to me about it? Ask me for help with your…predicament?”

“What help might you have offered?” He quickly replied.

His weight shifted from one foot to the other, “I’m not sure, I suppose— I could have helped you over the boundaries, pushed Amos and my father to agree to a union between the two of you, let you live the life you chose…” he explained. “I wouldn’t have pushed for Serra to marry so soon and could have allowed for you both to choose for love, rather than obligation.”

A pang of guilt washed over Benjicot at the thought of what could have been had things been different, picturing the face of the Bracken girl at the weirwood with him instead of Serra — to have even the inkling of yearning for a girl that was not his wife, a woman who had done nothing to wrong him and had been nothing but kind and sweet even when he did not make it an easy task. He felt guilt for picturing another woman when he could still feel her — his good and sweet wife — on his skin, taste her on his lips, her soft voice still clear as day in his ears as he looked away for a moment and looked up over the walls that enclosed Raventree, “You to wed Myrna, and Serra to Aeron—Rodrik alive, and you and I still like brothers. Maybe I could have prevented this whole mess had things worked out differently.”

He breathed a laugh, “I don’t think that would have done anything for the war.”

“No, but maybe it could have saved our houses all the unnecessary grief,” Kermit reasoned. “Did you ever think about it?”

His head tilted, thumb stretching to twirl a gold band around his fourth finger on his left hand that symbolized his marital bond to the very woman whose brother stood before him, “What?”

“Running away to be with her instead.”

He hesitated, “Once, yeah.”

It was not a confession he was proud of, but there had been a moment that last night that he considered what would have happened if he had not returned to Raventree the next day — if he had taken what little belongings he had on him and disappeared in the night with her, never to return or be heard of again. He wondered how angry his father would have been upon hearing the news — wondered how much of a head start they would have gotten before his father sent men searching for him, how long it would take before he gave up and accepted that Benjicot would never return. Would he discover the true reasoning behind his disappearance? Or would he assume he died somewhere in the woods? Would he hold a funeral in his name, without a body? He had almost found the courage that night to ask her to leave with him, but he knew despite her frustration towards her house and her father’s antics, she was forever loyal to her house and would never agree if she was to still possess any ounce of sanity and therefore, the idea of even suggesting it seemed risky. He cowered away that night.

“Would you still have her if you were given the chance?” Kermit suddenly asked.

Benjicot spluttered a laugh in his disbelief, “You’re not seriously asking me this…” He said, finding his friend’s unwavering expression — his smile dropped, “now of all times. Why are you asking me this?”

Kermit hesitated, the stoic expression breaking with a sigh as he looked up towards the sky where the sun shone bright with midday, “Because I’d like to offer you a favour in return.”

“And what, pray tell, might that be?” He asked, stepping towards him.

Kermit’s eyes followed him, hands tight around the hilt of his sword — he could have killed him, right then and there and not given it a single thought, he could do it — he cleared his throat, “I will give you the chance to leave,” he finally responded, the air around them thick with tension, “to be with your true love and to raise your child away from the confines of politics as you see fit, I will help you out of the gates and to Essos with enough supplies to last you long enough to get settled…”

“Kermit, you can’t be serious.”

“—Just leave my sister out of it, I ask that you not speak a word of this to her. She can’t know,” he continued to speak.

“What are you talking about?” Benjicot asked.

“I can send you a small allowance for the first year, to help with the child but after that, you are on your own,” Kermit finally said, out of breath as though he’d yet to take a breath, his eyes searching his face, “should that be what you want, but that is all I can do for you. That seems like a generous offer.”

Benjicot barked a bitter laugh, beginning to move again as he had grown restless with nerves the longer the conversation had continued — the longer he stood in place, the closer he came to losing his mind and lunging at him, his hand reaching towards the hilt of his sword again and drawing it suddenly, “Don’t be fucking mad, Kermit,” he spat, the taste of bile rising the back of his throat and threatening to coat the ground beneath him as he used his sleeve to wipe his brow, “You would ask me to abandon your sister because of some petty vendetta against me? Do you hate me that much?” He asked, his voice laced with hurt by the suggestion.

All those years of friendship, all those years of being playmates as boys felt like another lifetime as Kermit’s blank expression faced him, “I only mean to protect my sister.” He quietly explained.

“And if your sister is with child?” He asked, voice low as he rushed forward to him until they were practically nose-to-nose and heavy breathing with anger. There was no restraining himself — just as it had some days prior and landed them in this exact position; his temper flared, in his face and clutching his sword as Kermit only blinked, “You would have me abandon my flesh and blood, my house?”

“It would not be the first time,” Kermit calmly replied, though he caught the edge in his tone, “you forget, there are remedies for…undesirable pregnancies—”

Benjicot suddenly brought the weapon up, pressing it to his throat until it just bit into his skin, threatening to ooze blood while he forced his friend back a step, his teeth bared into a snarl as Kermit flinched, “You would do best to mind your fucking tongue!” He growled.

“I only act in the best interest of Serra and her future,” He replied, holding his stare and swallowing thickly; a trickle of sweat rolling down his left temple.

“By implying you’d have her kill my child?” He spat, the blade pressing further into his skin, “I could kill you, you know that? I could kill you right now—

“Benjicot.”

Alysanne’s voice was sharp and stunned as his head whipped around to look over his shoulder where she stood at the entrance to the training grounds, equally surprised to find her watching him with eyes that screamed horror — a look that was so foreign to her, he felt the urge to shrink away and hide in shame, faltering in his hold of the blade as he stuttered for a moment. She was dirtied from head-to-toe, still in riding gear that was marred by blood and dirt, the fabric of her pants torn at her right knee as she held her gloves by her side — her expression a haunted one as she stared in silence, “What are you two doing?”

Benjicot dropped his hand, carefully lowering the weapon and stepping away from his companion who quickly fixed the collar of his tunic by smoothing it out, “I…”

“We were just training,” Kermit quickly answered for them both, “we just got a bit carried away.”

His gaze anxiously looked over his shoulder to where Kermit stood, wiping his neck with the sleeve of his doublet, catching his eye for a moment, “Benjicot should also know better than to get carried away,” Alysanne said, a hint of warning to her words as she eyed her nephew. “Especially now of all times.”

The two men seemed to share a thought, moving in unison to bow their heads to her, “I did not realize you had returned, Aunt Alysanne.”

She scoffed a laugh, stepping down from the steps to approach the circle as she slapped her gloves against her leg; a slew of dust flying up from their fabric, “No, I suppose you were distracted, weren’t you?” She scolded. Her eyes turned to Kermit, observing the wound at his throat that still oozed, “Go to Maester Edric and have that seen to.”

Kermit stammered, “Oh…it’s nothing, it will be fine.”

“It was not a suggestion, Kermit,” She stated, looking again at her nephew who lowered his eyes, “I must speak with my nephew.”

“I…” Kermit began to say, stopping abruptly when Alysanne’s eyes drifted to him again. He bowed his head and cleared his throat, “Of course, my lady.”

The two kin were silent as Kermit uttered a quiet bid goodbye, brushing past them and heading back inside, dark eyes following his every step until he was out of sight — Benjicot could still feel his anger that simmered below the surface, right in his chest as he clenched his jaw and finally let out a scoff once he was out of earshot and looking up and away from his aunt who looked at him. How was he to face Serra later, knowing her brother had even suggested such a thing?

“Benjicot,” Alysanne said, drawing his attention to her.

Benjicot continued to avoid her gaze, grinding his teeth and clenching his sword, focused on slowing his heart that hammered against his ribs — he looked towards the trees, “Benjicot, look at me.”

He finally gave in, turning to Alysanne. "I need you here with me. I know whatever's happening with Kermit is important, but I need you to listen and be fully present with me," she said, her tone urgent as she nervously wrung her gloves in her hands, “are you here?”

He frowned, “Yes.”

She nodded, stepping closer and lowering her voice, “It may not be my place, but I must ask, how did the night go? Was it successful?”

“In what way?” He asked, letting out an uncomfortable laugh as she then reached out to grab his wrist, finding his hand with an incline of her head, “Nobody is dead, so I suppose it was…as best it could be. Though, you’d have known that had you had the decency to stay and witness it. Or at least forewarn me of your intentions.” He grumbled.

“Benjicot, please,” she sighed, her tone exasperated — she lifted her free hand to pinch the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes for a moment. When they opened, he felt there was a shift to her stare, tense and anxiety-ridden as she squeezed his hand, “The marriage— has it been consummated?” She boldly questioned.

His nose crinkled in displeasure, “Yes.”

“Successfully?”

“Successfully?” He echoed.

“Is Serra with child? Is there to be a new heir?” She asked, words coming quickly as she grew increasingly agitated. He had to bite back the urge to splutter a laugh, freezing as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, becoming visibly unsettled by her words.

“It’s…too early to confirm, but I’m confident in the likelihood there will be a new babe by the end of the year,” he slowly replied, “Why? Alysanne, what’s happened?”

She visibly hesitated, glancing towards the house as she sought the words — Benjicot could feel the air around them shift into something tense and uneasy as she sucked in a breath and sighed, looking down as she took his other hand in hers, “I feel it necessary to tell you myself, now before anyone else has the chance to get to you, it has to come from me,” she quietly said.

“Alysanne, what is going on?” He asked, his panic rising.

“It’s your father,” She said suddenly.

He felt the colour drain from his face as he stilled, staring at her with a blank expression, awaiting her next words, “Your father has been killed at the Battle of Burning Mill.”

Benjicot's world seemed to tilt. The silence that followed was suffocating. His heart pounded in his ears, yet his body felt numb, and disconnected. "No," he whispered, his mind rejecting the reality she had just spoken.

Tears welled up in Alysanne’s eyes as she watched him, her heart aching for him, knowing there were no words to ease the blow. “I’m so sorry, Ben,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He shook his head, stepping back, pulling his hand from hers. His thoughts spiralled—his father was gone. He’d never see him again, never hear his voice. It was too much. The pain surged in his chest, overwhelming and raw, “How?” He asked.

“Benjicot—

“How?” He snapped, his voice shaking with anger.

“Amos Bracken,” She finally replied after a brief pause, “who was also slain in battle by my own hand.” She added.

Benjicot swallowed thickly, nodding — he was not sure where to go and what to say, settling on shoving past her to collect his cloak from the ground despite her call of his name. He wanted to shrivel up and hide, like a child scared of thunder, but he knew there would be no hiding — it was only a matter of time before everyone was aware. He wanted a chance to change, wipe his face and find his wife — god, his wife — the only source of light despite the chaos. He clenched his jaw as he stalked through the hallways and towards his room, his gaze straight ahead as he attempted to brush past the great hall before anyone noticed his arrival, his nose being wiped off on the sleeve of his doublet.

It was there his gaze settled on the familiar back of his wife who was in conversation with her father, a hand of hers in his much like Alysanne had done to him just moments prior — the image made him want to be sick as he halted abruptly. She turned to look over her shoulder as he approached, following where her father’s gaze had shifted to focus on him, a pitiful expression on his face as he released her hand — Serra’s expression softened as she found his eyes, her mouth opening but being interrupted.

“Lord Benjicot,” Lord Perryn suddenly announced.

Benjicot fought the urge to growl in annoyance, flinching at the greeting and freezing. He sucked in a deep breath, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment to collect his thoughts and ground himself before he uttered something stupid, “It is with great sympathies…to hear of your father’s passing,” Lord Perryn stated.

His eyes opened, watching as Serra approached him and found rest against his side, his arm wrapping around her shoulders and shakily exhaling through his nose, “Thank you, Lord Perryn.” He grumbled.

“I would like to be among the first to once again declare my loyalties to your house, and in support of your claim to Raventree,” he said, slowly bowing his head, “House Perryn recognizes you as the true heir, despite our quarrels in the past. We would like to remind you that should you need anything, we will be among those willing to aid you in whatever way we can.”

“Aye,” Robbard Mooton reluctantly said after a brief pause, “House Mooton as well.”

Benjicot barely registered Lord Perryn's words. The weight of the day—his father's death, the responsibility of Raventree, and now the unexpected pledges of support—crashed down on him. He nodded numbly, tightening his grip on Serra as if she were the only anchor keeping him grounded.

"Your loyalty is appreciated," Benjicot muttered, his voice hoarse, struggling to find the right words. "I will remember this."

Serra pressed her cheek against his shoulder, her hand slipping into his as if sensing his turmoil. The warmth of her touch steadied him, though the storm within raged on. He could feel eyes on him—Perryn, Mooton, all the gathered lords—waiting for him to speak, to take command of his father’s legacy. But all he wanted was to escape this suffocating air, to retreat from the weight of expectation that seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment.

Instead, he straightened, meeting Lord Perryn’s gaze with as much composure as he could muster. "You honour my father’s memory with your words. Raventree thanks you, and I will ensure your loyalty is not forgotten."

Lord Perryn bowed his head once more, satisfied, though Benjicot could feel the subtle pressure behind the man’s gaze—there would be expectations now, alliances to be honoured, promises to be kept. Robbard Mooton gave a stiff nod, his reluctance still evident, but even he couldn't ignore the power shift.

The murmur of voices behind them began to swell, the lords discussing the future of the Blackwoods, already talking strategy and alliances. It felt like a faraway hum in Benjicot’s ears.

Serra pulled back slightly, her eyes searching his, “Ben,” she whispered, "we don’t have to stay here." Her voice, tender and filled with concern, was a balm to the overwhelming weight pressing on him. "We can go… take a moment."

He looked down at her, the soft kindness in her eyes soothing the jagged edge of his grief. For the first time since he’d heard the news, Benjicot felt something other than rage or sorrow. It was a quiet longing for a reprieve, even if just for a moment.

With a short nod, he turned toward the gathered lords. "If you'll excuse us," he said, his voice carrying a finality that left no room for objection.

Without waiting for a response, he gently guided Serra away, her presence beside him the only comfort in the chaos that had swallowed his world. As they moved further from the crowd, the voices behind them faded into the background, and Benjicot let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

They reached the edge of the courtyard, the cool evening air brushing against his skin, and Benjicot finally stopped. Serra turned to face him fully, her hand slipping into his again.

“I’m here,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, but in that moment, it was all he needed.

He closed his eyes and let the grief finally settle. His father was gone, and the weight of his house now rested on his shoulders, but for now—for just a moment—he allowed himself to feel the solace of her presence, the promise of tomorrow yet to come.

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justaz · 7 months ago

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once merlin puts arthur to rest, the world around him disappears and he’s in ealdor staring at his mother’s back. his sobs from the lake grow worse at the sight of his mother and he wails like he’s a child again, calling repeatedly for his ma. she spins around and finds him, without asking any questions she dashes forward and pulls him into a hug, holding his weight as he falls apart in her grasp, choking out nonsensical words and soaking her dress with tears, snot, and drool, his overwhelming grief causing him to ignore any sense of shame he might’ve felt at such a scene.

he doesn’t remember explaining anything to her, frankly he doesn’t remember much beyond the cries he pressed into her shoulder, but she says he’s been in ealdor for a week. she’s clearly worried and asks, no, begs him to eat or drink but he doesn’t feel the need or desire to, and even if he did, he simply doesn’t have the energy to bring the sustenance to his mouth. she cradles his head in her lap and runs her finger through his hair like she did when he had a nightmare when he was younger. it’s almost enough to make the entire thing seem like a horrible, horrible dream. but theres blood on his tunic where he held arthur’s body to his own so he knows it’s not true.

his mother doesn’t ask any questions, the look in her eyes telling him that she knows anyway. perhaps his nonsensical babble created a clear enough image for her to understand. maybe she just saw the broken look in his eyes and came to the conclusion on her own. she doesn’t mention him. merlin isn’t sure if he’s relieved about that or not. in the end, he brings it up, he asks how she was able to go on after balinor left. he asks how she was able to pick herself back up on her own two feet and carry on life as normal after receiving his letter informing her of his passing. she says sometimes she can’t, sometimes she lays in bed and listens to the birds sing and can’t help but hate them. she says she lives on for him anyway. she pushes herself up and makes food and works in the fields even when she hate the world around her.

merlin tries to relate, tries to understand, tries to imagine himself getting up every morning and living on in his name. he can’t. his parents loved each other, he knows that, but they were their own people and were able to stand the years apart. merlin…merlin is arthur’s, even in death. everything he is, everything he’s done, has been for arthur. he is half of merlin’s soul, the center of merlin’s world. how can anyone expect him to move on as if he’s capable of being alone? how can anyone expect him to function as if half of his soul, half of himself, isn’t dead in a lake? merlin can’t do it, he can’t imagine living a life without arthur. he barely got through the week and that’s only because he was passed out for a majority of it. how could he make it a year, much less another fifty?

he can’t. he can’t do it. he can’t breathe, he’s in agony, the world around him doesn’t exist anymore. not without arthur.

he’s back at the lake now, tears still streaming down his face despite the pounding headache from dehydration yet it doesn’t matter, not anymore. none of it does. he stumbles into the lake and sends his magic into the water to tug excalibur from the depths. he can feel freya pulling the sword back, but his magic overpowers hers easily and the sword springs from the lake, gleaming in the afternoon sun. freya’s face appears in the ripples of the water next to him, her expression pleading and sorrowful. merlin whispers an apology before turning back to the sword, staring at the sharp point of the blade. he brings it closer to hover just over his heart, the metal pressing against his skin but not enough to draw blood just yet.

peace washes over him. the sun warms his skin and the water cools him to keep it from being unbearable. the birds sing in the trees as the wind whistles through the leaves. merlin stares up at the brilliant blue sky and pure white clouds roll by, images of bunnies and birds and crowns and horses staring down at him. he wonders if avalon will be this peaceful, if he and arthur could lay out in a field for eternity, basking in the sun and laughing as they point out misshapen clouds that supposedly look like the other.

he plunges the sword into his chest, right through his heart, and falls back into the water. bubbles trail out of his mouth up towards the surface, blood spills from his wound and mixes with the water. he closes his eyes as he sinks further and further. he knows when he opens them, he’ll be with arthur once more. it’ll all be okay. he doesn’t feel his body hit the bottom before blackness fills his mind.

arthur awakens from his fitful slumber in a bed that is not his own. he squints at the room, or rather hut, around him and finds an old man hunched over a book in the corner. arthur tries to speak but all that comes out is a squeak of air, his throat too dry to speak. the man hears and whirls around to begin treating him once more, prattling on and on about how he found arthur in the woods outside his village donning shiny clothes which he discarded bc of the blood staining them yet he couldn’t find a wound. arthur’s hand reaches up to his side but there’s no stab wound there, not anymore, though he does sport the scar. he remembers how he got it, he remembers stumbling away from the battlefield, he remembers being found by merlin- merlin.

he asks the man about him but he seems confused and denies ever knowing someone by that name. arthur climbs out of the bed (the flash of golden eyes) and hastily pulls on his armor (“i’m a sorcerer. i have magic.”). he’s out the door before the old man can protest. he’s in a village he doesn’t recognize, they must not be anywhere near camelot (“i’m still the same person.”). he turns to the old man hobbling out of the hut and demands directs to camelot. the man stares at him oddly and scratches his ear before informing him that he’s never heard of a camelot before (“you’re my friend and i don’t want to lose you.”).

he instead asks for directions to the woods where he was found and sets off in that direction, the old man shuffling after him (“me, i was born to serve you, arthur.”). it doesn’t take long to reach where he was found. if the old man had carried him home it couldn’t’ve been much of a hike (“and i’m proud of that.”). he steps into a clearing where the man panted that he found him here (“and i wouldn’t change a thing.”). it’s no where near the lake where merlin held him as he took his last breath, it’s no where near camelot. the man didn’t even recognize the name of his kingdom (“it’s not why i do it.”).

arthur sits in the grass as he thinks on his next move and the man who watched over him sits next to him (“i’m not going to change now.”). he speaks lowly of a prophecy about a man from a time long forgotten sent on a journey, a quest, to retrieve what has been lost. he says how the prophecy led many to a sword lodged in stone (“i’m not going to lose you.”) but no one could pull it free. he points out arthur’s armor and calls it odd, he mentions camelot, a kingdom of which he’s never heard, and gestures around the clearing where he found the mystery man. he concludes that perhaps the prophecy spoke of him (“i can’t lose him.”).

arthur, with no other options, follows the man’s directions to a lake. not exactly lake avalon but close enough. theres a small island in the center that seems more like a hill. the sword, his sword, excalibur is buried in a stone covered in moss, misshaping it’s actual form. arthur wades across the water and climbs the hill. he wraps his hands around the hilt of excalibur and closes his eyes. he imagines merlin confident and reassuring expression as they and all his men stood in the woods around this damn sword in a different stone however long ago it was. he breathes in and out (“he’s my friend.”) and pulls.

excalibur comes free just as it did before. arthur watches the metal pull free and as it does, the moss on the stone falls away revealing its form. it looks like a collapsed figure, excalibur having been lodged in it’s chest, right where it’s heart would be. arthur squints at what looks like the head and feels a flash of familiarity. the stone slowly fades away from the hole where excalibur was all the way to the hill. as the stone fades, it leaves behind skin and clothes and hair and…merlin.

arthur drops excalibur and falls to his knees to hold up merlin’s limp form. he feels warm, as if he didn’t just spend however long with a sword in his chest as a stone. he’s not breathing. why isn’t he breathing? arthur grasps around, shifting his clothes out of the way to find the wound where excalibur had once been. the skin is stitching itself together with tiny golden threads. arthur looks back up at merlin’s lax face as the wound fully closes. he inhales sharply as his eyes fly open, glowing gold, and all around him it seemed the world finally inhaled after suffocating for millennia.

merlin exhales and golden sparks shoot from his lips to flurry around in the air. the grass under them grows longer and curls around both his and merlin’s body where they rest against the ground. the water around their island clears from the murky brown to a blindingly clear blue. the air is crisp and clean, the sun brighter and warmer, and one soul finally whole again.

#i can never just write a cool casual post #its gotta be its own fanfiction #ficlet #whatever #DID YOU CATCH IT??#I DIDNT SPELL IT OUT BUUUUUUT #when merlin stabbed himself with excalibur it was more like putting a stake in one of the original vampires #(from tvd just btw)#he just went to sleep until the sword was removed. however with his ‘death’ magic was removed from the world #arthur pulled excalibur free and brought merlin back which brought magic back to the land #boom. destiny fullfilled.#at least half of it #now they have to unite albion or whatever #bbc merlin #merlin emrys #arthur pendragon #tw suicide attempt #grief #angst #happy ending tho #i was real vague with the timeline too lmao in my head they remained dead for thousands of years #500 - they die. 2447 - world ends. 5281 - civilizations reemerge. 5804 - merthur comes back.#thats my timeline but watever u like best is what we’ll go with #look. i wrote merthur to be /r but the thing about them is even if its platonic…the bromance is real SO #merthur #/r or /p doesnt matter. still fits.#fanfiction #fanfic #fic

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